u/AdnanNaQasem

I have two memories of Majd that I can't stop thinking about.

The first one is from before the war.

He was maybe 6 years old. Sitting in a field somewhere in Gaza, surrounded by yellow flowers. He picked one up and held it like he'd just found the most important thing in the world. He was wearing a Superman hoodie.

He looked like every child everywhere.

Soft. Happy. Like nothing bad could ever reach him.

The second memory is recent.

Same child. Same smile, somehow.

But now he's standing in rubble. Behind him is what used to be a neighborhood. There is no field. There are no flowers. Just broken concrete and a plastic sheet they call home.

Between those two memories, this happened:

Our mother was killed. Majd was holding her hand when the shell hit. He was 8 years old. He saw everything. He survived with burns on his neck and a silence inside him where her voice used to be.

Our older brother was killed the year after.

Majd is now 10. He sleeps in a tent. Some days he eats once. Last week I found him sitting outside in complete silence, stroking a stray cat. Not playing. Not talking. Just sitting there like someone who has forgotten what it feels like to feel safe.

I keep thinking about that little boy in the Superman hoodie picking yellow flowers.

He believed he could save the world.

Now I'm not sure anyone is trying to save him.

I know some people will immediately respond by saying:

“What about October 7?” or “What about Israeli children?”

And honestly, those children matter too. No child should grow up hearing rockets, losing parents, or living in fear. Pain is not a competition, and grief does not cancel out other grief.

Others may say:

“Hamas started this,” or “War is complicated.”

Maybe. But Majd did not start anything. He was a child holding his mother’s hand. Whatever people believe politically, I struggle to understand how any child deserves this version of life.

Some people also say stories like this are “emotional manipulation.”

But children are emotional. Families are emotional. War becomes statistics so quickly that sometimes the only honest thing left is to describe one human being exactly as they are.

I don't want anything from you tonight.

I just needed someone outside of Gaza to know that Majd had a before. That there was a version of him that existed before all of this. A version that picked flowers and smiled at strangers and didn't know what a shell sounded like.

His name is Majd.

He is 10 years old.

He used to wear a Superman hoodie and pick yellow flowers in a field.

I don't know if he remembers that boy.

I do.

I keep thinking about two versions of my little brother.

The first one was before the war.

He was maybe six years old, sitting in a field in Gaza surrounded by yellow flowers. He picked one and held it like it was the most important thing in the world. He was wearing a Superman hoodie.

He looked like every child everywhere. Soft. Happy. Safe.

The second version is now.

Same child. Same eyes. Somehow still the same small smile.

But now he lives in a tent beside rubble where our neighborhood used to be. Some days he only eats once. Sometimes he sits outside in complete silence, petting stray cats for hours without saying a word.

Between those two versions of him, our mother was killed. He was holding her hand when it happened. He survived with burns on his neck and something broken inside him that no doctor can really treat.

Our older brother died after that too.

Majd is 10 years old now.

I know people online argue endlessly about politics, blame, history, and who deserves sympathy. But when I look at Majd, I don’t see politics.

I see a child who used to believe the world was gentle.

I’m posting this here specifically because, honestly, some of the most empathy I’ve seen online has come from trans people and other marginalized people. Maybe because you know what it feels like to grow up misunderstood, attacked, dehumanized, or treated like your pain is inconvenient to others.

Obviously our experiences are different. I would never compare them directly. But I think people who know what it means to survive hostility often recognize suffering in others faster than the rest of the world does.

Lately I think a lot about how trauma changes children before they even understand what happened to them. How some kids stop speaking loudly. How they stop asking for things. How they become careful with joy.

I just needed someone outside of Gaza to know he existed before all of this.

Before the fear.

Before the hunger.

Before the silence.

His name is Majd.

He is 10 years old.

He used to wear a Superman hoodie and pick yellow flowers in a field.

I hope somewhere inside him, that little boy still exists.

I have two memories of Majd that I can't stop thinking about.

The first one is from before the war.

He was maybe 6 years old. Sitting in a field somewhere in Gaza, surrounded by yellow flowers. He picked one up and held it like he'd just found the most important thing in the world. He was wearing a Superman hoodie.

He looked like every child everywhere.

Soft. Happy. Like nothing bad could ever reach him.

The second memory is recent.

Same child. Same smile, somehow.

But now he's standing in rubble. Behind him is what used to be a neighborhood. There is no field. There are no flowers. Just broken concrete and a plastic sheet they call home.

Between those two memories, this happened:

Our mother was killed. Majd was holding her hand when the shell hit. He was 8 years old. He saw everything. He survived with burns on his neck and a silence inside him where her voice used to be.

Our older brother was killed the year after.

Majd is now 10. He sleeps in a tent. Some days he eats once. Last week I found him sitting outside in complete silence, stroking a stray cat. Not playing. Not talking. Just sitting there like someone who has forgotten what it feels like to feel safe.

I keep thinking about that little boy in the Superman hoodie picking yellow flowers.

He believed he could save the world.

Now I'm not sure anyone is trying to save him.

I know some people will immediately respond by saying:

“What about October 7?” or “What about Israeli children?”

And honestly, those children matter too. No child should grow up hearing rockets, losing parents, or living in fear. Pain is not a competition, and grief does not cancel out other grief.

Others may say:

“Hamas started this,” or “War is complicated.”

Maybe. But Majd did not start anything. He was a child holding his mother’s hand. Whatever people believe politically, I struggle to understand how any child deserves this version of life.

Some people also say stories like this are “emotional manipulation.”

But children are emotional. Families are emotional. War becomes statistics so quickly that sometimes the only honest thing left is to describe one human being exactly as they are.

I don't want anything from you tonight.

I just needed someone outside of Gaza to know that Majd had a before. That there was a version of him that existed before all of this. A version that picked flowers and smiled at strangers and didn't know what a shell sounded like.

His name is Majd.

He is 10 years old.

He used to wear a Superman hoodie and pick yellow flowers in a field.

I don't know if he remembers that boy.

I do.

I have two memories of Majd that I can't stop thinking about.

The first one is from before the war.

He was maybe 6 years old. Sitting in a field somewhere in Gaza, surrounded by yellow flowers. He picked one up and held it like he'd just found the most important thing in the world. He was wearing a Superman hoodie.

He looked like every child everywhere. Soft. Happy. Like nothing bad could ever reach him.

The second memory is recent.

Same child. Same smile, somehow.

But now he's standing in rubble. Behind him is what used to be a neighborhood. There is no field. There are no flowers. Just broken concrete and a plastic sheet they call home.

Between those two memories, this happened:

Our mother was killed. Majd was holding her hand when the shell hit. He was 8 years old. He saw everything. He survived with burns on his neck and a silence inside him where her voice used to be.

Our older brother was killed the year after.

Majd is now 10. He sleeps in a tent. Some days he eats once. Last week I found him sitting outside in complete silence, stroking a stray cat. Not playing. Not talking. Just sitting there like someone who has forgotten what it feels like to feel safe.

I keep thinking about that little boy in the Superman hoodie picking yellow flowers.

He believed he could save the world.

Now I'm not sure anyone is trying to save him.

I know some people will immediately respond by saying: “What about October 7?” or “What about Israeli children?”

And honestly, those children matter too. No child should grow up hearing rockets, losing parents, or living in fear. Pain is not a competition, and grief does not cancel out other grief.

Others may say: “Hamas started this,” or “War is complicated.”

Maybe. But Majd did not start anything. He was a child holding his mother’s hand. Whatever people believe politically, I struggle to understand how any child deserves this version of life.

Some people also say stories like this are “emotional manipulation.”

But children are emotional. Families are emotional. War becomes statistics so quickly that sometimes the only honest thing left is to describe one human being exactly as they are.

I don't want anything from you tonight.

I just needed someone outside of Gaza to know that Majd had a before. That there was a version of him that existed before all of this. A version that picked flowers and smiled at strangers and didn't know what a shell sounded like.

His name is Majd. He is 10 years old. He used to wear a Superman hoodie and pick yellow flowers in a field.

I don't know if he remembers that boy.

I do.