“From his very first days, the sounds of drones and distant shelling have been part of his world” – Ranin Awad.
Twenty-six-year-old mum of two Ranin Awad works for Christian Aid’s local partner in Gaza, Women’s Affairs Centre (WAC). This World Children’s Day, Ranin shares her experience of raising two young children during the two years of Israel’s bombardment on Gaza, as well as describing the impact of living in displacement and her future dreams for her children.
I was born and raised in Gaza City, a place that once felt like home, but the war forced me to leave it behind. Today I am staying in Mawasi after having been displaced 12 times since the war began. Each move has meant leaving behind memories, neighbours, and pieces of the life I once knew.
I am the mother of two young children. My eldest, Jamal, just turned two - a lively toddler who should be exploring playgrounds and learning new words. My baby girl, Julie, is only three months old.
Their father, my husband Mohammed, does everything he can for us, but shops are shuttered, roads are blocked, and even the most basic supplies - bread, clean water, medicine - are scarce. Each day feels like a race to keep the children fed and warm while the world outside grows quieter and more dangerous.
Every morning, I wake up grateful that we are still together, and every night I wonder how much longer we can endure.
Jamal was born on 9 September 2023, just a month before the war started. From his very first days, the sounds of drones and distant shelling have been part of his world.
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I had imagined such different beginnings for him. I dreamed of taking him to the seaside so he could run barefoot on the sand and feel the warm waves. I pictured him tasting watermelon in the summer, laughing with family during picnics. Instead, his life has been marked by rationed meals and nights spent in crowded shelters. Fresh fruit is a rare luxury; he has never bitten into a ripe peach or strawberry. Heartbreaking!
I still hold tight to my hopes. I want him to grow up in a Gaza that is free, where he can learn, play, and discover the world without fear. I imagine him becoming a businessman. I want him to study, to travel, to feel the excitement of choosing his own future. Most of all, I wish for him a childhood full of simple joys that children everywhere should know; friends to play with, safe streets.
Jamal is able to walk outside, but it is extremely dangerous. The streets are covered with debris from bombed buildings, twisted metal, and shattered glass, so every step he takes puts him at risk of injury. I have to watch him closely and guide him carefully, because even a short walk could be harmful.
My baby girl, Julie, came into the world on 17 June 2025, while everything around us trembled. The first sounds she ever heard were bombardment. I had pictured her arrival bathed in quiet sunlight, wrapped in soft blankets, safe and warm. Instead, she sleeps in a small tent.
Julie’s birth was one of the hardest experiences of my life. I remember the fear of not even finding a safe way to get to the hospital because of the bombings and closed roads. My husband called many taxis that night, but none were willing to come - they were too afraid of the security situation outside.
During the delivery, every explosion made me fear the building would collapse. Unlike Jamal’s birth, which was calm and supported, Julie’s arrival was a battle for survival from the very first moment, shaped by fear, exhaustion, and the harsh reality of war.
When I hold her, I hope she grows up strong and curious, with the chance to become whatever she wishes - a teacher, a doctor, maybe even a writer who tells the stories of our people in a time of peace. I want her to know laughter, to taste the sweetness of pomegranates in autumn, to build friendships that last a lifetime.
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Though she is only three months old, Julie has already lived through more uncertainty than any child should. Yet when I hold her, I feel a quiet determination. I whisper promises of a brighter tomorrow, hoping that one day she will grow up in a world where those promises can finally come true.
Providing for Jamal and Julie is a daily struggle that tests every ounce of strength I have. We are sheltering with relatives on a small patch of land that was never meant to hold so many people.
Food is the hardest challenge. We survive on whatever we can find - mostly lentils, rice, and bread when flour is available. Fresh vegetables or fruit are rare treasures. When I do manage to get a few tomatoes or cucumbers, I save them for the children, slicing tiny pieces - each piece is about the size of a one-shekel coin - so they each get a taste. That’s all I can sometimes give the children, just to quieten their hunger for a little while.
Water is rationed; some days there is only enough for drinking. Disposable nappies are so scarce and expensive that I’ve had to cut back, using each one for far longer than I ever thought safe.
Despite everything, I try to give them moments of childhood. Jamal plays with bottle caps and scraps of cardboard. We sing songs softly, tell stories, and draw shapes in the dust. Julie smiles when I hum to her, and her small giggles give me strength.
Each day is a patchwork of small victories - finding a little food, keeping them warm, coaxing a laugh. It isn’t the life I dreamed for them, but it is the best I can give until peace finally comes.
Yet, even in this suffering, there is a spark of hope. -My work with WAC has become a lifeline for my heart and my spirit. Helping other women and mothers gives me strength when everything around us feels fragile and uncertain.
When I sit with another mother, sharing our stories of sleepless nights, scarce food, and rationed water, I feel less alone. Sometimes, simply listening to each other is enough to restore hope.
Supporting women in the humanitarian work gives me courage to face my own struggles and shows my children the strength of resilience, care, and community.
As a mother and a woman working with WAC, I carry the weight of both my family and my community. I do everything I can to keep my family safe, to give them moments of childhood even amidst fear and scarcity. At the same time, I support other mothers, share survival strategies, and help build a network of care and resilience that strengthens us all.
I dream of a Gaza where children can grow safely, laugh freely, and pursue their dreams without fear. It is the love for my family and my commitment to empowering women that fuels me, giving me courage to keep moving forward and to help shape a future filled with hope and possibility.
