My name is Zakia, which means pure, but for how long?
I am 8 years old. I am a child from the east. I was born and live a few miles from Jenin, a city in Palestine. Since my arrival on this earth thirsty for peace waiting for an improbable miracle, I grow in the middle of the sound of rifles and the explosion of rockets.
I was told that it was a holy land, the one God chose for his people, those on the other side who invade our fields and destroy our homes. Those who lament on a wall while praying before coming to eliminate my father and arrest my brothers. I do not understand why big people shoot at each other. Why soldiers killed my aunt and uncle when they left for the hospital to give birth to my little cousin.
My mother cries every day since my dad and brothers are fertilizing the cultures of Israel. She tells me that we are not terrorists but resistance fighters who fight for the land that saw them born, simply to have the right to live free at home. Only here, the others say that we are not at home. Who could explain to me because I admit that from the top of my 8 years I do not understand.
Tomorrow, the bullet of a sniper will come to shorten my earthly nightmare and mow me in full race before my tenth year. So you, on the other side of the world, reading your newspaper, you'll believe me dead while I'm pretending. Lying beside the little prince, a twig of wheat between the teeth, I will look at the stars.
How is it possible for a people to suffer so many tragedies, pains, humiliations, without the international community reacting to demand an immediate halt to this genocide, this massacre?