“Youssef is 7 years old, his hair is curly, he is white and sweet.”
These were the words his mother repeated as she searched desperately through the crowded corridors of a Gaza hospital — the same hospital where her husband worked as a doctor.
They had been separated by chaos. In the aftermath of yet another bombing, she held on to hope, clinging to the image of her son: his soft curls, his tender smile. But nothing could prepare them for the truth.
Youssef had been martyred.
Killed in the bombing that destroyed their home.
He was just a child. A sweet, innocent boy — stolen by the violence of occupation.
And yet, his name, his smile, his story — they remain. We remember Youssef. We say his name.
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