Gaza's displaced girls as young as seven forced into early puberty amid PTSD from Israel's genocide

In the shattered classroom of a bombed-out school in Jabalia refugee camp, northern Gaza, 34-year-old Nour Abu Shahla crouches beside her daughter Lina, carefully adjusting the blanket over her frail body.

Eight-year-old Lina stares silently at the concrete floor as sunlight slices through cracks in the walls, once adorned with vibrant school murals, now blackened by soot. Aid bags are scattered in the corners, silent reminders of a life reduced to the barest essentials.

"Lina is no longer a child," Nour told The New Arab, her voice brittle. "A week ago, she started bleeding. At first, I thought she was sick. But when I understood what it meant..."

She pauses, her breath hitching. "It was like the ground crumbled beneath me."

For Nour, memories of her own teenage years make the pain even worse. "I was sixteen, shy but safe. My mother explained everything and helped me get ready," she recalls, her voice heavy with sadness.

"But Lina? She was alone. No warning, no comfort, no clean towel," she says, wiping away tears with a torn sleeve.

In the absence of basic hygiene products, Nour had to wrap her terrified daughter in an old piece of cloth.

"I wasn't prepared," she confesses. "And neither was she."

Since that day, Lina has withdrawn. She no longer plays with the other children and won't let go of her mother’s hand.

"She's scared someone will see or say something," Nour explains. "She doesn't laugh anymore. She just holds my hand, as if she's trying to hold onto some kind of safety."

The words catch in her throat as she adds, "Every time I try to talk to her, she says, ‘Mama, it's over, don’t talk.’ Then she cries. For hours. And I don’t know how to help her."

Around them, the world has become a fragile shell of what it once was. "I'm her mother, but I feel so powerless," Nour whispers.

"I can't buy her a change of clothes, let alone explain what's happening to her. Not even a drop of medicine is available. And every time a plane flies overhead, we both freeze."

'Why me?'

In a shelter in Gaza City, another mother, 40-year-old Rana Shaheen, watches her 10-year-old daughter, Aya, stare blankly at a wall covered in the names of martyrs — family members, neighbours, and friends who never made it out.

"Aya hasn't spoken properly since she got her period," Rana says quietly. "Every day, she asks me: 'What is happening to me? Why me?' I don’t know what to tell her."

For Rana and Aya, the fear is made worse by a devastating lack of privacy. "There is no space for us. No bathroom of our own. No safe place to talk," Rana says, lowering her voice.

"She tells me she wants to be a child again. That she doesn’t want to grow up."

"Psychological trauma, prolonged stress, and malnutrition have all wreaked havoc on young girls’ hormonal systems"

In Gaza’s overcrowded shelters, puberty has become far more than a normal part of growing up — it’s now a traumatic experience. There are no comforting talks, no gifts, and no warmth. Instead, girls like Lina and Aya are faced with blood, shame, and a world that has already taken too much from them.

According to Rula Salim, an obstetrician and gynaecologist working with displaced communities in Gaza, the phenomenon of precocious puberty has spiked dramatically since the genocide began.

"Psychological trauma, prolonged stress, and malnutrition have all wreaked havoc on young girls’ hormonal systems," Rula told The New Arab.

"We are seeing girls as young as seven or eight getting their periods. In a stable environment, this would be extremely rare. But here, the body responds as if it's in constant danger," she explained.

The pituitary gland, which regulates growth and puberty, is especially vulnerable to stress, Rula said. "The entire hormonal balance is disrupted. And in a war zone, that imbalance becomes the new normal."

But the consequences go far beyond biology. Eman Abu Shaaban, a psychiatrist in Gaza City, warns that the psychological toll of early puberty in war zones is both severe and long-lasting.

"These girls are trapped between bodies that are changing too fast and minds still clinging to innocence," Eman told The New Arab.

"They may experience anxiety, depression, or PTSD. Many of them become emotionally numb or withdraw from everyone," she continued.

In her clinical observations, Eman has seen girls regress into silence, stop playing, and even stop eating. "They do not understand what is happening to them, and no one around them has the tools to explain it," she said.

The crisis is further exacerbated by the lack of health education, privacy, and hygiene facilities. "Puberty should be a private, supported experience," Abu Shaaban stressed. "In these shelters, it becomes another layer of trauma."

'I don't want to grow up'

The stories of Lina, Aya, and other girls are not isolated. The same story repeats itself across Gaza’s displaced communities.

Heba Murtaja, from Gaza City, shared her devastation when she realised her nine-year-old daughter Amal had also started menstruating.

"I'm a mother," she says, echoing Nour's despair. "But I can’t help her. I can’t even afford sanitary pads. I don't know how to explain it to her. I can't do anything."

Heba shakes her head, clutching her daughter's hand tightly. "I used to imagine being there for her first period, like my mother was for me. Instead, we’re in a school-turned-shelter with no privacy, surrounded by strangers."

Her voice shakes as she explains how Amal now spends her days in silence, hiding in oversized clothes.

"She was such an active child, always jumping, always laughing. Now she just sits, afraid someone will look at her. She doesn’t even want to wear a T-shirt because it might cling."

The shame and discomfort of early puberty are made worse by the constant pressure of living under the relentless scrutiny of war. In overcrowded schools, where many families share the same rooms, girls' changing bodies become another source of stress.

When asked how she feels, Amal whispers, "I don't want to grow up. I want to go back to skipping rope."

Her words hang heavy in the air, carrying a sorrow far too large for her young frame. In Gaza, childhood is not lost in a single moment; it is stolen bit by bit, through war, displacement, and silence.

No pink dresses

Back in Beit Hanoun, Nour folds the blanket tighter around her daughter and gazes towards the sky. "All I want is a bathroom with a door, a quiet place for my daughter to sleep, and a bag of pads. Not because we are poor, but because the war has stolen everything."

She looks down at Lina and softly adds, "She shouldn’t have had to grow up now."

Amid a genocide that has turned every corner of Gaza into a battlefield, even the simple act of becoming a woman has become another form of devastation.

Without clean clothes, reassurance, or privacy, Gaza's girls are growing up in silence, their bodies racing ahead of their stolen childhoods.

There are no pink dresses to celebrate the milestone, no giggles shared with friends, no reassuring nods from older sisters. Only the haunted gazes of mothers who don’t know how to answer when their daughters whisper, "Why did this happen to me?"

The question remains unanswered, suspended in the smoky air between the rubble, the ruins, and the faint hope that someday, childhood will be returned.

Sally Ibrahim is The New Arab's correspondent from Gaza