My name is Noor. I am the little girl who survived the Oct. 6, 2024 attack on a Gaza refugee camp

That day, colors were the only thing on my mind. I was thinking about which pink shade — pink’s my favorite color — I would choose for a dress on the next page of my coloring book, and how I would show my finished drawings to my sister, Dr. Sara.

I drifted to sleep in my small room, holding my doll close to my chest as if she were my best friend. In some ways, she is. The day was quiet, and I was taking a short nap before waking up to continue drawing in the coloring book that my sister bought for me. These were my plans. 

Around me, my mother, my sister Sama, and my older brother, Hatem, were sitting together talking softly, while I enjoyed the warmth of my bed. Maybe I wouldn’t have said it at the time, but it all seems so innocent now.

Those would be the last memories of my old life — the life in which I ran, drew, and held my toys with both hands.

While I was asleep, everything changed within seconds. I woke up to the sound of a powerful explosion shaking the apartment. I did not understand what had happened, and I could not comprehend why the room where I had always felt safe had suddenly become filled with dust. And screams. In a single moment, my doll flew out of my arms and disappeared into the rubble and smoke. I looked around for my mother, my sister, and my brother, but I could not see any of them.

Then I looked down. I saw blood covering my clothes, my hand and everything around me. I did not understand what was happening, but I felt a pain unlike anything I had ever known. The screams became mine. I was as loud as I could be, calling for my mother and searching for answers amid the chaos. I was terrified, alone in the smoke and rubble, with no idea where everyone had gone.

I kept crying and screaming, screaming and crying, trying to keep my eyes open and fight through the pain. But my small body could no longer endure it. Little by little, the sounds around me faded away, and everything went dark until I lost consciousness.

When I opened my eyes later, I was in the hospital. I looked at my small body and, again, could not make sense of what I was seeing. I tried to move my left hand — the hand that held my coloring pencils and hugged my doll — but it was gone. So was my arm. That was the moment I realized that my life had changed forever.  

Two weeks passed while I drifted between the awake world and the unconscious. I remember little from those days except the voices of doctors and the faces that appeared and disappeared around me. 

As I slowly regained awareness, children from my neighborhood stopped by to visit me. They sat beside me, trying to comfort me and tell me about everything that had happened while I was gone.

I kept asking about my friend who was on her way to my place the day of the attack. I waited for her to walk into my room like the other children did, but every time I inquired, my family changed the subject or told me to rest. I did not understand why, so I continued asking day after day.

Eventually, they could no longer hide the truth from me. They told me that my friend had been killed in the same attack that changed my life forever. The pain returned all over again — not only in my body, but also in my heart. I simply could not accept that I would never play with her again, or color our books together as we always had.

My name is Noor. I am the little girl who survived the Oct. 6, 2024 attack on Nuseirat Refugee Camp, but a part of me remained beneath the rubble. Four people were killed that day, and five others were injured alongside me. I emerged from the wreckage missing my dominant hand, an arm, and carrying scars of a different kind that will stay with me forever.

The medical staff did everything they could to make me comfortable. They cared for me and tried to help me feel safe despite the pain, and even more so the fear I was experiencing. My sister, Sara, the doctor I had always admired, never left my side. She stayed with me every day, holding my remaining hand and comforting me whenever I cried or felt afraid.

We are close. I always told her how hard I worked in school and of my many dreams I wanted to achieve. When I grew up, I had hoped to be a doctor, like Sara. More immediately, I wanted to be like other children — to play, run, and laugh without feeling different. I kept telling her that I wanted to leave the clinic and walk among people again.

Yet many questions filled my mind. I would ask my sister, “How will people look at me when I leave? Will they feel sorry for me? Will they treat me differently because I lost part of my body? Or will they talk to me the same way they talk to any other child?”

My fear was not only about losing a limb. I worried about being seen as different. I wanted reassurance, to know that what I had lost would not take away my place among the children I loved playing and laughing with.

As time passed, doctors began discussing the need for me to continue my treatment outside Gaza and receive a prosthetic arm that would help me regain greater independence. My family applied for a medical referral, placing great hope in it and believing it could be the beginning of a new chapter for me.

We waited a long time for a response. When it finally arrived, my happiness felt incomplete. Permission was granted for my father to accompany me, while my mother’s request was denied. I was heartbroken because my mother was the person I wanted most beside me. She understood my fears, my pain and every detail of my daily life.

I wished we could travel together and that she could hold my hand during my medical appointments just as she had throughout my time at the clinic. As I watched the adults search for solutions, I focused on one thing: the chance to receive treatment and continue pursuing my dreams like any other child. I wanted my new arm.

After a period of waiting, I was finally able to travel to the United Arab Emirates. From the moment I arrived, I was welcomed with kindness and warmth beyond anything I had expected. People treated me with compassion and care, understanding that I would need help rebuilding my life.

The organizations responsible for this aftercare provided everything I needed, and a new journey began — one filled with medical appointments, examinations and rehabilitation plans. My father stayed by my side through every step. Whenever I felt down, he encouraged me. Whenever I cried, he reminded me of my strength.

Despite my healing, I could see the worry in my dad’s eyes every day. His heart remained with our family in Gaza. We had left loved ones behind amid war, hunger and hardship. He constantly checked on them whenever he could.

I carried my own struggle inside me. Whenever I saw food or fruit – strawberries are among my favorites, just like Sara — I thought about my relatives in Gaza. I thought about children going to sleep hungry and families facing severe food shortages. Sometimes I felt guilty eating while people I loved were suffering. My father would notice and gently tell me, “Eat, Noor. Your body needs strength to heal.” I tried to listen, but Gaza never left my thoughts either.

As my treatment progressed, I began attending regular rehabilitation and physical therapy sessions. It was a long and exhausting journey that required patience and determination. I learned how to adapt to my body in new ways and slowly rebuilt my confidence. After months of training and preparation, the day I had been waiting for finally arrived — the day I received my prosthetic arm.

I remember that day clearly. I looked at my new arm with a mixture of happiness, amazement and uncertainty. It could never replace the arm I had lost, but it gave me something precious: hope. 

I began learning how to use it for simple daily tasks and gradually became more independent. Every small success felt like reclaiming a part of the life that had been taken from me.

With every achievement, my determination grew stronger. A new narrative began to take shape. I believed that the little girl who lost her arm in Nuseirat still had the ability to learn, succeed, laugh and live a full life. What happened to me became part of my story, but it would never define my entire future.

Today, I continue learning something new every day with my prosthetic arm. Some tasks have become easier, while others still require practice and patience. I try to resume my normal life as much as possible and remain committed to my studies and dreams. I still love drawing and coloring, and I still imagine the future I want to build for myself. The war took my left arm, but my resolve and dreams remain with me.

When I think back to the day I woke up dazed from the explosion, I feel as though my life was divided into two parts: Noor, the little girl holding her doll and waiting to color the pages of her book, and Noor, who learned how to face pain and begin again. 

What I hope today is that people understand that behind every number reported in the news is a child with dreams, toys, friendships, and a life of their own. 

I lost my arm. I lost a friend I loved. I live far from part of my family. I miss them every day. Yet my heart is still full of hopes for the future. My name is Noor, and this is the story of a child who grew up too soon and continues moving forward, carrying hope, memories, and everything that has shaped who she is today.