In one of Gaza’s quiet neighbourhoods, there was a child who ran through the alleys every morning, carrying his small school bag as if it contained the whole world. His name was Sami Bilal Abu Youssef, an eight-year-old boy, pure as the dawn, who loved life as much as a bird loves its wings.

Sami knew little about war. He only knew his little toys, his drawing book, the plate of beans waiting for him after school, and his mother’s smile.

He was preoccupied with things that adults did not understand very well: how to make his paper aeroplane fly higher, how to become a famous footballer, and how to bring his friends together to resolve their differences, which is why everyone called him ‘the chosen one’.

At his Malaysian Quranic school, he would read quietly, stumbling occasionally, which made his teacher laugh and ask him to repeat it, which he did with the confidence of a child who believed the future belonged to him.

His teacher always told him, ‘You will grow up to be a great person, Sami,’ but Sami did not grow up. Israel did not give him the chance to do so. Israel killed him.

The moment childhood ended

On a cold evening in January 2024, there were no fireworks in Gaza, no celebrations, no noise from children playing in the neighbourhood. Only the bombing spoke.

In a matter of minutes, Sami’s house was reduced to dust. His room, his clothes, his little ball, and even the smile that always preceded his footsteps disappeared. Sami was martyred, along with his brother Mohammed and his cousins Obida and Manna. Their souls left at once, as if the sky had opened a door to short dreams that were not meant to be written to the end.

In the neighbourhood, children still talk about him.

His friend, who used to sit next to him in school, still keeps his seat empty in class. The teacher keeps his little notebook and his faltering words as he memorised a new surah. And his mother… she holds his clothes in her hands at night and waits for a voice that will never return.

Sami was not just a child who was martyred.

He was a short, sweet story, a small promise of a song, and proof that childhood in Gaza is not given in full — it is snatched away before it is complete.

Every time his story is told… Sami comes back a little.

There are thousands of children like Sami, but each one has a name, a face, a laugh, a little sketchbook, and a dream that was waiting to grow up.

When we tell his story today, we give him back a little of the life that time did not allow him to live, and we remind the world that childhood has a right to grow, to dream, and not to be bombed before its wings are fully formed.

Featured image via the Canary

By Alaa Shamali

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