“Do you have any news about my sons? I am still waiting for a call to tell me anything new about their fate.” With these words, heavy with tears, 42-year-old Anhar Hajjaj tells a story that encapsulates the tragedy of thousands of mothers in the Gaza Strip—where the war has not only claimed lives but left mothers trapped in the agonizing reality of “fatal waiting.”
As Ramadan begins, Hajjaj lives a doubled pain, torn between the certainty of losing her firstborn and the unknown that swallowed the others. While families gather around dinner tables, sharing moments of shopping and prayer, Hajjaj’s heartbreak deepens. Facing the memories of her three sons alone, she asks: “Why is this happening to me? To lose all three? Firas is a martyr, and Faisal and Farouq are missing.”
Hajjaj describes how Ramadan reached her torn tent this year without her “support”—the sons who used to manage the affairs of Iftar and Suhoor. “They were the ones who brought us everything; now, our sustenance comes only from God.” Instead of her sons assisting her through the dire conditions in Gaza, she now finds herself scavenging for firewood in the streets to cook, due to the severe restrictions on cooking gas. “I am a mother of three young men,” she asks in anguish, “Why should I be gathering wood from the streets?”
The Timeline of Tragedy
The family’s ordeal began on March 22, 2024, when the eldest son, Firas (26), was killed in an Israeli bombardment. After a year of trying to maintain steadfastness, the family was struck by another blow: the disappearance of Faisal (21) and Farouq (25).
The two brothers went out on April 18, 2025, in the Shuja’iyya neighborhood and never returned. According to their mother, contact was lost at 5:00 PM in an area that was witnessing an intensive military presence and Israeli troop deployments that day, reinforcing the likelihood of their direct military detention. Since then, the occupation authorities have refused to provide any official information, leaving them in the “black hole” of enforced disappearance.
Living for a Phone Call
Psychologically, Hajjaj is in constant turmoil. Every time her mobile phone rings, she jumps to answer, hoping for a call that carries news. She describes the void left by her three sons, who were more than children to her: “They were my friends, not just my sons. They were my sight, my support, and my pride.”
“I would accept them being detained,” she says. “Knowing they are alive and detained is easier than them being dead.” For Hajjaj, the news of them being in prison—despite the harsh reality of potential torture—would be joyful because it offers a glimmer of hope for an eventual reunion.
A Systematic Crisis
The story of the Hajjaj family is but one chapter in a larger catastrophe. Estimates from the Palestinian Center for the Missing and Enforced Disappeared indicate that approximately 7,000 people have gone missing since the start of the war. Most vanished in areas of military incursions, at aid waiting points, or near the Netzarim corridor.
Thousands of families share Hajjaj’s “suspended grief” and incomplete Ramadan tables. This systematic disappearance of civilians continues in defiance of all international conventions and the Convention Against Torture. These missing and forcibly disappeared individuals are not merely statistical figures; they are stories of waiting, hung on the hope of news that may or may not come.
