From the Shadow of Peace: A Palestinian’s Journey from the West Bank to the World

I am a young Palestinian, born and raised in the West Bank. To outsiders, this place might seem like just another name on a political map or a headline in the news. But for me, it was my whole world — a place full of questions. The West Bank wasn’t just a location; it was an open-ended riddle written on the walls of my heart before it ever appeared in my schoolbooks.

In school, the map of historic Palestine hung proudly. Our teachers drew it by hand, their lines slightly crooked but full of certainty — an effort to carve memory before it could be erased. We recited the names of cities like sacred verses: Akka, Haifa, Jaffa, Jerusalem, Gaza. The map was whole. We didn’t see green lines or separations. Palestine was one. But the reality was something else entirely.

I grew up in a land surrounded by concrete checkpoints, barbed wire, heavily armed soldiers, and a massive wall. Even the air felt like it had to pass through inspection. And I began to ask: Why do we call our home the “West Bank”? The bank of what? A river? A sea? Are we just an edge? Why do we need a permit to visit a city 10 kilometers away? Who drew these lines? Who had the power to break a land into pieces?

As I grew older, the weight of these questions became heavier. I didn’t learn about occupation from books — I saw it in the eyes of mothers mourning their sons, in the screams of prisoners, in the fear of children awakened by midnight raids. I learned politics from standing in long lines at checkpoints, from the soldiers’ stares, from the heat of the sun while waiting under a sign that read: “Security Inspection.”

I often heard the world say it wants “peace” for us. But I wondered: Has anyone ever asked us what we want? Or was our image already drawn — guilty by default? Why does the Palestinian always appear in media as angry, resistant, extreme? Why are we never seen as human beings who love, write poetry, and dream like everyone else?

From a young age, I understood that the image imposed on us was not necessarily the truth. So I decided to see for myself. To experience rather than be told. I signed up for a dialogue program that brings together Palestinians and Israelis. I won’t lie —I hesitated. There was confusion, fear, and the burden of being accused of betrayal or “normalization.” But my human curiosity, and my deep desire to understand and be understood, pushed me forward.

We were told to gather at Damascus Gate — one of the most sensitive and symbolic places in Jerusalem. I woke up early, showered, and carefully picked my clothes. I packed my bag: my notebook, laptop, a few clothes, some documents, and snacks my mother insisted I bring. I hugged my parents goodbye, saw the worry in their eyes, and heard their cautious prayers.

On my way to Jerusalem, a thousand thoughts ran through my mind: Would they accept me? Would I regret this? Would I be safe? I arrived at Damascus Gate after hours of travel. I walked slowly, scanning faces, searching for familiarity. I sat on the edge of the stone steps, staring at the old city walls, and waited. 

Suddenly, two policemen approached. They asked: Who are you? What are you doing here? Where are you from? What’s in your bag? I answered calmly, despite my unease. They searched my belongings and moved on. I thought it was over. But minutes later, four more officers arrived — faster, angrier, louder. They surrounded me. Yelled in Hebrew. I asked them repeatedly to speak in Arabic or English. They ignored me. Then, they drew their weapons.

In that moment, I felt my soul leaving my body. I recited the Fatiha, whispered the shahada, and prepared for the end. They searched me in a humiliating way. Turned my bag upside down. Scattered my belongings on the ground. People stared. Some backed away. I couldn’t tell if they thought I was guilty or just unfortunate. Then, they left. I stood there, shaking, trying to collect my shattered sense of self. 

I walked to the nearest bus station. I wanted to go home. But I called the organization, explained what had happened, and chose not to let fear stop me. I gathered my courage and continued the journey. 

When I reached the workshop venue, everything started to change. Over the course of the program, we had intense discussions. I cried in some sessions — not out of weakness, but because for the first time, I felt truly heard. I made friends — real friends — some of whom remain in my life to this day. We laughed, debated, disagreed, and connected without erasing each other’s truths.

Then came the 2024 war — one of the most devastating I had ever lived through. I survived under the roar of planes, in a half-destroyed city. I lost friends, neighbors, familiar faces. Some were buried. Others remain under the rubble. My heart burned. And still, somewhere inside, I clung to life.

Months later, I was accepted into an international youth dialogue program — with participants from across the Middle East. I couldn’t believe it. It was my first time leaving Palestine. First time at an airport. First flight. First time beyond the walls.

I remember saying goodbye to my mother before dawn. The stars were still out. She hugged me tightly and whispered: “Come back safely.” I didn’t fully understand the weight of those words until much later. 

On the plane, I drank coffee and looked out the window. From above, everything seemed small. The barriers, the walls, the checkpoints — invisible. That’s when I realized: peace feels closer from the sky, and impossibly far from the ground.

When we arrived, I didn’t sleep the first night. I wanted to live every moment. We sat around one table — youth from many countries. We spoke about pain, hope, and the future. For the first time, I felt we were just humans — no walls, no permits, no labels.

In my team, we started working on a project: a device to speed up the fitting of prosthetics for children affected by war. We didn’t name a nationality. We said: “A 10-year-old child who dreams of becoming a football player.” The child was a symbol. A dream.

But one participant objected. He said, “This child is from Gaza. You need to apologize.” I was stunned. I replied, “The pain of a child doesn’t carry a passport.” He didn’t accept that. A campaign against me started. I felt betrayed — once again punished for carrying peace in my hands.

But this time, my team stood by me. They defended me. They understood. They knew peace isn’t a slogan — it’s a moral decision.

Since that moment, “peace” has tasted different. It carries hope, but it also stings. It holds dreams, but also scars. I still love peace. But now, I approach it with caution — not because I reject it, but because I’ve bled for it.

Peace is no longer just a word. It’s a long, thorny road. One that only those who truly believe in humanity can walk.

That was my journey. From Damascus Gate to the clouds. From suffocation to breath. From a boy with questions to a young man with answers.

But before I end, I want to say something about peace — as I see it, as a Palestinian who has endured checkpoints, carried coffins, and still chose to love life.

Peace is not a slogan we chant. It is not a white flag we wave in fear. The peace I dream of is not forgetfulness. It is not conditional forgiveness. It is not the erasure of my identity or a demand to surrender.

The peace I seek is the ability to be fully Palestinian, without being labeled a traitor for extending a hand, or a coward for daring to hope.

Peace, for me, is the freedom to cross a street without being asked for a permit. To reach the sea without feeling like I’ve stolen a moment from history. To study, love, travel, and dream — like any other young person in this world.

Peace is the right to tell my story, as it is, without having to balance it with another just to make it “neutral.” To cry without being accused of theatrics. To laugh without being told I’ve forgotten my people’s pain.

I don’t want a peace that forces me to justify my existence. I want a peace that resembles dignity — one that allows me to live, not negotiate for life.

This is how peace looks through Palestinian eyes: Fair, balanced, honest — a peace that doesn’t distinguish between one child and another, one tear and another, one homeland and another.

Peace does not make me a traitor. Peace makes me human.