WARNING: This blog includes distressing images from inside a morgue.
GAZA, July 30, 2014 --- This war in Gaza is not the first war I have covered, it isn't even the first war I've covered in Gaza. I've been to places like Syria and Libya, and seen some of the horrible things that are normal in armed conflict, and I've seen dead children before, but never like during this war in Gaza. Never so many, never so often.
Everyone loves their children, and Gaza is no different. But there is a special public affection here, a pride untempered by sensibilities of privacy or modesty. Everyone wants to show you pictures of their children. The men whip out their cellphones even more readily than the women. I have seen photos of most of the children of the staff at my hotel. My favourite receptionist Ayman has two daughters, one of whom has his fair skin and light eyes; the smiling bearded guard/housekeeper Mahmud has three sons, including the youngest, who he tells me with a mixture of pride and slight embarrassment is as 'pretty as a girl.'