Mother’s Day in Gaza: When Grief Drowns Out Joy

On May 10, thousands of bouquets and boxes of chocolates will be handed to mothers in the United States, Canada, and many other parts of the world. Greetings brimming with joy and gratitude pour forth. Mothers don their finest clothes, gather with their children, receive gifts, and enjoy a wonderful day.

It is no surprise that most countries around the world celebrate Mother’s Day, even if on different dates. Motherly love is a miracle worthy of honor. Yet there is one place on Earth where this day brings pain to so many.

In Gaza, where 22,000 women have perished over the last two and a half years, many children dread this special day because it reminds them of an indescribable sorrow. Too many mothers are gone, and many others are gravely ill.

My mother, Najat, is just 46 and battling cancer that was diagnosed quite late. On March 21, when the Arab world celebrated Mother’s Day, I didn’t say “Happy Mother’s Day.” Instead, I prayed silently that she would stay with us a little longer. I wasn’t thinking of celebration; I was thinking only of my fear of losing her.

On Mother’s Day, my mother did not wear her best clothes, did not share a special meal with us, smile, and act happy. She was weak and exhausted. A week earlier she had undergone her third chemotherapy session and lay bedridden for days, unable to move and barely able to speak. No words on earth could tell her how much she mattered to me that day. But I stayed silent. On a day when others honored their mothers, I held back my tears so as not to add to her pain.

My mother’s case is not an isolated one. The genocide has brought extreme suffering to Gaza’s mothers. Pain, misery, and death begin the moment a woman becomes a mother. The maternal mortality rate during childbirth has tripled during the genocide. A recent report recorded 220 Palestinian women dying while giving birth in Gaza between January and June 2025.

Famine disproportionately affects pregnant and breastfeeding women, pushing them and their children toward death and other health complications. Mothers have had to watch 70,000 children waste away from malnutrition. More than 150 mothers have buried children who died of starvation.

More than 22,000 women have lost their husbands and are forced to be both father and mother to their children, carrying alone the painful task of survival amid the genocide. Many others, even if they haven’t lost their husbands, remain the primary caregivers for injured, sick children or elderly family members.

Countless women live with the searing pain of losing a child in Israeli attacks; more than 21,000 victims of the genocide are children. Meanwhile, the burden of running a household has become crushing due to the lack of clean water, electricity, or normal access to food. Life in tents that cannot shield against scorching heat or freezing cold, against disease or pests, has become unbearable. Even the most resilient mothers of Gaza are at their breaking point.

It is no surprise that so many mothers fall ill. But Israel also ensures they do not receive the treatment they need. The Israeli military has bombed all hospitals in Gaza and destroyed the only specialized cancer hospital. This means not only that cancer and chronic disease patients go without proper care, but also that routine checkups needed to catch disease early are impossible.

Doctors told my mother that the cancer had likely been developing in her body for nearly two years. Early detection could have made treatment far easier and improved her chances of survival. I am truly living the worst days of my life. I am torn between fear for her and the need to find strength to take her place at home. I watch her decline every day, little by little, and it is breaking me too.

I am the eldest daughter, so the responsibility of running the household falls on me. My mother used to do everything as if it required no effort at all, as if life simply ran itself. Now I step into her shoes and realize how exhausting this work truly is. I look at my only younger sister, who is three years old, and try to convince her that I am happy and that our mother is fine. I always tell her that our mother’s hair will grow back long and beautiful as before. On every chemotherapy day, my little sister asks: “Where did Mama go?” I take a deep breath before answering that she went to see the doctor. It is not a simple question to answer when I am trying to hold back the pain of the reality it exposes.

I cook, clean, and take care of everyone in the house. When I finish and it’s time to rest, my mind never stops. It keeps asking: “Will Mama recover? Will she ever be the same again? Will these heavy days pass?” Every possibility that crosses my mind drains me and weighs heavily on my heart. This is not a fleeting crisis. This is my mother, and this is cancer, and this is Gaza amid a genocide.

We are anxiously waiting for her mastectomy. Doctors say my mother also needs radiation therapy, which is currently unavailable in Gaza. She has been issued a medical referral but has not yet been approved. She is one of the 20,000 Palestinians in Gaza who urgently need to be evacuated, a process that has been cruelly and deliberately slowed down.

Occasionally, my mother looks at the referral paper confirming the urgent need for her to travel and sighs with deep melancholy. I cannot tell what saddens her most: the illness, the surgery, the change in her appearance, or the restrictions at the Rafah crossing. I am almost certain that her heart cannot bear all of this, and that one day her mind may collapse under the weight of this pain. Her suffering — and that of so many other Gaza mothers — will not even be recorded in any statistics. It will not be seen by anyone — exactly as the perpetrators of this genocide intend.