by Sondos al-Kurd
GAZA, Aug. 9 (Xinhua) -- Since the day my daughter was born nearly three years ago, we had been apart. For more than a year, I did not even know where she was. Later, photographs became the only way I could watch her grow.
Then came the moment I had waited for -- the chance to finally meet her in person and bring her home.
On March 30, 2026, I stood in the courtyard of Nasser Hospital in the southern Gaza Strip. Families, medical workers, and journalists moved around me, but my eyes remained fixed on the entrance gate.
As I waited for my daughter, Bissan, my mind drifted back to early 2023, when I first learned I was pregnant at the beginning of my married life. Like many first-time mothers, I imagined what life would be like after her arrival.
During those early months, my husband and I prepared for the baby and often talked about the family we hoped to build. I pictured my daughter growing up in a stable environment, going to school, and enjoying a normal childhood. These hopes were shared by many families across Gaza.
However, those hopes were upended after the latest war in Gaza erupted in October 2023.
As the fighting spread across cities, neighborhoods, and refugee camps, families like ours endured repeated displacement, collapsing basic services, and an overwhelming sense of uncertainty about whether we would survive, let alone what the future might hold.
Pregnant women, children, and the elderly were especially vulnerable as hospitals struggled with mounting casualties and severe shortages of medical supplies.
On Oct. 22, 2023, when I was eight months pregnant, our home in Beit Lahia in northern Gaza was struck in an airstrike. I was seriously injured and taken first to the Indonesian Hospital and then to Al-Shifa Medical Complex, where doctors decided an emergency caesarean section was needed to save both me and my unborn child.
Bissan was born prematurely. Because of my condition, I could not see her after delivery.
While I was being treated, my daughter remained in neonatal care.
As I regained consciousness, I repeatedly asked medical staff about my baby, trying to find out where she was and whether she was safe. But amid the confusion and deteriorating conditions, clear information was hard to obtain.
Days later, as hospital conditions deteriorated, premature babies were evacuated from Gaza for treatment abroad. During that process, contact with Bissan was lost.
Night after night, I wondered whether she was healthy, whether someone was caring for her, and whether I would ever see her again.
Like so many families uprooted by the war, I was living with displacement, loss, and uncertainty. Yet not knowing what had happened to my daughter was the hardest burden of all.
In May 2025, a possible breakthrough emerged. A nurse told us about a Palestinian child receiving care in Egypt whose identity had not yet been fully confirmed.
Eventually, after reviewing medical records and other efforts, her identity was confirmed by a birth bracelet bearing my name. The child was Bissan. After nearly two years of uncertainty, I learned that she was alive.
The nurses caring for Bissan later sent photographs, and that was the only way I could watch her grow. But knowing where she was did not make bringing her home any easier. The war continued, border crossings remained restricted, and travel required extensive coordination.
Months passed. Then came the news that Palestinian children evacuated to Egypt for medical care would be allowed to return to Gaza, and that Bissan was among them.
From that moment, every day felt charged with anticipation. On March 30, 2026, I arrived at Nasser Hospital to wait for her return. When she finally appeared, the years of waiting collapsed into a single moment.
I held her for the first time. The child in my arms was no longer the newborn I had imagined during the years of separation, but a two-and-a-half-year-old with a personality, expressions, and a life I was only beginning to know.
As I looked at her, I thought of everything that had happened since her birth and all she had endured. Bissan gently touched my face as family members gathered around us.
It was the end of a long search, and the beginning of a different chapter for our family.
Our story, however, was not unique.
Bissan was among the dozens of premature babies evacuated from Gaza to Egypt as power cuts and deteriorating conditions made neonatal care impossible during the early weeks of the war. Several died during the evacuation and subsequent medical care due to complex health conditions.
Along with my Bissan, 10 other children were reunited with their families on the same day. Others either had returned earlier or chose to stay longer in Egypt.
To many people, these may be numbers. To the families behind them, they represent years of uncertainty, fragile hope, and waiting without answers.
Each child carries a story. Each family endured uncertainty. Today, months after Bissan's return, we are learning how to live together.
She is slowly growing familiar with her surroundings and drawing closer to family members. Day by day, she is building a sense of comfort and belonging at home.
Her return has brought renewed hope to our family. Like any parent, I want her to grow up safe, go to school, and have the same opportunities as children elsewhere in the world.
Most of all, I want her future to be shaped by stability and peace, not by the hardships that marked the beginning of her life.
For me, being reunited with Bissan was more than a personal joy. It was a reminder of what families can endure, and of the hope they carry even after years of separation.
Editor's note: Sondos al-Kurd is a mother of two in Gaza. She is 29 years old.
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the positions of Xinhua News Agency.
