Gaza faces ‘largest orphan crisis' in modern history, report says
In a statement on Thursday, the eve of Palestinian Children's Day, the agency said 39,384 children in Gaza have lost one or both parents after 534 days of Israel's assault, which has ravaged the tiny enclave and displaced most of its 2.3 million strong population.
The bureau said among them are about 17,000 children who have been deprived of both parents since October 2023, when Israel launched its genocidal offensive.
'These children are living in tragic conditions, with many forced to take refuge in torn tents or destroyed homes, in a near-total absence of social care and psychological support,' the statement by the bureau said. 'The Gaza Strip is suffering from the largest orphan crisis in modern history.'
According to the statement, at least 17,954 children have been killed in Israeli attacks in Gaza, including 274 newborn babies and 876 infants below the age of one year.
'Seventeen children also froze to death in the tents sheltering displaced people, and 52 others died of starvation and systematic malnutrition,' it added.
The bureau warned that 60,000 children are at risk of death due to severe levels of malnutrition and looming famine.
Since resuming its offensive in Gaza after a fragile ceasefire brought a few weeks of respite, Israel has sealed vital border crossings – prohibiting the entry of much-needed humanitarian aid, including flour, fuel, and medical supplies into the Strip.
Even before the last ceasefire came into effect in January, lasting for just about two months, Israeli forces kept the border crossings largely shut, turning away thousands of convoys carrying aid supplies.
Gaza's Government Media Office has decried the move, saying earlier this week the Israeli government is applying a policy of 'systematic starvation' by halting the entry of aid and flour for an entire month, forcing bakeries to shut down.
Children and minors, those below the age of 18, make up about 43 percent of the combined Palestinian population of 5.5 million in Gaza and the occupied West Bank, the bureau said.
Since resuming its deadly campaign on March 18, the Israeli army has killed more than 1,160 Palestinians in Gaza.
At least 50,523 Palestinians have been killed since October 2023, most of them women and children, according to Gaza's Ministry of Health.
The report said that since October 7, Israeli forces detained more than 1,055 children, mostly in the West Bank, in what it said was an 'unprecedented' escalation against Palestinian children. More than 350 remain held in Israeli prison facilities.
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My phone succumbed to its wounds in Gaza
Khan Younes, Gaza – A dear companion doesn't have to be human to be deeply missed when lost. Sometimes, it's a phone – a loyal witness to your joys and sorrows, your moments of sweetness and darkest chapters of pain. In the harshness of life in the world's largest open-air prison, it becomes more than a device. It's an extension of yourself; your portal to the world, your way of reaching loved ones scattered across the prison or outside it. Through its lens, you sometimes capture joy and beauty, but more often, it only captures falling rockets or the rubble of houses covering the corpses of their residents. But what are you left with when that loyal companion is disappeared by the genocidal chaos? My phone succumbed to its injuries My phone succumbed to its injuries. I can't believe I'm describing it this way, with the same phrase I use when reporting on thousands of my people killed after being denied urgent medical treatment, punished simply for surviving Israeli bombs. But in its own way, my phone endured its share of this prolonged Israeli cruelty, the technocide of power-starvation, corrosion by dust and sand, suffocation in overheated tents, and the constant torment of poor connection. It tried to hold on, but everyone has a limit of endurance. It fell the day we left our damaged home for our 14th displacement amid chaotic stampeding crowds. Somehow it survived the heavy blow, but it only lasted 70 days after its screen cracked, its body blistered, until its wounds spread too far to bear. And then it went dark for good. Oddly, I felt consoled. Not because it wasn't painful, but because I wasn't alone. I've seen the same happen to others: Friends, relatives watching their phones slowly perish, just like the people they loved. Strangely, we find comfort in these small shared losses. Our loved ones have perished, and our wellbeing is shattering, and yet we expect our phones not to. The real miracle is that they lasted this long at all. Smartphone addiction is thrown around as a buzzword. But in Gaza, if you're lucky enough to still have one, it's not an addiction, it is survival. It's an escape. A small, glowing portal you cling to. It helps you slip briefly into the past, scrolling through memories, staring at the faces of loved ones who are now names on graves or names you still whisper in hope. Your phone's emotionless memory still holds their beautiful smiles. It connects you to people you can't reach, voices you can't otherwise hear. It dulls the pain not by healing it, but by distracting you. Like a hunger you can't satisfy, so you scroll through reels of mouth-watering food, mocking your emptiness. You watch strangers at family dinners while your table is buried under rubble. You wonder, how dare they post such scenes, knowing that children are being starved to death a few kilometres away? And yet you keep scrolling, because for a moment, it's a brutal soothing sedative. 'Are you alive?' When you're someone who reports daily on the ongoing genocide to the world, finding a new companion becomes an inevitable must. Yet the quest is disastrous in Gaza. You might think it's impossible to find one here, where life has become ruins and even bread is scarce, but surprisingly, there are plenty of options, even the latest high-end brands that somehow found their way through the blockade. But this is Gaza, where a bag of flour costs $700, so the cost of a phone is on a whole different level. Even the lowest-quality phones in makeshift shops sell for more than what it costs to build the shop itself, inflated by genocidal conditions. And it doesn't stop there. You must pay in cash, in a place where almost nothing is free except the air you breathe. An iPhone might cost $1,000 elsewhere, but here it costs $4,200. So you turn to cheaper options, hoping for something more affordable, but the calculations remain the same. But that's not me – because either way, by spending such unthinkable amounts, you're solidifying the very reality your captors are trying to impose, and doing it with your own money. You realise that you're feeding into their design. We're already draining whatever's left in our pockets just for flour during this genocidal siege, and we don't know how long it will last. So you cling to what you have, to avoid paying your soul at a GHF centre for deadly 'aid' you'll never get. For a while now, I've felt paralysed, a helplessness especially familiar during June's two-week total communication blackout imposed by Israel – during which my phone finally died in total silence. When the captor cuts yet another lifeline, it's more than just being unable to check on loved ones. It means ambulances can't be called. It means a wounded person might die in the dark, unheard. 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And then, you start to compare your shackles to the abundance your captors enjoy, genociding you with full access to every technological privilege, every luxury. You, on the other hand, are being hunted down with the world's most advanced weapons, under the watchful eye and silent complicity of the tech giants whose tools are backing your erasure. While they use satellites and precision-guided missiles, you just want to tell the world you're still here. How vital your lost companion was. It wasn't just a phone. It was your sword, your shield, your witness. And in the face of this tyranny, surrendering is something you cannot afford. So, you rise. You whisper, 'Rest in power, my companion,' because we refuse to be slaughtered in silence. We will keep telling our truth, even if all we have left is a scrap of paper and a drop of ink.
