The Little Girl Who Waits for Her Legs 🥀🕊️

She was only five years old.

At that age, children do not think about death. They do not understand what disability means. All she knew was that kindergarten was a place for laughter, that her friends were waiting for her, and that one of the happiest things in the world was running into her father’s arms. 🧸

That day, she came home from a celebration at kindergarten smiling.

Her happiness was bigger than her tiny body. Perhaps she told her family about the songs she sang, the children she played with, and all those little things that can make a five-year-old’s heart happy.

Then the missile struck. 💔

In a matter of seconds, everything changed.

Shrapnel tore into her small body, damaging the lower vertebrae. Some fragments entered her spinal cord, taking away her ability to move and control her bladder and bowel.

When she opened her eyes, she did not understand why her legs no longer moved.

Perhaps she tried to stand.

Perhaps she waited for them to move, the way they always had.

But her body did not respond.

Since that day, she has no longer been the little girl who ran toward her father.

She became the little girl who waits for someone to carry her.

Who waits for someone to help her sit.

Who needs help with the simplest things.

And sometimes, she cries. 😢

Not because she understands everything that happened to her, but because she feels it.

She feels that she can no longer do the things other children do.

And when she sees another child running, perhaps she does not think about war.

Perhaps she only wonders:

“Why can they run, but I can’t?”

That question alone breaks my heart.

Eight months have passed since her life stopped being what it once was.

Eight months carrying the consequences of a single moment that stole years of her childhood.

Yet there is still hope. 🕊️

A spinal stabilization surgery could give her a chance to walk again.

Think about that.

A five-year-old girl is not asking for a new toy, a phone, or a beautiful doll.

All she wants is to stand on her feet again.

To place one foot in front of the other.

To fall, and try again.

To run into her father’s arms.

To hear her own laughter as she runs, instead of crying while waiting for someone to carry her.

But even this small hope has been pushed out of reach.

The war that took away her ability to walk is now preventing her from reaching the treatment she needs.

And every time I see her drawing, I wonder:

What does a child who can no longer walk draw?

Perhaps she draws herself as she once was.

A girl running.

A girl laughing.

A girl coming home from kindergarten without fear.

A girl holding her father’s hand.

A girl who does not need anyone to carry her. 🎨

Maybe, somewhere inside her little heart, she is still waiting to wake up one morning and discover that all of this was only a nightmare.

To put her feet on the floor.

To stand.

And then run.

But she wakes up every day, and her legs are still the same.

So she returns to her drawings.

And that is what breaks me the most.

A five-year-old has been forced to use paper to live the life that was taken from her. 🥀

But this is not the story of one little girl.

It is the story of childhood in Gaza.

A childhood that no longer dreams of big things.

It no longer dreams of becoming a doctor, an engineer, or a teacher.

It no longer asks for many toys, beautiful rooms, vacations, or a perfect future.

Its dreams have become painfully small.

To survive.

To wake up tomorrow.

For a father to remain alive.

For a mother to remain alive.

For a child to find something to eat.

To sleep one night without the sound of an explosion.

To make it through one day without another child losing a piece of their body, their family, or their future.

In Gaza, survival itself has become a dream.

And simply making it to tomorrow has become an ambition. 🕊️

As for my cousin, she is still only five.

And she still draws.

Every time I look at her drawings, I feel that she is not drawing only a little girl.

She is drawing an entire childhood trying to remember what life looked like before survival became its only dream.

And perhaps, on the last page, she would write:

“I only wanted to run… but now, I only dream of staying alive.” 💔🕊️