The sight of Israeli tanks rolling through the streets of the West Bank takes me back to my childhood, to the terrifying days of the 2002 curfew. They shut everything down, sealed off the entire city, and soon, we ran out of food at home. The only way to get something to eat was for my brother and me to run to the small neighborhood shop at the end of our street.
We thought we were clever—waiting on the balcony, watching closely. When the streets looked empty, no tanks or military vehicles in sight, we made our move, running as fast as we could. But their vehicles were like monsters, appearing out of nowhere. In that moment, we felt it was the end. There was a small cliff by the roadside, and without hesitation, I grabbed my brother’s hand, and we jumped. Our bodies were bruised, bloodied, our hearts beating in our chests, but we had escaped the monster.
We waited in silence, listening. When the streets fell quiet again, we climbed back up. I turned to my brother and asked if we should go home, but he refused. So, we ran to the shop, filling our arms with as many canned food as we could carry. The shop owner, seeing the fear in our eyes, gave us chocolate and chips—“for being brave,” he said.
The sound of those monsters from my childhood will never leave me. It is burned into my memory, impossible to erase.