On October 13th, as part of the CPT Palestine team, we attempted to enter Tel Rumeida in Al-Khalil/Hebron—a restricted area surrounded by numerous checkpoints. For years, entry to this area has been challenging, especially for those not residing there.
We were almost certain we wouldn’t be permitted entry. The Israeli soldiers at the checkpoint possess the ID numbers of all residents and require identification to allow passage, and even with an ID, the checkpoint can close unexpectedly. Also, anyone entering risks being harassed, attacked, or detained, all at the discretion of the soldiers.
As we went through the checkpoint, my colleagues answered the soldiers’ repeated questions about our purpose there. In a quiet moment, I noticed a small, sheer, white-dotted sock lying on the ground. I discreetly took a photo of it, wondering about the story behind it, though I knew I would never get answers.
What did that little girl face as she passed this checkpoint? Was she returning from a school event, a wedding, or a friend’s house? Whatever it was, it was something joyful. But that joy likely ended before she made it through this dark, heavily monitored place. A place where soldiers—surrounded by cameras and insulated from outside eyes—exercise complete control.
Why must a child endure this? That small girl, like many other Palestinian children, has likely lived her whole life within this reality of checkpoints. Does she know what life is like without them?
Childhood in Palestine is fraught with fear and hardship. According to Defence for Children International (DCI) Palestine, in 2024, there were 86 child fatalities in the West Bank, 85 Palestinian children held in administrative detention, and 242 child “security” detainees. These numbers continue to climb.
Every day, hundreds of Palestinian children pass through checkpoints, experiencing this as “normal” life. Foreigners sometimes ask why children smile or shake hands with soldiers. How do you explain to children that this isn’t normal, that these soldiers aren’t here to protect them? These children know no other reality.
How do we explain to a child that their neighbourhood is under constant surveillance? That they can’t hold a Palestinian flag in their community? Or that those who check, harass, or detain them protect another group living nearby, speaking a different language?
One story I can never forget is that of six-year-old Hind Rajab from Gaza. A UK-based forensic investigation found that 335 bullets from an Israeli tank struck Hind’s car, killing her. The investigation concluded it was “not possible” that the tank operators didn’t see children inside. Her final moments haunt me—the terror of being alone, surrounded by family who could no longer respond or comfort her before more bullets ended her life.
What “childhood” is the world talking about? Palestinian children face struggles and traumas no child should know.
I’m exhausted by the countless international agreements promising “children’s rights.” The words are everywhere, yet they hold no weight in our reality. Comparing these lofty declarations to life here is heartbreaking.
