DaysofPal- Behind the staggering physical destruction in Gaza lies a more quiet, insidious epidemic: children are losing their voices. From five-year-old Jad Zohud, who woke up unable to form sounds after a nearby bombardment, to four-year-old Lucine Tamboura, whose speech vanished following a traumatic fall during an airstrike, a growing number of children are falling into total silence.
His case is not isolated. Across Gaza, doctors and specialists are reporting a growing number of children who have lost their ability to speak following war-related injuries or psychological trauma. For some, the cause is physical: head injuries, neurological damage, or blast trauma. For others, there are no visible wounds.
Child psychotherapist Katrin Glatz Brubakk, who has worked in Gaza with Doctors Without Borders (MSF), describes the phenomenon as a form of “silent suffering,” often hidden beneath the scale of visible destruction.
A Growing Pattern of Speech Loss
At Gaza City’s Hamad Hospital, doctors say cases of speech loss among children are rising. According to Dr. Musa al-Khorti, head of the hospital’s speech department, some children lose the ability to speak entirely. Conditions such as selective mutism or hysterical aphonia, where the voice is lost due to extreme psychological distress, are becoming more frequent.
Many cases follow a similar pattern: a sudden loss of speech after a violent घटना or injury.
Jad’s experience reflects this. After a nearby bombardment, he woke up unable to speak. There was no gradual decline, only an abrupt silence.
Other children show similar trajectories. Four-year-old Lucine Tamboura lost her voice after falling from the third floor of her home when a staircase, damaged by an air strike, collapsed. The fall caused partial paralysis in her arm and leg. While her physical injuries improved, her speech has not fully returned.
Doctors warn that without sustained care, such conditions can have long-term consequences, particularly when rooted in psychological trauma.
Trauma and the “Freeze Response”
Brubakk explains that many children lose speech as a direct response to extreme trauma.
“These are children who have been exposed to overwhelming experiences and, without any medical cause, stop talking,” she says. “It’s always extreme trauma.”
Children who have lost family members, witnessed death, or endured repeated violence may enter what she describes as a “freeze response.” In this state, the body shuts down as a survival mechanism when neither escape nor resistance feels possible.
“The body recognizes the danger and decides the safest option is to stay still,” she explains. “It’s not a conscious choice. It’s a physical response.”
This shutdown extends beyond speech. Children may stop playing, interacting, and engaging with their surroundings, key processes for learning and development. Brubakk refers to these effects as “cognitive war injuries.”
Prolonged trauma keeps the brain in survival mode. The amygdala, responsible for detecting threats, remains highly active, while systems tied to learning, emotional regulation, and social interaction are suppressed. Even when a child appears withdrawn, their nervous system remains on constant alert.
Over time, this imbalance can significantly disrupt development.
A Crisis Without Safe Spaces
Brubakk says the scale and intensity of trauma in Gaza are unlike anything she has encountered in more than a decade of humanitarian work.
“There is nobody in Gaza now who is not affected,” she says. “There is no safety.”
The constant threat of violence, combined with the collapse of healthcare and essential services, compounds the crisis. Children cannot access consistent medical or psychological care, and families have no safe refuge.
“You can’t get the help you need, physically or mentally, and you can’t escape,” she says. “There’s nowhere to go.”
This environment deepens both the immediate and long-term impact on children. While physical injuries are visible, the psychological consequences often remain unseen.
“It’s easy to show bandages or amputations,” Brubakk notes. “But this is the silent suffering. It’s everywhere.”
Fragile Paths to Recovery
Recovery from trauma-related mutism is slow and uncertain. Brubakk recalls a five-year-old boy who stopped speaking after witnessing his father’s death in an air strike. For a long time, he communicated only in faint whispers to his mother and avoided all other interaction.
Progress came in small, almost imperceptible steps. A whispered complaint. Brief eye contact. Flickers of curiosity. Gradually, he began to reconnect with the world and, over time, found his voice again.
Such recovery depends on structured, consistent care—something increasingly difficult to provide. At Hamad Hospital, specialists say conditions like selective mutism require long-term therapeutic intervention and rehabilitation tools, many of which have been damaged or lost.
Even so, small interventions can make a difference. Brubakk uses simple techniques such as blowing soap bubbles to help withdrawn children regulate their breathing and shift attention away from fear.
“They’re peaceful and gentle,” she explains. “If you want big bubbles, you need to breathe slowly. It becomes a way to calm the body through play.”
These moments, brief and fragile, can help children relax, sleep better, and begin to re-engage with their environment.
Recovery does not happen all at once. It unfolds through many small steps, each one carrying weight in a place where safety is rare.
“You have to be patient,” Brubakk says. “Every small step matters.”
In the ruins of Gaza, these small steps are the only way back from the silence. For specialists like Brubakk and Al-Khorti, the goal is to provide enough consistent care to turn those whispers back into voices before the “silent suffering” becomes a permanent scar on a generation.
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