What Did I See While Living in Palestine?

I entered the West Bank from East Jerusalem, getting into my car; for some, this was a separation, for others, a passage right beside the security barrier, through the Qalandiya checkpoint.

This area is ownerless, uncontrolled. Dozens of shops, utterly different from one another, stretch along this road all the way to the heart of Ramallah. Yellow minibuses, carrying people to every corner of Palestine, race against each other.

If you slow down on this road, you will see children with bare feet, stones in their hands. They are the symbol of resistance. They gesture victory at you. They shout, “Ya Hayber! Ya Yahud!” You cannot understand them; they are like silhouettes. Their thin, frail bodies grip the stones tightly. Even when they miss, they throw.

When you ask them, “Why are you throwing? You know you cannot win,” they grow angry:

“We are resisting to say that we exist.”

The word “resistance” regains its meaning in these children’s hands. You see determination for the first time in their eyes. Here, you learn how they dodge plastic bullets with agile movements, how they survive despite everything.

As the area known as “No Man’s Land” falls behind you, the tone changes. As you enter Ramallah, recognized as the capital of the Palestinian Authority, you notice the difference. Luxurious cafés lined up in rows catch your attention. The young people sitting inside are different from the stone-throwing children. Do not be misled by the latest-model cars parked at their doors; they belong to Palestinians untouched by the occupation.

When you see these two faces of Palestine at the same hour, the word “peace” comes to mind. But you realize that peace here carries a completely different meaning. And you ask yourself: Which Palestinian will the peace spoken of by America, Abu Mazen, and Israel actually include?

Will it include the stone-throwing children?

The villagers whose lands were taken from them in Bil’in?

Those living in fear of settlers across the West Bank?

Those in East Jerusalem under the age of fifty who wish to visit Al-Aqsa Mosque?

Will it include Gaza?

If the Palestinian Authority one day returns to the peace table with Israel, any agreement will bypass those demanding their rights and strike those who are devouring Palestine’s resources. And those who benefit from this will be satisfied.

And then Gaza comes to mind. A tiny spot on the map, yet the land bearing the heaviest burden of suffering, deprivation, and resistance. No yellow minibuses reach there, no luxury cafés open there. No child plays with a ball there; no woman goes to the morning market. Because in Gaza, life proceeds side by side with death.

The roar of Israeli aircraft blends with a mother’s lullaby to her child. When the electricity cuts out or the water fails, people ask: “How many died today?” And the world covers Gaza with its silence, like a shroud.

In Gaza, hunger has become a weapon of war. If the Rafah crossing is closed, markets are empty, and bread is distributed by ration cards, this is not an accident—it is a choice. Children’s stomachs are empty; mothers have no milk in their breasts. Sometimes people wait for hours in line for a single can of food. And sometimes that can never arrives.

Here, hunger wears down not only bodies but also dignity. An old man waiting for a slice of bread raises his hand for the first time in his life—ashamedly. Yet he remains silent. Because in Gaza, pride is as precious as food. And the world looks again, denying what it sees.

Because when the issue is Gaza, the scales are broken. Children’s corpses are weighed on screens against “balance.” One side is dying, but news bulletins say, “Clashes continue.” While a people are broken by hunger, realities are softened with diplomatic phrases.

The same world does not play by the same rules. Ukraine is met with tears; Gaza with silence. Solidarity exists in one place; “neutrality” in another. Law operates according to maps; humanity according to identity.

And that is why Gaza is not merely a city; it is the world’s moral test.

Every rocket blast is an ethics exam.

Every empty pot is humanity’s empty stomach.

And those pots remain empty.

Because those who are full do not hear the voices of the hungry.