I lost my niece and nephew in Gaza. Until the world calls this a genocide, we have no hope of peace | Ahmed Najar

I was at a conference about Palestine shortly before he was killed. None of the Israelis I spoke to were willing to publicly name these horrors

It has been less than two months since my niece Juri - a bright, giggling six-year-old - was killed in Gaza. We buried her while her sister recovered from her injuries and her father tried to walk again on shattered legs. Just a week ago, I was struck by another unbearable loss. My 16-year-old nephew Ali was killed: a drone-fired rocket tore through him and six members of our extended family while they were sitting outside the last house we had left - the only one that hadn't yet been reduced to dust.

Ali was split in two. That's not a metaphor: it's literally what the rocket did to his body. A child trying to escape the stifling heat inside a home without electricity, without water, without safety. A child whose only crime was sitting on a plastic chair in a corridor with his uncles - men in their 60s - trying to breathe, trying to live, trying to find a sliver of comfort in a place where even comfort has become a threat.