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(The Story of the Heartbreaking Taiziyah Children’s Massacre)
“When the Playground Became a Mourning Ground at the Hands of the Aggression’s Mercenaries”

It was approaching five o’clock in the evening on Friday, July 11, 2025, in the Al-Arsoom area of the Taiziyah district. The sun was leaning toward sunset, the air was still except for the sounds of children filling the dusty yard with their laughter and shouts. Mubarak Yasser Ali Ahmed Ghaleb, fourteen years old, was the most enthusiastic among them. He ran after the ball, shouting with excitement:
“Pass it to me, Osama! Let me score!”

Osama Abu Bakr Ahmed Ali, 12 years old, was skillfully maneuvering, laughing loudly, and replied:
“No, it’s my turn this time. Watch how I score from midfield!”

Basheer Akram Ahmed Ghaleb, 12 years old, watched the ball eagerly, running after it and clapping, laughing nonstop. Anas Jawad Mohammed Saleh, 14 years old, stood at the edge of the yard, laughing shyly, kicking the ball whenever it came near him, as if trying not to bother anyone. And Ahmed Ali Moqbel Abdullah Al-Atmi, 12 years old, ran at full speed, shouting:
“I’m the fastest among you! Watch out!”

In those moments, they all forgot the fear and pain of the siege and aggression. They were just children playing, dreaming of winning a small match, as if the whole world depended on a goal scored by one of them. Then, suddenly, an artillery shell fell in the middle of the yard. The explosion thundered, dust rose, shrapnel scattered, and the laughter dissipated into the air. From inside the houses, mothers came running, their screams tearing through the silence. Mubarak’s mother was the first to reach the playground, her face terrified, her legs trembling, her face pale. She met her husband and screamed:
“Mubarak! Where’s my son?!”

She got closer and saw his body on the ground, his head bleeding, his body still. She ran to him, collapsed beside him, held his head in her hands:
“My son… get up, don’t leave me alone! I told you not to be late… Mubarak, light of my eyes!”

She shook him with all her strength, trying to bring him back to life, but to no avail. Osama’s mother arrived moments later, her eyes red from shock, running among the small bodies, screaming:
“Osama! Osama! Where are you? Oh God, where’s my son?”

She saw him and collapsed to the ground, reached out to him, kissed his face, hugged him tightly:
“My darling… you said you’d score a goal for me today… light of my eyes… why don’t you answer?”

Basheer’s mother rushed in, screaming, her voice mixed with sobs:
“Basheer! I told you not to go out today, why didn’t you listen to me?”
She fell beside him, kissed his forehead, held his hand, repeating through her tears:
“My son, get up, I went and got you the sports shoes you wanted, look at them, be happy…”

Anas’s mother was screaming loudly, pushing people aside, searching frantically while calling for him:
“Anas! Where? Anas, I told you not to play, why did you go?!”

When she found him, she collapsed, sat down, pulled his hand, hugged it to her chest:
“Anas, you didn’t answer your homework questions… heart of your mother, open your eyes, say anything…”

As for Ahmed’s mother, she arrived screaming from afar, ran, fell twice from fear, and when she saw him, she hugged him with all her strength, trying to stop the bleeding with her hands:
“Ahmed! My soul… you never left the house without saying goodbye… today you left without saying goodbye, why?”

Behind the mothers, the fathers arrived, exhausted, outwardly composed, but their souls shattered inside.