By Carin A.

In West Bank, April, 2026

To be a child, here, now, is to hear and feel the massive impact of the missile striking a nearby city, and to say with confidence that you are not afraid, and then to wet your bed every night, for the first time in years.

It is to find one hundred ways to play in the long hours you must stay inside. To chase the rubber ball through the living room, in your mind a vast soccer field, to score the winning goal.

To be a child, here, now, is to see the Israeli settlers drag your father out of the car when he is driving you to school, and then to watch as they beat him. It is to live knowing that at any moment, they can come.

To be a child, here, now, is to run out to the balcony when a missile is coming, shouting with glee, “Sarookh, sarookh!” and then to watch the rocket tracing a fiery trail through the night sky, arcing downwards until it explodes with a thunderclap that shakes you to your bones.

It is to feel the love of your grandfather, as he picks you up, smiling. It is to see the web of your family surround you, laughing and talking across the long dinner table.

It is to be woken by the sound of the army breaking down your door, and then to see them come into your bedroom, blindfold and zip tie you, and take you on the floor of their jeep to the detention center, where they beat and interrogate you. It is to remember your parents, standing in front of the house, helpless to protect you.

To be a child, here, now, is to jump up and down in excitement when you see your sister, proudly playing the drums in the colorful Scouts parade that makes its way down the narrow street, lined with ancient stone.

It is to have your preschool class interrupted by the sounds of men shouting, and shooting, as the Israeli military suddenly raids your refugee camp.

To be a child, here, now, is to rejoice as you run to play with your cousins in the playground you can visit only once a month—an indoor playground, because the few outside risk the rockets.

It is to look out of the car window to see the face of your uncle, as he is humiliated at the checkpoint. It is to see the assault rifles strapped across the shoulders of the soldiers, and to know that you must sit very, very still.

To be a child, here, now, is to hear the sirens begin in the nearby Israeli settlement, and to know that those children are being whisked away to safety. To be a child, here, now, is to know that there is no safety for you.

Carin A. is a Quaker Montessori educator who has worked with children in many communities across the globe. She holds an MA in Education, and has worked internationally as a teacher mentor and consultant. She is a board member of Healing to Hope, a US-based nonprofit that works to support the psycho-social well-being of Palestinian children in partnership with its Bethlehem-based sister organization, Anar. An occasional contributor to Skipping Stones and an advocate for nonviolence and children’s safety sent it to us for publication on her behalf. We share this writing with you on behalf of children caught in terrible wars and conflicts not of their own making.