On May 10, many flowers and many boxes of chocolates will be gifted to mothers in the United States, Canada and elsewhere. Greetings will be filled with joy and gratitude for maternal presence. Mothers will wear their finest clothes to spend time with their children, receive gifts and enjoy a beautiful day.
It is no wonder most countries in the world have a Mother’s Day, even if it is on different dates. Motherhood is a wondrous thing, and it needs to be celebrated. But there is one place on Earth where it brings heartache to many.
In Gaza, where 22,000 women have been killed in two and a half years, many children dread this special day because it reminds them of intolerable pain. Too many mothers have died and many more are gravely ill.
My own mother, Najat, who is just 46 years old, is suffering from cancer, which was diagnosed quite late.
On March 21, when the Arab world celebrated their mothers, I did not say “Happy Mother’s Day” to mine. Instead, I silently prayed that she would remain with us a little longer. I did not think about celebrations; I thought about my own fears of losing her.
On Mother’s Day, my mother did not wear her finest clothes and did not join us for a special meal, smiling and looking happy. She was frail and worn down.
A week before Mother’s Day, she had undergone her third round of chemotherapy and had spent days bedridden, unable to move and barely able to speak. No words in the world would have been enough to tell her how much she meant to me that day. But I stayed silent. On the day when others celebrated their mothers, I held back my tears so I would not add to her pain.
My mother’s case is not unique. The genocide has brought immense suffering to Gaza’s mothers. And that pain, misery and death start from the moment women step into motherhood. Maternal death rates during childbirth increased threefold during the genocide. A recent report documented 220 Palestinian women dying while giving birth in Gaza between January and June 2025.
The famine disproportionately affected pregnant and breastfeeding women, putting them and their children at risk of death and various health complications. Mothers had to go through the pain of watching 70,000 children languish due to malnutrition. More than 150 mothers had to bury their children who succumbed to the famine.
More than 22,000 women have lost their husbands and are now forced to be the mothers and fathers of their children, carrying on their backs alone the excruciating task of survival amid a genocide. Many others may not have lost their husbands, but they still are the main caretakers of wounded and ill children or the elderly in their families.
Many have to live with the constant throbbing pain of losing their children in the Israeli attacks; more than 21,000 of the victims of the genocide were children.
All the while, the burden of running a household has grown immensely as there is no running water, electricity, or normal access to food. Life in tents that do not protect from the scorching heat or the freezing cold, from disease or pests, is intolerable. And so is the loss of loved ones. Even the most resilient mothers of Gaza are at the threshold of their strength.
It is no wonder that so many mothers are getting sick. But Israel has also made sure that they are not getting the treatment they need.
The Israeli army has bombed all hospitals in Gaza and destroyed the only specialised oncological hospital. That has meant that not only are cancer and chronic illness patients not receiving proper treatment, but also that, during the war, there was no way to carry out the necessary regular checkups that can catch diseases in early stages.
The doctors told my mother that her cancer had been growing in her probably for nearly two years. Early discovery could have made treatment much easier and improved her chances.
I am truly living the worst days of my life. I am torn between my fear for her and the need to muster the strength to replace her at home. I see her break every day, little by little, which breaks me.
I am the eldest daughter, and so the responsibility for the household has fallen on my shoulders. My mother used to do everything as if it required no effort at all, as if life simply moved on its own. Now I have stepped into her shoes and realised just how exhausting this work has been.
I look at my only sister, who is just three years old, and try hard to convince her that I am happy and that our mother is fine. I keep telling her that Mom’s hair will grow back long and beautiful again. On every chemotherapy day, my sister asks me, “Where did Mama go?” I take a deep breath before answering that she has gone to the doctor. It is not a simple question to answer while trying to keep in mind the pain of the reality it exposes.
I cook, clean, and take care of everyone at home. When I am done and it is time to take a break, my mind does not rest. It keeps asking incessantly: “Will she recover? Will she come back to us as she was? Will these heavy days pass?” Every possibility that crosses my mind exhausts me and weighs heavily on my heart. This is not a passing crisis. This is my mother, and this is cancer, and this is Gaza amid a genocide.
We are now waiting anxiously for her surgery – full mastectomy – to be scheduled.
Doctors have said my mother also needs radiation therapy, which is not available in Gaza now. She has been given a medical referral, which has not been approved yet. She is one of 20,000 Palestinians in Gaza in urgent need of evacuation, which has been purposefully made brutally slow.
Every now and then, my mother looks at the referral paper that confirms her urgent need to travel and sighs deeply with sorrow. I cannot tell what she is grieving most, her illness, the mastectomy, her changed appearance, or the restricted Rafah crossing.
I am almost certain that her heart cannot bear all of this and that her mind may one day collapse under the weight of all this pain. Her suffering – and that of so many other Gaza mothers – will not even be captured in a statistic. It will go unseen – just as the architects of the genocide intended.