9 year old in America vs. 9 year old in Gaza

On July 21, 2015, I was a nine-year-old on summer break. My mornings consisted of stuffing my face with Cinnamon Toast Crunch while watching either Niki and Gabi or RiceGum on YouTube. After I ate breakfast, I would read for a set amount of time because I was a part of my local library’s summer reading challenge, and winning the grand prize was the most important thing in existence to me. Looking back, it’s funny that something so small felt like the biggest thing I could possibly worry about.

Once I finished reading, even though my mom was at work, she still found a way to have me practice math problems for about an hour. Sometimes over an hour. I didn’t have to go to Kumon, but we had Kumon at home. I dreaded every problem because I found math incredibly boring, and unlike the reading challenge, there wasn’t a prize waiting for me at the end. I usually counted down the minutes until I was finally done and could go outside.

The second I finished everything I had to do, I would do what any nine-year-old loved doing: head outside. The air felt thick and sticky and carried the smell of freshly cut grass, sunscreen, and honeysuckle. Bumblebees buzzed in the trees while kids screamed and laughed at the end of the large cul-de-sac I lived on. I would ride my bike for hours, play tennis, or pretend I had amazing basketball skills like Maddie Rooney from Liv and Maddie. Sometimes I’d stay outside until I was completely exhausted from the heat.

Running back inside was always the best part. The blast of cold air from the air conditioner instantly cooled my face, and I’d collapse onto the couch with an ice-cold glass of water, feeling like I’d just escaped the hottest place on Earth. As the sun began to set, I’d end my day watching Arthur. No matter how many times I had already seen an episode, I always watched anyway. It was the perfect ending to what, at the time, felt like a normal summer day.

At nine years old, these were the moments that filled my summers. I never stopped to wonder whether every other child got to experience childhood the same way I did.

Thousands of miles away, in Gaza, present-day, another nine-year-old named Amal is spending her childhood in a completely different reality. I spoke with her mother about what life had been like for her children, and right now, they are living in a tent. Even Amal's school is in a tent. There are no desks or chairs, so all of the children sit together on the ground. With so many children and so little room, the classroom is crowded, leaving barely any space between them.

One of the hardest parts for her mother was not being able to give her children the things they asked for. Clothes. Food. Things that, to a child, should not feel like impossible requests. Her seven-year-old sister, Taj, would ask her mother for new pajamas and for meat to eat. Her mother would have to tell her no, even though she could not fully explain why. She said that she would cry when her children wished for something she could not provide. The adults understood how bad the situation was. The children just knew that they could not always have what they wanted.

Even the seasons that I associated with completely different things had become difficult for them. Summer, which to me meant riding my bike until I was exhausted and running inside to the air conditioning, brought sickness for people living in tents. Her mother described how many people were dealing with the flu and persistent coughs. There was no escaping the heat by running into a cool house or ending the day on a comfortable couch.

And when I asked what the nine-year-old girl, Amal, would want another nine-year-old living safely in the United States to know, her mother said she would talk about the famine they experienced during the war.

At nine years old, I was counting down the minutes until I could stop doing math and go outside. I worried about winning a library reading challenge. Amal is growing up knowing what it means to experience famine. I had never stopped to wonder whether every other child experienced childhood the same way I did. Now, I can't stop thinking about how different the answer could be.

If you would like to learn more about this family or support them directly, their story and updates can be found on Instagram at @amal.from_gaza and @l.yan.ahmed. Their GoFundMe, which was created to help support the family with their basic needs, can be found at https://gofund.me/c28ea9723