The Heartbreaking Search for Gaza's Missing: Stories of Grief and Survival
Amid the wreckage of Gaza, remnants of shattered lives lie scattered—colorful backpacks, torn clothing, fragments of furniture, and household items pierced by shrapnel. These haunting objects, often cloaked in dust, mark the resting places of those lost beneath the rubble.
In the southern city of Rafah, Haitham al-Homs, head of Emergency and Ambulance Services for the Civil Defence, leads teams in an agonizing search. “Since Israeli forces withdrew, we’ve received around 150 reports from civilians about their relatives’ bodies buried under collapsed buildings,” he explains. Palestinian health officials estimate over 10,000 people are missing.
Rescue teams work methodically, guided by information from neighbors, the faint signs of belongings, or the unmistakable stench of death emanating from the ruins. The search yields devastating results—shattered human remains, often no more than a pile of bones, which are carefully placed into white body bags labeled “majhoul,” Arabic for “unidentified.”
The Endless Agony of Recovery
Osama Saleh, a Rafah resident, returned to his home after the ceasefire only to find a fractured skeleton in the rubble. “The skull was broken. I believe it had been there for months,” he says, visibly shaken. “The misery is unbearable. Words can’t express it.”
For families, identifying loved ones is a painful process. At the European Hospital in southern Gaza, rows of body bags containing bones and clothing lie in a courtyard. Abdul Salam al-Mughayer, a 19-year-old from Rafah, disappeared during the war in the Shaboura area. His uncle Zaki recalls, “We didn’t search there because anyone who went didn’t come back.”
When a set of bones and clothing surfaced, Abdul Salam’s brother arrived with a photo on his phone—a picture of the young man’s running shoes. He crouched beside the bag, touched the skull and clothing, and compared the shoes. Tears filled his eyes as he confirmed the remains were his brother’s.
Nearby, another grieving family—a grandmother, her son, an adult daughter, and a small child—gathered to identify a loved one. After a brief, tearful confirmation, they carried the remains away in silence, their sorrow too deep for words.
A Mother’s Endless Grief
For Lina al-Dabeh, the war’s devastation left a wound that will never heal. Her 13-year-old daughter, Aya, was killed while sheltering at a school in Gaza City. Aya, one of nine children, had gone to use the bathroom when she was reportedly shot by a sniper.
The family buried her near the school, wrapping her in a blanket to shield her from the elements. When the school was overtaken by Israeli forces, Lina had no choice but to flee south with four of her children, leaving Aya behind.
“She was kind and beloved by everyone,” Lina says of her daughter, who excelled in school. But when peace returned, relatives checking Aya’s grave delivered devastating news: her remains had been disturbed and scattered.
“When I saw the photos, I couldn’t believe it. Her head was in one place, her ribs in another. Dogs had desecrated her grave,” Lina recounts, her voice breaking.
Relatives gathered Aya’s bones, and Lina plans to travel north to give her daughter a proper burial. Yet the pain lingers. “What else could I have done?” she wonders aloud. “Where could I have taken her to keep her safe?”
The Unending Toll
As Gaza emerges from conflict, the weight of loss grows heavier with each passing day. For those like Haitham al-Homs and the families searching for their loved ones, closure seems both necessary and impossible. The ruins of homes are more than rubble—they are silent witnesses to lives stolen and dreams destroyed.
For parents like Lina, the war leaves them questioning not just what was lost, but what more they could have done in a world that gave them no choices.
