A childhood shaped by Gaza

Every Israeli has a tragic story about Gaza—just as, no doubt, every Gazan has a tragic story about Israel. This is mine.

It is the tragic story of the Aroyo family, a beautiful young couple who had migrated to Israel from London in 1969. Bob became one of the top advertising creatives in the country. He and his wife Preeti (who was indeed very, very pretty) had two gorgeous children—Mark, 7, and Abigail, 4—charming little kids in Mary Janes and impeccable English accents.

Bob had Maltese heritage, Preeti was of Indian descent, and at the age of 11, I thought she must have been an Indian princess. To me, they seemed like the perfect family.

There weren’t many English-speaking families in the absorption centre in Lod, near Ben-Gurion Airport, where we were first placed. It was a world away from the eastern suburbs of Sydney. My three siblings (aged 9, 9, and 13), my parents, and I soon became close friends with the Aroyos. When both families moved to newly built apartments in Kiryat Ono, our friendship only deepened.

Like many new immigrants, weekends were for exploring our new homeland. Israel was still a very young country—barely 20 years old and, in many ways, a backwater. There wasn’t even television back then.

At the time of the attack, Gaza was under Israeli administration following the Six-Day War of 1967. Although military control had been established, the area remained volatile. Tensions between Israeli forces and Palestinian militants were escalating, but full-scale terrorism had not yet become a regular feature of daily life. The world was also watching the broader Cold War unfold, with Middle Eastern conflicts increasingly seen through the lens of superpower rivalry. In Israel, there was a sense of guarded optimism and determination—young families like ours were building lives in a country that was still defining its borders, its institutions, and its very identity. But even then, places like Gaza carried risks. And that Saturday, tragedy reminded us all how fragile life could be.

One Saturday, Bob and Preeti took the kids for a drive in their white station wagon. The destination: Gaza. My family hadn’t been there yet. Even in those days, it was considered risky—long before the era of suicide bombings and airline hijackings.

Later that day, my father—then a practising doctor—got a panicked call from Bob. They had been attacked.

Without hesitation, Mum and Dad packed us kids into our own white station wagon and sped south to Be’er Sheva Hospital.

Bob was in utter shock. As he explained to my father, they had been driving with the windows rolled down—it was a hot day and cars didn’t have air-conditioning. Just outside Gaza, a teenage boy stepped into the road. Bob slowed the car to avoid hitting him. At that moment, another youth emerged from behind a rock and hurled a hand grenade into the back seat where Abigail and Mark were sitting.

What followed was a horror no parent should ever have to endure.

Bob, who was physically unharmed, pleaded with nearby locals for help. None was given. Fortunately, an Israeli army jeep happened to be in the area, and soldiers quickly secured the scene. A rescue helicopter arrived shortly after and evacuated the family to Be’er Sheva.

Preeti had suffered severe injuries to her back. Abigail and Mark were critically wounded. My father rushed into the emergency department as the helicopter landed. When he returned to our car some hours later, his face told us everything before he said a word.

Mark and Abigail did not survive.

In the days that followed, we learned something remarkable. Although Preeti had been terribly wounded, her womb was miraculously left intact. In the years that followed, she and Bob rebuilt their family. They went on to have three more children.

Mark and Abigail are buried on the Mount of Olives, one of the most sacred and ancient cemeteries in the world, overlooking Jerusalem.

That day—somewhere in the early 1970s—remains the most profound and painful memory of my childhood.

My daughter is named Abigail.

Philippa J (surname withheld) is a Sydney-based writer and former Israeli resident.