Gaza Kids Quotes

How come a Palestinian child does not live like an Israeli child? Why do Palestinian children have to toil at any manner of hard jobs just to be able to go to school? How is it that when we are sick. we can't get the medical help the Israeli kids take for granted?

The houses were not Hamas. The kids were not Hamas. Their clothes and toys were not Hamas. The neighborhood was not Hamas. The air was not Hamas. Our ears were not Hamas. Our eyes were not Hamas. The one who ordered the killing, the one who pressed the button thought only of Hamas.

felt dizzied by a sudden sweeping understanding of our collective grief—kids ripped from their homes in Palestine, kids shot in the streets of Gaza and Houston and Rio, the greed, the oil, and guns—it was the same struggle everywhere.

She once said, "When I grow up and become a mother, I want my kids to live in a reality where the word rocket is just another name for a space shuttle.

A Hamas leader named Nizar Rayyan was killed. He was buried under the rubble of his house with fifteen of his family, mostly his children, the youngest aged 2. On TV, I watched when a man pulled out a headless child, another with no arm or leg. So small I couldn’t tell if boy or girl. Hate ignores such details. The houses were not Hamas. The kids were not Hamas. Their clothes and toys were not Hamas. The neighborhood was not Hamas. The air was not Hamas. Our ears were not Hamas. Our eyes were not Hamas. The one who ordered the killing, the one who pressed the button thought only of Hamas. My brother Hudayfah was born deaf and mute.

At night, when I tucked my kids into bed, my heart would sink and I would pray that the hours to come would be safe and sound. When morning arose, I’d feel temporary relief that the darkness was gone.

Some kids have invented a new, clever way of making sure their story is told, or at least recorded, even after they’ve been torn to pieces by an Israeli missile. To make sure their bodies are recognised they have taken to writing their names, with markers, on their hands and legs. They are sharing this practice on social media. Some are even writing their family’s mobile numbers so they can be called and informed of their death. It is almost impossible to think about the world carrying on after we die, but these kids are doing it: putting their loved ones first, hoping to lessen their suffering by saving them from the purgatory of not knowing. They do it also, I think, for themselves: the idea of dying and not being mourned by anyone is unbearable.