“‘Will There Be a Generation Beyond the Siege in 2025?’

That wish stayed with me for many years under siege. And even now, when I write about those days, I find it impossible to truly imagine myself outside that suffocating reality. Writing about life under siege is nothing like writing about life beyond it. Imagine, for instance, a child born in Gaza in 2006 – the year Israel imposed its siege on the Strip. Today, that child would be 18 years old, having lived their entire life surrounded, confined on all sides. 

When we speak of a siege, we mustn’t limit our understanding to closed borders, red signs forbidding entry, or soldiers armed at locked gates. A siege is also repetition – the endless cycle of reliving the same days, moments, thoughts, and dreams over and over again. That child grew up repeating everything, much like I did before leaving Gaza.

Eleen, my eight-year-old niece, was born into the siege, never knowing a life without it. She endured wars and heard sounds no child in this world should ever hear, until she, too, died in the siege. Her angelic body was torn to shreds.

This reality isn’t far-fetched. In Gaza, over half the population are children who live under constant anxiety. They have grown up amidst the sound of rockets and airstrikes, with scarce access to food, water, medical care, and education. They have grown up in an enclosed space, a place no child in the world could fathom. No playgrounds to play in, no opportunities to travel, explore, or learn.

Even mistakes come at a price. The “right” thing to do is to repeat each day: walk the same streets, visit the same corner shop, see the same faces, and go to bed not knowing what the morning might bring – or if you’ll even wake up. 

The new generation in Gaza has never known what life truly means. They’ve never learned how to make decisions because choices simply do not exist. Every aspect of their lives is controlled, and the endless wars have etched deep darkness into their minds. These children have become prisoners of time itself, living only because time moves forward, with no other reason to sustain them. To a child in Gaza, life is nothing but a coincidence.

Then came October 7 – a catastrophe of unimaginable scale. The machinery of war targeted everything, especially the generation that was born, raised, and lived entirely under siege. Israeli warplanes showed no mercy to Gaza’s children, killing more than 20,000, leaving 15,000 missing, and rendering another 20,000 orphans without fathers or mothers.

The rest of the children were displaced, seeking refuge in cold tents along the seashore, facing the biting cold and grappling with the complete erasure of their future and dreams. They ask: What did we do to deserve this? Why are we burdened with existential questions far beyond our years – questions we cannot even answer? 

This isn’t just about numbers and statistics from international humanitarian organizations or human rights reports outlining the scale of Gaza’s tragedy. It is about the excruciating pain we live with every single day. I experienced this pain firsthand in the most devastating way when Israel killed my sister and her children in their home during this war. My mind drifts back to Eleen, my eight-year-old niece. She was born into the siege, never knowing a life without it. She endured wars and heard sounds no child in this world should ever hear – bombing, destruction – until she, too, died in the siege. Her angelic body was torn to shreds.

I can’t help but wonder: What dreams did Eleen have? Why wasn’t the world serious about fulfilling her dreams, just like it does for children elsewhere? Why hasn’t anyone worked to stop this ongoing massacre against Gaza’s children, who have never experienced a single day of freedom or peace? Just imagining being a child born and dying under siege is heart-wrenching. But this is the harsh reality for over 800,000 children and youth in Gaza.

A Moral Wound for Humanity

Here in Belgium, I take my little son Ghassan, who has been deprived of seeing my family still in Gaza, to a park in the city of Ghent. He runs, plays, touches trees, and explores small insects. He digs his hands in the dirt, chases after happy little dogs, and learns what it means to say “Hallo” in Dutch. But something in my heart tempers this joy.

As I watch him grow before my eyes, I ask myself: Why can’t all the children in the world live like Ghassan? Why must the children of Gaza endure such unspeakable tragedies? Why can’t we protect the world’s children from war, hunger, cold, death, and displacement? What can we do for them? This is a profound moral wound for humanity—that millions of children live in inhumane conditions and are made victims of those who decide to go to war.

My wish for the new year is the same wish I had as a child: for Gaza’s children – and all the children of the world – to live safe, beautiful, and happy lives. Lives where they can smile, play, sing, dance, and explore the paths of a bright future. This is not just a responsibility for writers and intellectuals. It’s a collective duty for everyone – parents, teachers, communities, and decision-makers. It’s a universal, human wish: that 2025 will be a year without besieged, hungry, homeless, or suffering children.

 Let’s hope the world finally listens.

Karim Abualroos is a Palestinian writer and researcher based in Belgium, specializes in Middle Eastern affairs and the Palestinian-Israeli conflict. He holds a Master's degree in Political Science from Saint Joseph University. He has published several novels and articles in international academic journals.