Closure denied: the agonising search for Gaza's vanished

"The place was pure devastation," she says. "Buildings and homes lay in ruins—abandoned, silent, terrifying. There were no bodies, no clothing, not even bones. I don't know if the army arrested them, killed them, or if wild animals devoured their remains and erased them from existence."

She returned to their former neighbourhood, searched the house and its surroundings. But again—nothing. No sign of life or death, stripping her not only of her loved ones but also of closure.

Unknown fates

Umm Nabil is not alone in her loss. Across Gaza, families continue to search for the missing—nearly 10,000 Palestinians reported disappeared during what many describe as a war of annihilation. Men, women, and children of all ages and backgrounds have vanished. Hundreds are thought to lie buried beneath the rubble of bombed homes; hundreds more have simply disappeared—whether captured, killed, or reduced to unidentifiable remains.

Even more disturbing are reports of corpses left exposed in deserted areas, preyed upon by animals and birds, or buried by Israeli forces in unmarked mass graves—without record or recognition.

During the most recent round of negotiations between Hamas and Israel—brokered by the United States and mediated by Egypt, Qatar, and Türkiye—a deal was reached to exchange both surviving captives and the remains of the dead. Under the ceasefire and exchange accord, which took effect on 11 October, Israel recovered the remains of 16 of its citizens held by Palestinian resistance factions. In return, it delivered 195 Palestinian bodies—without names, identification, or documentation.

The remains were transferred via the International Committee of the Red Cross to Gaza's Ministry of Health. A section of the Nasser Medical Complex in Khan Younis was prepared for families to attempt identification before burial. Of the 195 bodies, only 57 were identified. The rest were beyond recognition—many showed signs of torture, hanging, or bound limbs. With no access to DNA testing, the ministry designated a burial site south of Deir al-Balah for the unidentified.

There, in what has become known as the "Numbered Cemetery of the Genocide," 54 nameless bodies were laid to rest. Yet families still wander from morgue to morgue, from ruin to ruin, searching for any trace of their loved ones.

This was not the first such burial, nor the first time Israel had returned two separate truckloads of corpses in violation of humanitarian conventions. In previous instances, dozens of unidentified bodies were handed over and buried in mass graves in Khan Younis.

"Every time I hear the army has returned bodies," says Umm Nabil, "I rush to look for my husband and daughter. I search for any scrap of truth that might tell me their fate. My children ask about their father and sister, but I have no answer that can comfort them—or myself."

This is the ordeal faced by countless families whose loved ones disappeared while trying to move, return home, or collect humanitarian aid. Dozens were killed or detained, their fate unknown—their names joining the ever-lengthening list of the missing.

Zikim massacres

Mamdouh Abdel Wahid, 34, recounts his own ordeal: "I used to go to the Zikim checkpoint in the northwest to collect aid from arriving trucks. Each time, I saw dozens of young men shot dead by Israeli soldiers. No one could retrieve their bodies."

"There were people dying before our eyes," says Abdel Wahid. "And we couldn't retrieve them. Dogs tore at their bodies. When we returned later, we'd find remnants—fragments of flesh—and bury them where they lay. We couldn't identify them, or even take a photograph. Their features were mangled—either by mauling or artillery fire."

He confirms that many victims were buried hastily by survivors, in roadside verges or open fields. Their remains were left to decompose for weeks, sometimes months.

Among the disappeared is 25-year-old Jamal Abu al-'Ala, shot dead by Israeli forces in the courtyard of Nasser Medical Complex on 12 February 2024—killed in full view of his mother and other besieged civilians. His body vanished.

His mother, Umm Jamal, recounts: "They killed my son before my eyes while we were trapped. I buried him inside the hospital grounds, but the army stormed in and forced us out at gunpoint. A year later, when the army withdrew, I returned to move his body to a proper grave—but I couldn't find it."

During the Israeli military's occupation of the Nasser Medical Complex, several civilians were killed. Some bodies were later discovered in a mass grave within the hospital grounds; others simply disappeared.

While some might assume that Umm Jamal's pain is eased by at least knowing her son died, she rejects the notion: "I know my son was martyred. I buried him. But his body disappeared. Every time the army returns bodies, I go to search. I sift through mutilated, dishonoured corpses, hoping to find him—to bury him again, and to know where his grave lies."

Closure denied

According to the Palestinian Centre for the Missing and Forcibly Disappeared, at least 1,300 individuals remain unaccounted for since the start of the genocide—their lives suspended between existence and erasure.

For many families, the absence of confirmation means no closure: they do not know if their loved ones are alive or dead. Hundreds more remain undocumented, as entire families were annihilated—leaving no one behind to report them missing.

Israeli prison authorities have released no verifiable data on those detained during the war. Whether they are being held alive, killed under bombardment, devoured by animals, or buried anonymously in undisclosed graves remains unknown.

For dozens—perhaps hundreds—of Gazan families, the truth may never come. Not in this lifetime.