My name is Salma, and I am 55 years old. As I sit in my peaceful home, far removed from the land of my birth, memories of a war-torn childhood in Gaza flood my mind. The year was 2024, and I was just eight years old when the conflict between Israel and Palestine reached a fever pitch.
I can still remember the sound of sirens wailing through the night, a haunting lullaby that signaled yet another bombardment. My parents would rush my brothers and me to the basement, a makeshift shelter that felt more like a tomb. We huddled together, trying to drown out the sound of explosions with whispered stories and songs. But the fear was palpable, an unwelcome guest that lingered long after the noise had ceased.
Our home, once a sanctuary filled with laughter and love, was reduced to rubble. I can still see the image of my mother’s favourite vase, a wedding gift from her grandmother, shattered into a thousand pieces. It felt symbolic of our lives at that moment—fragmented and fragile.
The days were filled with uncertainty. Schools had become targets, and education was a distant dream. My brothers and I would sneak into the local library, one of the few buildings still standing, to escape the harsh reality outside. Books became our refuge, transporting us to worlds where children were free to play, learn, and dream without fear.
Food and water were scarce. I remember my father standing in long lines for hours, only to come back with barely enough to sustain us. Yet, in those moments of hardship, our community found ways to come together. Neighbours shared what little they had, and there was an unspoken bond of resilience that united us.
One of the most vivid memories is of the ceasefire that never seemed to last. Each time, we hoped for a return to normalcy, only to be disappointed by the resumption of violence. It was a cruel cycle that left deep scars, both physically and emotionally.
At the age of ten, my family made the difficult decision to leave Gaza. We became part of the diaspora, seeking refuge in a foreign land. The journey was perilous, fraught with danger and uncertainty. But we were among the fortunate ones who made it out alive.
Life as a refugee was not easy. We faced prejudice and hardship, but there was also kindness from strangers that gave us hope. My parents worked tirelessly to rebuild our lives, and they instilled in us the importance of education and perseverance.
Now, as I look back, I see a childhood marked by loss and resilience. The war took away my home, my friends, and the innocence of my early years. Yet, it also shaped me into the person I am today—someone who values peace, cherishes freedom, and understands the profound impact of compassion.
In my heart, Gaza remains a place of both pain and love. I carry the stories of those who did not survive, and I strive to honour their memory by working towards a world where no child has to endure the horrors of war.
I share my story not just to remember, but to remind the world that even in the darkest times, there is hope. The echoes of my childhood in the rubble continue to resonate, a testament to the enduring human spirit.
Perhaps, if we dare to speculate and imagine the voices of children traumatised by war fifty years from now, we might find the urgent impetus to seek swift and enduring solutions to these life-threatening conflicts. Through their future reflections, we could grasp the profound impact of our actions today and be driven to forge a path towards lasting peace.