Perspectives on Home

Different Generations, Same Tragedy: Palestinian Childhood

What does it mean to live a normal life? What does a normal childhood look like? These questions linger in my mind as I share my story—not a happy one but a necessary journey through the eyes of a little girl who has endured the ravages of three aggressions. I often wonder if “survival” is the right word to describe our existence; it feels inadequate. Survival suggests merely staying alive,

but what about the emotional scars, the memories, and the innocence lost along the way? 

^Rana recalled the panic attack she had after hearing about a girl who had been raped in Al-Shifa Hospital, asking her mother, “Can we commit suicide if they come for us?” 
^Jana remembered the day they pulled her neighbors’ children from the rubble after three days, their screams forever etched in her mind. 
^Sarah only 12, shared how she would imagine soldiers bursting in through the windows, wiping out everyone in the room while they slept. 
^Rudina couldn’t sleep, plagued by thoughts of suffocating under fallen debris and the pain it would cause.
^Mohammad just 10, described how a drone hovered outside the window, capturing footage of children playing while they crawled to safety.

Guilt hangs heavily on my heart; I feel oppressed by the safety I enjoy while family members are killed daily. I walk through the streets, asking my friends, “What is a normal life? What does it feel like not to be Palestinian? How does one spend a childhood free from fear?”

Throughout the aggressions, we huddled together in one room, terrified that if they decided to strike, one of us might survive without the others. I constantly reassured my family, “We’re at home; nothing will happen to us.” But deep down, I knew the truth: our home was never truly safe.

Today, as I write to you, I long to return to my home in Rafah, where I slept in my pink room, hugged my toy from my brother Hassan, and drifted off peacefully without a care in the world. That choice no longer exists; that house is gone, reduced to rubble.

The harsh reality that haunts me is that these memories extend beyond my generation; they resonate with countless others before and after. My grandmother Aziza passed away in fear, worried that the occupation would invade her home in Rafah, just as it had when she was a child in Barqa. My grandfather Hasan lost his entire family in 1948 while following the orders of the occupying forces to leave Barqa for Majdal. Tragically, they were bombed while in their tents, leaving him alone for the rest of his short life.

This is just a glimpse into my family’s history. Can you imagine the stories of the 35,000 children who have lost one or both parents due to the ongoing genocide in Gaza? What about the more than 12,000 children who encountered death before they even understood the meaning of life?

Though they belong to different generations, the trauma remains the same because it stems from one occupation.

I conclude my story with a somber reminder: the statistics are real, yet they fail to encapsulate the human realities behind them—real lives shattered and childhoods forever altered by conflict. In sharing my journey, I hope to illuminate the voices and experiences of those who have lived through similar horrors, reminding us all of the resilience of the human spirit amid unimaginable adversity.

Written by Randa Aldawoudi,  Content marketing and business development consultant

On Discovery and Discomfort – a Finnish Jew’s Perspective on Israel & Palestine

While suffering under Soviet persecution, Jews were also carrying the traumas of the Holocaust. Many had relatives who had been taken to concentration camps or disappeared. When the possibility of a Jewish homeland in Israel arose, it’s no wonder so many seized it. That’s what my relatives did, too. Israel gave them hope for the future and gave them back their pride and sense of self-worth.

As a child visiting Israel, it felt like stepping into the future. As early as the 90s, playgrounds were like adventure parks, toys were fancier, and shopping malls glittered. I remember a mall where you could ice skate indoors in the middle of summer—I’m not sure if that memory is accurate, but that’s how it felt.

That futuristic atmosphere was mixed with an exciting sense of history. The Old City of Jerusalem felt like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. Orthodox Jews, Christians, and Muslims filled the narrow streets, and I could imagine myself traveling thousands of years back in time.

Just a few weeks ago, I learned that my friend from Gaza has never been to the Old City because Palestinian youth aren’t allowed permits to go there. Only the elderly can apply for special permits, but getting one is a long process, if even possible.

I also remember the guns from those trips. Young people serving in the army patrolled public places with assault rifles on their backs next to the beautiful shopping streets. They were keeping us safe. Meanwhile, while I was diving off the coast of Eilat, Israel was using white phosphorus in my friend’s hometown in Gaza.

I remember that sometimes our trips to Israel were canceled because of the security situation, or if we did go, the atmosphere could be tense due to the threat of rocket fire. But you got used to it quickly. Once, a bus exploded near my relatives’ home in Jerusalem, killing dozens of Jews. I remember how a fragment from another explosion flew into my relative’s room. She’s about my age and survived by sheer luck. I don’t recall thinking much about it as a child because a child’s mind processes what it can.

Car trips were interesting because different cities and regions were side by side. Sometimes, we’d stop in a Palestinian town to buy spices. I also remember the countless military checkpoints along the roads. As Jews, we were waved through with friendly gestures, but I saw through the window how the car ahead of us was stopped at the checkpoint – it was an “Arab” car, I was told. I remember feeling an odd sense of excitement as a child: it was nice to feel like I belonged to the accepted group.

My friend’s mother in Gaza was diagnosed with cancer after years of living under oppression and bombing. She couldn’t get cancer treatment there and had to seek care in Jordan. At the checkpoints, young Israeli soldiers humiliated and punished this cancer-stricken woman. She was a mother of four and a highly respected teacher and school manager in her community. To Israel, she was at the bottom of the hierarchy. My friend’s mother died due to complications from a surgical error and inadequate care alone in Jerusalem. Meanwhile, I heard in Israel how their hospitals also treated “Arabs.”

At one point, I even considered moving to Israel. Tel Aviv is an incredible city: vibrant, with beautiful beach, old but modern, full of life and job opportunities in international startups – as long as you’re Jewish. The only shadow over this paradise is the open-air prison of Gaza, just an hour’s drive away, home to two million Palestinians.

On my last trip, I remember a hotel near the Old City of Jerusalem. We didn’t stay there, but it stuck with me. My relative told me how Palestinians worked in the basement, Israeli Arabs on the middle floors, then the Mizrahi Jews from the Middle East and North Africa, and higher up were European Jews in the rooftop bar. I never returned there.