I was five years old when I entered Maghazi Library for the first time. My parents had just registered me at the nearby kindergarten, especially since he was sending his pupils to the library for regular visits. They believed in the transformative power of books and wanted me to have access to a large collection as early as possible.
The Maghazi Library was not just a building; it was a portal to a world without borders. I remember feeling a sense of dread when I crossed his wooden door. It was as if I had stepped into a different realm, where every corner whispered secrets and promised adventures.
Although small in size, the library felt endless to my young eyes. The walls were lined with dark wooden shelves, filled with books of all shapes and sizes. In the middle of the room was a comfortable yellow-and-green sofa, surrounded by a simple rug where we, the children, would gather.
I still vividly remember our teacher asking us to sit around her on the mat and open a picture book. I was fascinated by his pictures and letters, even though I still couldn't read them.
Trips to the Maghazi Library would instill in me a love for books that had a profound impact on my life. Books became more than a source of entertainment or learning; they nourished my soul and mind, shaping my identity and personality.
This love turned to pain when libraries across the Gaza Strip were destroyed, one after another, over the past 400 days. According to the United Nations, 13 public libraries were damaged or destroyed in Gaza. No institution could estimate the destruction of the other libraries – those that are either part of cultural institutions or educational institutions or are private organizations – that were also deleted.
Among them is the Al-Aqsa University library – one of the largest in the Gaza Strip. Seeing the pictures the books burning in the library was heartbreaking. It felt like a fire burning my own heart. The library of my own university, the Islamic University of Gaza, where I spent many hours reading and studying, is no more.
The Edward Said Library – the first English library in Gaza, created after Israel's 2014 war on Gaza, which also destroyed libraries – also gone. That library was founded by private individuals, who donated their own books and worked against all odds to bring in new ones, as Israel often blocked the formal delivery of books into the Strip. Their efforts reflect the Palestinian love for books and the effort to share knowledge and educate communities.
The attacks on Gaza's libraries are aimed not only at the buildings themselves, but at the very essence of what Gaza represents. They are part of the effort to erase our history and prevent future generations from being educated and aware of their own identity and rights. The decline of Gaza's libraries also aims to destroy the strong spirit of learning among Palestinians.
The love for education and knowledge runs deep within Palestinian culture. Reading and learning have been valued across generations, not only as ways to acquire wisdom but as symbols of resilience and a connection to history.
Books have always been seen as objects of high value. Although the cost and Israeli restrictions often limited access to books, the respect for them was universal, cutting across socio-economic boundaries. Even families with limited resources prioritized education and storytelling, passing on a great appreciation of literature to their children.
More than 400 days of extreme poverty, hunger and suffering have killed some of this respect for books.
It pains me to say that books are now used by many Palestinians as fuel to cook fires or stay warm, as wood and gas have become too expensive. This is our broken reality: survival comes at the cost of cultural and intellectual heritage.
But all hope is not lost. Efforts continue to preserve and protect what remains of Gaza's cultural heritage.
The Maghazi Library – the book heaven of my youth – is still standing. The building is still intact and with local efforts, its books have been preserved.
I had a chance to visit him recently. It was a very emotional experience, as I had not visited for many years. When I entered the library, I felt like I was returning to my childhood. I imagined “little Shadd” running between the shelves, full of curiosity and a desire to find everything.
I could almost hear the echoes of the laughter of my kindergarten classmates and feel the warmth of the times we spent there together. The memory of the library is not only in the walls, but in every person who visits it, in every hand that travels through a book, and in every eye immersed in the words of a story. The Maghazi Library, to me, is not just a library; it is part of my identity, of that little girl who learned that imagination can be a refuge and that reading can be a resistance.
The profession focuses on our minds and bodies, but it does not understand that ideas cannot die. The value of books and libraries, the knowledge they carry, and the identities they help to shape is undeniable. No matter how much they try to erase our history, they cannot silence the ideas, the culture, and the truth that is within us.
Amidst the devastation, I hope that when the genocide ends, Gaza's libraries will rise from the ashes. These havens of knowledge and culture can be rebuilt and stand again as beacons of resilience.
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.
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