A child's silence is not a choice—it's a nervous system saying it cannot endure
In the ruins of Gaza, silence has become a language — not of peace, but of a nervous system pushed beyond its limits. Over one million children have endured sustained violence since October 2023, and some, like five-year-old Adam, have stopped speaking entirely, their brains physiologically reshaped by terror. Norwegian child psychotherapist Katrin Glatz Brubakk, working with Médicos Sin Fronteras, has documented this generation's invisible wounds: enlarged amygdalae, underdeveloped prefrontal cortices, and the arrested development of language, empathy, and trust. What is at stake is not only the survival of individual children, but the cognitive and emotional architecture of an entire generation.
- Children across Gaza are falling silent not from choice but from neurological collapse — their brains shutting down language as a last defense against unbearable, unrelenting danger.
- The damage is structural: trauma physically reshapes the developing brain, enlarging its fear center while stunting the regions responsible for speech, connection, and emotional regulation.
- A Norwegian psychotherapist working in the territory has used soap bubbles, dollhouses, and patient presence to coax traumatized children back toward language — small, fragile breakthroughs in an environment that offers no safety.
- With international medical staff barred from Gaza since January and violence continuing even after a ceasefire announcement, the conditions required for healing remain entirely absent.
- Without intervention and genuine peace, experts warn that cognitive injuries sustained in early childhood may permanently define the social and emotional lives of an entire generation.
When Norwegian child psychotherapist Katrin Glatz Brubakk arrived in Gaza with Médicos Sin Fronteras in 2024 and 2025, she came to treat children who had stopped speaking. What she encountered was not a rare clinical phenomenon — it was a mass neurological response to sustained, overwhelming violence. Over one million children in Gaza have experienced severe trauma. Dozens had withdrawn into complete silence.
Among them was Adam, five years old when the war began. Once talkative and energetic, he fell silent after a projectile struck him and his father during what they believed was a safe visit to family. At an overwhelmed hospital, Adam lay on the emergency room floor and watched his father die beside him. He also lost a leg. Afterward, he could only whisper isolated words to his mother and had largely withdrawn from the world.
This silence is not emotional — it is physiological. Under sustained, unprocessable stress, a child's nervous system can simply shut down. Trauma physically alters the developing brain: the amygdala, the brain's alarm center, enlarges and becomes hyperactive, while the prefrontal cortex — responsible for language, planning, and emotional regulation — remains thin and underconnected. If the stress never lifts, the damage compounds. Development stops. Brubakk calls these the invisible injuries of war.
Six-year-old Mona survived a bomb that killed two of her brothers and left her body covered in burns. She lay in hospital wrapped almost entirely in bandages, managing her own excruciating pain while fearing for her sister's life. To reach children like her, Brubakk began with soap bubbles — simple objects whose floating colors draw attention away from threat, and whose slow-breath technique physiologically calms the nervous system. With Adam, the first breakthrough was a rejection: he told his mother to make the woman go away. It was the first sign he was engaging with the world again.
With Mona, Brubakk found cardboard, tape, and paint. Together they built a dollhouse — two stories, carefully decorated. Mona and her sister had been playing with a dollhouse when the bomb fell. Through building a new one, through play, Mona found words again. She described what had happened. She named her fear.
Since October 2023, more than 20,000 children in Gaza have been killed and over 41,000 wounded. Violence has continued even after a ceasefire announcement. In April, a nine-year-old girl was killed when forces fired on a tent being used as a makeshift classroom; the other children watched her die. Brubakk, who has worked in conflict zones for twelve years, says she has never seen anything like Gaza. International medical staff have been barred from entering since January. She cannot return — though she says it is the only place she wants to be. Without safe spaces and genuine peace, she warns, an entire generation will carry these wounds forward, their brains shaped by violence in ways that may never fully heal.
Katrin Glatz Brubakk, a child psychotherapist from Norway, arrived in Gaza in 2024 and 2025 with Médicos Sin Fronteras to treat children who had stopped speaking. What she found was not unusual in the way trauma manifests—it was the scale. Over one million children in Gaza have experienced severe trauma. Dozens of them, she documented, had withdrawn into complete silence, their voices simply gone.
Adam was five years old when the war began in October 2023. He had been a talkative, energetic boy who loved playing outdoors. When his family was forced to flee their home and live in a tent, Adam adapted as children do. But one day, he and his father decided to visit his grandparents in an area that supposedly had no evacuation orders, a place they thought was safe. A projectile struck without warning, wounding both of them severely. At the hospital, overwhelmed with casualties, Adam and his father lay on the emergency room floor waiting for treatment. There, beside him, Adam watched his father take his last breath. The boy also lost a leg and suffered damage to the other. After witnessing his father's death, Adam stopped speaking. He could only whisper isolated words to his mother. He barely ate. He had withdrawn entirely from the world.
This response—silence as a neurological defense—is what happens when a child's nervous system reaches its breaking point under sustained, overwhelming stress. Brubakk explained that trauma doesn't always manifest as visible agitation or sleeplessness. Sometimes a child's system simply shuts down. The brain, flooded with danger signals it cannot process, retreats. Language becomes part of that retreat. It is not a conscious choice but a physiological response, the nervous system's way of saying it cannot endure anymore.
The consequences are written into the architecture of the brain itself. When children experience severe trauma, the amygdala—the brain's alarm system—physically enlarges. This can be measured. Meanwhile, the prefrontal cortex, the region responsible for planning, problem-solving, social interaction, and emotional regulation, remains underdeveloped. It becomes thinner, with fewer neural connections. If a child remains in this withdrawn state for an extended period, if the stress never lifts, the damage compounds. Language development stops. Social learning halts. The child does not recover. Brubakk has seen this before, in her own family. Her brother was adopted from Vietnam in 1974, after that war ended. Even in safety, in Norway, with food and security, it took him years to stop hiding food behind books on shelves. He did not feel safe. These are what Brubakk calls the invisible injuries of war—cognitive wounds that may follow these children for life.
Mona was six years old when a bomb hit her family's apartment. Two of her brothers died instantly. The explosion ignited a gas cylinder, and fire consumed the room. Her father pulled three daughters from the flames, but Mona's body was covered in burns. So was her older sister. Her middle sister had inhaled superheated air and suffered internal burns. Mona lay in the hospital wrapped almost entirely in bandages, able to see only through her eyes and nostrils. She was not only managing her own unbearable pain—burns are so painful that even changing dressings requires anesthesia—but also terrified that her sister would not survive.
Breaking through to these children requires meeting them where they are. Brubakk began with soap bubbles. She calls them bubbles of hope. They are simple, but their effect is neurological. A child in a state of trauma is locked in that state, the alarm system screaming. A floating bubble, with its colors and movement, draws attention away from the threat. It is beautiful. It calms. And if you want to blow large bubbles, you must breathe slowly and deeply. Slow breathing settles the nervous system. It gives the amygdala permission to quiet, allowing the prefrontal cortex space to develop. With Adam, the breakthrough came when he suddenly told his mother to make the woman—Brubakk—go away. It was rejection, but it was interaction. It meant he was engaging with the world again. Days later, he looked at her. Brubakk seized the moment, commenting on his brown eyes, comparing them to her own blue ones. Curiosity flickered in that five-year-old. It was the beginning.
With Mona, Brubakk found cardboard, tape, and paint. Together they built a dollhouse. Mona wanted two stories and decorated it carefully. She and her sister had been playing with a dollhouse when the bomb fell. But through building this one, through play, Mona found words. She told Brubakk what had happened. She expressed her fear for her sisters. Play became the language her trauma had stolen.
Since October 2023, more than 20,000 children in Gaza have been killed and over 41,000 wounded, according to UNICEF. The total death toll exceeds 72,000 people, mostly civilians. Even after a ceasefire was announced, violence has continued. In April, a nine-year-old girl named Ritaj Rihan was killed when Israeli forces fired on a tent sheltering an improvised classroom. The other children witnessed her death. Brubakk has worked in conflict zones for twelve years—the Congo, Lebanon, Egypt, the Mediterranean, Turkey after an earthquake. She has never seen anything like Gaza. There is no safe place. The entire territory is in pieces. The health system has been systematically attacked. And the international staff of her organization has been barred from entering since January 1st. She cannot return, though she says Gaza is the only place she wants to be. Without intervention, without safe spaces and genuine peace, an entire generation of children will carry these invisible injuries forward, their brains shaped by violence in ways that may never fully heal.
Notable Quotes
There is not a single child in Gaza who is not traumatized. There are over one million children who have experienced severe trauma.— Katrin Glatz Brubakk, child psychotherapist
The level of trauma I saw in Gaza and the level of destruction are simply incomparable to anything else I have witnessed in twelve years of working in conflict zones.— Katrin Glatz Brubakk
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why do some children go silent while others become hyperactive? Is it random?
It's not random. It's how each nervous system chooses to survive. Some children scream and fight and can't sleep—that's visible suffering, easy to spot. Others lock down completely. Their system says: I cannot take anymore. Silence becomes protection.
You mentioned the amygdala enlarges. Can that be reversed?
The brain is plastic, especially in children. With safety, with time, with proper support, some healing happens. But if the trauma continues, if the stress never lifts, the damage becomes harder to undo. That's why these children need more than therapy. They need actual safety.
Soap bubbles seem almost trivial against what these children have endured.
They are trivial. And they are everything. A bubble doesn't erase trauma. But it gives the nervous system permission to step back from the alarm state, even for a moment. That moment is where healing can begin. Without it, the child stays locked.
You mentioned your brother hiding food decades later. Does that mean these children will never fully recover?
Some do recover more than others. But yes, some carry it forever. The invisible injuries—hypervigilance, difficulty trusting, trouble regulating emotion—these can follow them into adulthood. That's why prevention matters so much. That's why peace matters.
What struck you most about the parents in Gaza?
Their capacity to love their children despite witnessing their suffering. These parents are traumatized themselves. They've lost everything. And still they offer their children warmth, care, hope. That resilience is extraordinary and heartbreaking.
If you could return to Gaza tomorrow, what would be your first priority?
Getting children back to school. Getting them into safe spaces where they can play, learn, be children again. That's what they actually need. Everything else—the therapy, the bubbles—it's support while we wait for the real healing to begin.