On knowing how it ends
limbo and a birthday trip to the aquiarium
Yesterday we took both kids to the Bristol Aquarium to celebrate my son’s first birthday. We caught the train, which was full to the brim with pensioners who were not-going-to-give-up-their-seat-for-a-young-family-thank-you-very-much. When we eventually did get a seat T slept soundly, catching up on precious zzz time he’d lost during a projectile vomiting episode the night before.
As he slept on me, bundled up in layers of clothing, I thought about how exactly 365 days prior, we were both in hospital, having been transferred there by ambulance under the cover of darkness. We were there because T struggled to breathe independently following his home-birth, and the neonatal team wanted to run a series of tests to establish if there would be any lasting impact. I remember looking at him under the hot lamp and just praying so hard that he would be ok, wanting to know how it would end.
Twelve months on and he was back in my arms, oblivious to the drama that unfolded around him on the day of his birth. I am grateful beyond belief that this was the eventual outcome of those confusing, disorientating hours.
When we arrived in Bristol it rained, but that didn’t matter. Our little boy genuinely seemed agog at the sight of these otherworldly beings floating above his head, occasionally reaching out to try and touch them, only to be taken back to find a sheet of glass separating him from his new-found friends. Racing ahead of our group was his big sister, who had spotted one of those pay-per-ride submarines at the aquarium’s entrance and was determined to zoom around the place as quickly as possible.
//
Getting a baby to the twelve month mark has felt very different second time round. After my daughter was born three years ago, I had twelve months of maternity leave to adjust to a new era of motherhood. Twelve months of coffee and playdates and time with my daughter (yeah, the stereotypes are pretty much true). Now that I work as a freelance writer-editor-speaker I’ve not had the same benefit of unfettered time – every spare hour has been spent trying to make some money or work on my various projects.
T's first year has also felt different because of the genocide in Gaza. My daughter was one and a half in October 2023, and at that point it was impossible to imagine the newfound depths of hell which were about to be unleashed upon the people of Palestine. But as the months wore on, and we marched and wrote to our useless, spineless, complicit government, it gradually became clear that things were only going to get worse, not better.
At the time I wrote about ‘longing for the aftermath’ of October 7th. How hopelessly naive I was to think that an aftermath would arrive in a state that didn’t resemble the bloodbath we now bear witness to on a daily basis. This genocide is a story which continues to unfold, relentlessly, and shows no signs of coming to an end. In fact, the only time I hear Israeli politicians discussing the ‘morning after’ is when it relates to their real estate plans. In an interview Finance minister Bezalel Smotrich recently said that ‘we’ve done the demolition phase … now we need to build.’
//
Within hours of arriving at hospital we were told the end of Toby’s story: although he had experienced oxygen deprivation, there did not appear to be any signs that it would have a lasting impact on his health.
Somehow he had emerged unscathed from the nine-rounds of resuscitation that took place on our kitchen table that night.
Somehow, he would live to tell the tale.
I think the fact that I know how this particular story ends is the only way I have been able to come to terms with what happened. Meanwhile, Palestinians have now been in state of limbo for close to two years. What must that do to a person? I wonder. And what must it be like to give birth during a genocide? When the extermination of your people is ongoing?
Recent statistics from the Ministry of Health provide a partial answer to these questions. According to recent report from the Palestine Centre for Human Rights, out of 17,000 deliveries during the first half of 2025, 2600 of were classed as a ‘miscarriage’ or ‘fetal death during pregnancy or after birth’. In the same time period 2,535 newborns, (14.91% of total births) have had to be admitted to incubators due to health problems. 1600 infants were born underweight (9.4%) and 8.59% of babies were delivered prematurely.
One of my best friends is due to give birth any day. But if she was in Gaza right now, would she have enough access to food to sustain her and her baby’s health? Or would it be yet another premature birth to add to the Health Ministry’s statistics? We cannot know the answer, other than recognising that this struggle and form of ethnic cleansing is the lived reality for so many of Gaza’s women who are giving birth during a genocide.
When will this living nightmare end?
As I wrote today’s Murmuration I was thinking about this poem by the Palestinian poet and scholar Refaat Alareer. I think of these words, and their author, often.
Thank you for reading,
My name is Grace and I’m the writer (hello!) behind The Murmuration, a bi-weekly newsletter which digs beneath the topsoil of everyday life and chronicles a world in transition. Most of my time is spent editing books, but I also write them and commentate on politics and culture in various places. You’ll also find me on Instagram and Tiktok. If you’re interested in my work and want to get in touch then visit my website: www.gracepengelly.co.uk
The Living Room
Toby rolled over for the first time yesterday. It was an accident, we think. More likely a byproduct of his thumb-sucking which causes him to lean this way and that, than a concerted effort on his part. He was so startled by what unfolded that he started to scream, shocked by his new reality! Within moments Owen picked up him…
I’m very glad to hear that smiley Toby came through that rather dramatic jump start to his life (9 rounds 😭🙏🏼) completely unscathed. And yes I think about the women and mothers in Gaza often too and wonder how it will end.
So I have two friends in Gaza. They are alive today. Each day is a blessing. One is a Paediatrician and the other is a children's dentist. They both continue to work. I can ask them your Questions Grace.