By: Naqib Amin, MGPS ’25, LBJ School of Public Affairs, The University of Texas at Austin.
Amin was born and raised in Afghanistan, where he experienced horrific atrocities, civil wars, and airstrikes. This piece, while fictional, is intended to sympathize and illustrate the struggles of a child of war and is based on Amin’s own experiences.
World,
Sometimes, I think it’s my mother’s fault for giving birth to me in a place called an “open-air prison.” I was born in Gaza, a land where hope is a luxury we cannot afford. When I opened my eyes, I saw walls instead of open fields, heard bombs instead of lullabies, and felt fear instead of freedom.
I have no clue what the future will be. Every day, I wake up not knowing if I will see the next sunrise. I dream of playing in parks, going to school without fear, and sleeping under a peaceful sky. But here, dreams are often shattered by the harsh reality of explosions and gunfire.
I have no other place to go. This strip of land, surrounded by barriers, is all I know. The sea is close but feels like a distant dream, a boundary we cannot cross. I see the world through the bars of my confinement, wondering what lies beyond, wishing for a life I may never have.
Sometimes, I go to bed hungry. My mother sacrifices her share so that I can have a little more. She tells me stories to distract me from the gnawing pain in my stomach. I remember my mother once said I was her miracle child. She shared the story of when she was about seven months pregnant with me, attending a wedding. On her way back home, she was riding in a cart pulled by donkeys when a bomb exploded nearby.
Terrified, she suddenly felt her water break. Despite the premature labor and the traumatic circumstances, I was born. The doctors told her I would not survive for long due to my premature birth; my skull hadn’t fully developed, and my head was still soft and unsteady. She tries to make me feel strong by calling me a miracle child but I can see the worry in her eyes, the lines on her face deepening daily. She tries to be strong for me but I know she is tired.
Our home has been destroyed more than once. When we hear the airstrikes, we huddle together, praying to survive another night. But is it my mother’s fault? She gave me life and love in a place where both are constantly threatened. It’s the fault of the endless conflict, the lack of understanding, and the failure of humanity to see us as people deserving of peace and dignity.
We are children just like yours. We laugh, we cry, we dream. We long for a future where we can live freely and grow without the shadows of war looming over us.