This has been one of the most difficult reports I’ve ever had to work on.

Asking a parent to speak about their dead child, there’s no script for that. In some cases, I couldn’t do it. The pain in their faces was overwhelming. Some met my question with silence. Others with tears. A few looked at me with quiet anger.

I can't begin to convey the level of pain my people are living through. The mind cannot imagine it. The heart refuses to absorb it.

The letters below are from displaced survivors across Gaza, people who, in tearful moments, managed to recall a fragment of life and loss. Each is addressed to a loved one killed in this war.

None of the writers asked for their pain to be made public. But all of them wanted their voices heard. These letters are their testimonies.

Eid is a time when families gather, to celebrate, to pray, to visit the graves of those who’ve passed. But in Gaza, even mourning has been taken. Many don't know where their loved ones are buried. Some remain trapped under rubble. Others lie in mass graves or are simply missing.

This Eid, while the world celebrates, Gaza grieves. And these voices speak from a place where joy has become a memory.

To Ashraf Al-Najjar (53) — From your wife, Rasmiya Al-Najjar (60):

My dearest Ashraf — my husband, my love, the most precious person my eyes have ever known. They call it Eid, but another tasteless Eid has come, and you’re not with us. They’ve become painful occasions without you amongst us. Since you were martyred on February 6, 2024, your eight children and I have been wandering, homeless.

Just today, I arrived at Al-Mawasi in our 15th displacement, and we pitched our tent after fleeing a shelter that became part of an evacuation zone.

I wish I could visit your grave. I wish I could tell you of our pain, and let you listen — like you always did before that sniper’s bullet took you as you filled a water bottle. But there is no grave.

Every day, the children and I search for your body in the yard of Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis, where we buried you before the Israeli invasion. When they withdrew, we found your burial shroud with your name — but your body was gone, and we’ve been looking for you since.

How cruel life has become without you, my love. You were our support, our refuge. Your grandchildren won’t stop asking, “Where is Grandpa?” This Eid is black. There is no Eid. Only grief.

To Ghassan Ibrahim (40) — From your wife, Ola Faiz (39):

Since your passing on October 17, 2024, our tears have never dried, my love.

You were killed as you repaired water pipelines to serve our town, Khuza’a, east of Khan Younis. As a municipal official, you had coordinated with the Israeli army before heading out — just like in previous missions. But they still bombed you along with your colleagues as you served our community. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. You went to quench our thirst, and left us thirsty for you for the rest of our lives.

You were no ordinary man — not in life, and not in death. We thirst now for your words, your soul, your smile. You brightened our Eids with your presence, and went out of your way to make our days and Eids as special and easy as can be. You used to ease our suffering in times of war and displacement. Now, in this tattered tent, it is us who are slaughtered — not the sheep.

I promise you: we will not break. Your eldest, Iyass, has entered university. Kinan is preparing for his high school exams. Layan is studying ninth grade online, just like little Mohammad in third. I will carry this message forward — for you, for them, for us.

To Mohammad Ahmad (17) — From your mother, Suheila Mohammad (48):

My beloved Mohammad, since the first day of the war — the day you were martyred — the world has turned dark. Your father, your five siblings, and I have been living in unending sorrow. Your youngest brother, Fouza, just turned ten, but it’s as if he gave up on life. He barely speaks anymore.

Your spirit never left us. Your smile and boundless tenderness are with us always. Our home is gone, our life destroyed. We are still displaced, moving from one place to the next. But none of that compares to the agony of your absence.

I weep for you day and night. I remember how you used to work after school with that little cart and your horse, helping people and earning a few shekels to support us. I will never forget your words: “I want you to be a queen, Mama. I’ll work day and night so you don’t suffer.”

I am suffering in every way since you parted.

Now, in our miserable tent, there is no life — only the nearness of death and a longing to be reunited with you. I’ve grown weak, and those who see me think I’m decades older. Your father too. We are living a chapter of hell, but even that is easier than the pain of losing you. We can’t even reach your grave — the occupation still controls the area.

To Nadi Salout (37) — From your father, Salem Salout (62):

My son, you once wrote on Facebook: “I am not righteous, but I fear God.” You posted those words the day before your martyrdom on August 7, 2024. You worked in the central kitchen of the World Central Kitchen, surrounded by aid and abundance — yet your hands remained clean.

You were a model of honesty and piety, just as you were a devoted son to your mother and me. Last Eid, even though no one in Gaza could afford to sacrifice an animal, you insisted on buying meat at the highest price to bring joy to our hearts.

You were my eyes, my heartbeat. You died helping the afflicted — transporting food in your car, even though it belonged to the kitchen. Now we are left with your grieving parents, your wife, and your children: Tala, 11; Dana, 8; Naia, who keeps asking about you on her fourth birthday; and baby Yazan, who was only five months old when you were killed.

I’m still wearing your shirt in this displacement camp in Al-Mawasi, where all four of our homes were destroyed. I wear it just to smell your scent, to feel your presence.

You used to understand how I felt just by looking at me.

To Abdullah Haidar Al-Astal (19) — From your brother, Mohammad Al-Astal (16):

To my brother Abdullah — my older brother, my friend. Our parents can’t speak. They are crushed. So I write on behalf of all of us, because the wound is still fresh. You were martyred when Israel bombed Al-Mawasi on April 8, 2025. Your blood still stains the tent’s plastic sheeting.

At the time, the rest of the family had returned to Khan Younis. You stayed in Al-Mawasi for work. The last time we saw you was five days before you were killed. And now, we’ve been displaced again — to the very site where you died. It’s as if you’re still here, walking among us.

You weren’t just a brother; you were our pillar. You studied information technology while working to support the family.

Our mother still clings to the bloodied piece of your clothing. She says she smells your scent in it. Our father cries constantly. The world turned black when you left us.

Our sister Hala just graduated from university. Lina is 14. Tala is 12. And me — I’m trying to be strong, but life died with you. For us, there is no Eid al-Adha. No celebration. Just an unbearable absence.

This piece was published in collaboration with Egab.