On the second night of Hanukkah, Monday December 15th, Debate for Peace had a book reading celebration for “The Write Path II: Hope”. The Write Path II is now the second book published as an initiative of the Writers Matter project founded by Professor Bob Vogel, which has given a voice to students and teachers from all over Israel. The celebration was supported by the Bosch Alumni Network, and hosted at America Hub Israel in Jerusalem.
The event included candlelighting on a special Hanukkiah prepared at the Hub’s 3D printing center, followed by readings of poems, short stories and personal narratives by Jewish Israeli and Palestinian teens and teachers, a young writer from Bosnia-Herzegovina, young female writers in Gaza. The guests, who came from all over Israel, along with many other countries who joined via zoom, enjoyed a powerful and inspiring evening that brought light and hope through the spoken and written word. Congratulations to all of the writers, readers, and contributors to this wonderful initiative!
Debate for Peace participated in Yale Model UN Dubai, the third annual MUN conference hosted in Dubai by the Yale International Relations Association, as part of their global series of Model UN conferences. Students dealt with topics ranging from disrupting transnational organized crime’s financing to women’s healthcare access to expanding the historical House of Wisdom of Abbasid Iraq, and the maritime conflict between China and Vietnam in the International Court of Justice.
The delegation consisted of seven students from six schools around Israel: Shaked from Wizo Hadassim, Itamar from Atid Raziel, Sameer from Nimer Hussain School Shfaram, Noa from Dror Educational Campus, Ethan and Itamar from Kfar Hayarok high school, and Rula from the Terra Santa school, and the Ort Hilmie Shafie MUN club. In addition to the conference activities, the delegation also toured Dubai Creek by sea, and visited the Shindagha historical and ethnographic museum.
After three intense days of challenging multilateral diplomacy, speeches, negotiations and resolution writing, the delegation returned with the experiences of competing in Model UN at a global level. They also left a positive impression on their chairs and fellow delegates. Congratulations to all of the members of the delegation, and in particular to Ethan Neumann and Itamar Harel, for winning Best Position Paper and Best Delegate respectively in the World Health Organization.
This piece is by Rula, a writer based in the old city of Akko
In another life, my dear, I hate that saying, we are just hoping But somehow it’s giving up We just say…. Maybe in another life we will be together Why can’t it be now? Maybe in another life, we will be parents They say as they’re losing hope and giving up trying to be See you in another lifetime She says as she is taking her last breath He says I WILL LOVE U IN EVERY LIFETIME, See you in another lifetime As they’re breaking up Maybe in another life I would have been PRETTIER, SMARTER, SKINNIER We say in desperation to be something we are not Maybe in another life, we will not be from a broken home They say as their parents fight for custody in court
Maybe is hope. Another life we just say we hope Life a lifetime of someone living that could not be replaced Hoping is a feeling of wishing and hoping for something to happen
Life is a rollercoaster of ups and downs Hoping for our another lifetime to be perfect Everything we hoped for to come true Is it giving up???
I don’t know how and what Should I lose hope HOPE HOPE HOPE
Maybe in another life it will be him Why can’t it be him now? In another lifetime, i will get the schoolership Why can’t I get it now? Work harder, smarter in another life i would be Why not work harder now
In another life another life another life Hopes dreams wishes that do come true Is hoping bad ? Is it giving up? Will it happen ? Is there even another life? Will everything we hope for come true In another life my dear ……
Emily is a Junior in high school who splits her time between the Jewish city of Netanya and the Arab town of Nazareth. This piece is titled “Reflections”
As little kids, the world promised us a safe future, as if they could guarantee us one, maybe in the long run.
As a teenager, all I witnessed was a world divided into two parts: One for ones who hold sovereignty and strive for ruthlessness, and the other is an audience with crossed legs, eyes wide, jaw dropped with zero actions.
The world treated the conflict as a piece of art, the blood its artists had on their hands was just a red paint, the kind of piece people visit the gallery to see once a year, or once a decade. “More replicas” is what the gallery wanted to create.
We got used to the bomb alerts and rockets flying above our heads became our routine like it’s something we ought to normalise. Was it all a sacrifice?
They call them hostages, we call them innocent lives trapped in a nightmare they never signed up for. They call it genocide, we call it erasing history and the spirits of its ancestors from their land. The kind of history that no propoganda will prohibit us to carry until the light no longer enters our eyes, until the last breath our lungs will hold on to.
Lack of peace leads to lack of lives. But the world wants to put the theme of peace in the largest of billboards on one condition: that they define it in their own way. We want peace, but the next day on one side there is death and grief and on the other there is fear and sounds of bombs here and there, everywhere. How many masks should a person put on to have the urge to say that there is peace when the word is not used for its meaning in the first place?
Speeches here and there, that get a round of applouse so loud we forget the sound, that sound of bombs and crying. Of traumas and scars that will never heal.
Today the little kids shall arise from the bottom of our souls to remind the world of the false promises we have fallen for.
Mousa’s “I wonder” piece explores the questions of a child living through war.
A two-year-old says, “I wonder”
The taste of fresh water.
A two-year-old child from the war tells me, “I wonder”
The taste of oranges.
A two-year-old who lived only two years in a camp in Gaza during the war says, “I wonder”
I wonder”
The shape of the roof of the house, says a two-year-old child, “On top of the forgotten wall next to the tattered tent.”
I wonder” The shape of the shoelace, says the two-year-old child.
I wonder” The shape of the red fruit with the green head, someone tells him it’s a strawberry that used to be grown in Gaza.
I wonder” The shape of the 80-page book lying on the school window in Gaza.
I wonder” The small and large hands of the clock in the bite of this time in Gaza.
I wonder” The taste of the red chicken seasoning on the worn-out table.
From the Barbie toy, and the spaceship toy that I’ve only seen on my phone. Oh, I forgot to wonder before that.
I wonder” The sound of calm that I haven’t heard in the past two years. What does it sound like?
I wonder at the shapes of the white seagulls. Oh, I forgot that the sea has become far beyond the limits of the clean water filling station.
I wonder at the two years that have passed here. They have seemed like a thousand years, or even more.
The two-year-old finished his pen and said, “I don’t know how many more years I will remain without wondering,” to recover from his state of astonishment.
This piece is from Noor in Gaza, and part of the Writers Matter collection “Light through the Darkness.
In a time when darkness multiplies around us, light remains the undying hope,
the vision that guides us when paths blur into one another.
And because light is not merely something seen, but a soul that is illuminated, I share with you this text that touches the essence of words and draws from their glow the meaning of life.
Among the most beautiful things ever said about light is the saying of God Almighty in His noble Book:
“Light upon light. Allah guides His light whom He wills” (Quran 24:35)
It is a light that transcends the limits of sight, reaching into insight, with which God guides whom He wills of His servants to the paths of tranquility, purity, and guidance.
And how could light not carry such majesty, when our Lord said in the decisive revelation:
“Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The example of His light is like a niche within which is a lamp…”
A divine light, not perceived by our senses, but seen by souls attached to truth and guided by it through the maze of life.
Light… a word that holds in its letters the secret of life, the music of serenity, and the fragrance of hope.
Light is nothing but a beginning to every dark ending, a promise at the heart of pain that nothing lasts forever—not even darkness.
Light is not just the sunlight. It is the spark of hope in a chest worn by sorrow, the smile of a heart that chose to shine for others even as it faded within.
It is the sound of a prayer in the depths of night, reaching the sky with confidence, returning as light into the heart—even without words.
I’ve learned that light cannot be bought, nor borrowed. It is born within us when we believe that every darkness has an exit, and every trial holds a space for relief.
Light lives in sincere intention, in a gentle word, in a beautiful coincidence that changes the course of a gloomy day.
Sometimes, light is a person who passes through our lives like a breeze—not staying long, but leaving an unforgettable trace.
And sometimes, the light is within us, though we do not know it. We light the way for others with our presence, our patience, with a story that no one has heard.
Light is what pierces your heart at the height of darkness.
It may come in the form of a prayer, a kind word from a stranger, or a smile you weren’t expecting.
Light isn’t always a beam… Sometimes it’s a person, a moment, a dream.
In moments of brokenness, you need nothing more than “a small light.”
Be the light—in your words, in your patience, in your kindness. Even if the whole world is darkness, it’s enough to be a flame for someone, and to carry within you a light that never fades.
Let light be your path—not only what you see, but what you see with.
And be among the people of light… those who mend hearts with words, and grant peace through silence.
Light cannot be extinguished when it comes from within.
Storms cannot erase it. Winds cannot put it out. For it is not just light—it is a creed, a soul, a purity.
And so, light remains the most enduring legacy in pure hearts, and the unforgettable message in times of confusion.
Let us be among those who carry the light in their eyes and hearts—not to be seen, but to illuminate.
For true light is the one that never dies, because it was born from within.
In this piece from the Gaza Writers Matter group, Farah asks, “Do you really know me?”
Do you really know me? You may think you know me. You see my calm features and my smile. You think my life is going well. But you do not know that behind that smile lies a story burdened with pain and sorrow, and a heart full of scars — that those calm features conceal a noise inside that never quiets.
The war left me facing a heavy reality I did not choose. Two years were enough to change everything in my life. In them, I lost more than I ever imagined a person could lose in an entire lifetime.
I lost my sense of safety, which I once believed was a basic right for every human being. I lost my passion, my dreams, my home. Each dark night took a piece of me away. I lost the joy of graduation.
I had dreamed of graduating amid celebrations and applause, of throwing my cap into a blue sky. I do not know why that sky was replaced with one of gray, and the ground beneath me turned into a heap of ashes. Smoke erased the outlines of any tomorrow I had imagined.
You do not truly know me, because you have never felt the weight of the emptiness left behind as my dreams fell one after another, nor the bitterness of the nights I cried until my tears ran dry.
But I am the girl who masters the art of pretending to be strong, of hiding her pain even as she stands on the edge of breaking.
I am the girl who, though the war stole so much from her, did not let it steal her will. The one who defies the circumstances that try to break her, still searching in the darkness for a glimmer of light.
So do you know me now? I am not a stranger — I am you, if you were in my place. I am the other face of humanity, the one that must be seen and heard, not ignored.
And if you do not feel pain for me, then know that you do not know me yet.
The following piece is by Mariam in Gaza and is from the “Light Through the Darkness” collection.
I am a young mother… My eyes are tired, pale… (from the severity of pain, fear, sleeplessness, and crying). I have two children… Two wonderful, beautiful children… I possess my embrace for them; I own nothing else for them but my arms. I carry for them patience like a mountain and an unending prayer. I cook for them over the fire of memories, and I warm them with stories of a better tomorrow, God willing. Every night, I whisper to them that the light is coming, even if it is from afar. I stay up next to them in the dim light when they are weary, planting seeds of light in their souls and reviving hope in their lives with the simplest of means. I am a mother… I am the Light. I create a life for my children out of nothing, a life born of an undying hope. My children are the tomorrow, the hope, the light for a promising and better future.
I am Gaza… Darkness in Gaza manifests in the power outages, forcing us to spend our nights in the faint light of a cell phone—the only light I possess. And also in the siege, where there is no food, no medicine, and not the slightest basic necessity for a dignified life in Gaza. As for travel, I cannot speak of it because it is now far, far away. It is also in the eyes of my children; they see pain, hunger, and death more than they see their toys. Despite all this darkness, I say… I am a mother… I am the Light… I am Gaza. The light comes from my heart, my heart that knows how to love despite all the pains, screams, and sighs we live through.
I am the Palestinian teacher… I teach my children that education is the light, and it is the strongest weapon against darkness. A question lingers in my mind… Is it possible for the threads of hope to intertwine with the threads of sorrow and pain? After much thought, I say yes, this happens when we write stories of invincible patience. At that moment, hope embraces pain. In this time, I find refuge in my books, and in my letters, I find everything that makes me forget my sorrows.
But… Sometimes despair creeps into my life, and the lights of my heart go out. So, I rise with strength, determination, and persistence to ignite a new light, to draw a new smile, and to build a better tomorrow. Darkness is not an end, but a beginning to test the light within us. And all of this stems from my hope in God Almighty. My hope in God Almighty is the light that illuminates my path, my heart, and my entire life. It is the beam that brightens the blackness of night and the shadows. My certainty is that after every hardship comes relief… And after every difficulty comes ease… For I do not despair of the Spirit of God.
This second piece from Gaza is by Hour, and part of the “Light throught the Darkness” collection. For more details on the Writers Matter project, please see here, here and here.
In a world filled with pain and unanswered questions, there is always a ray of light breaking through the darkness, giving us the strength to carry on.
From Gaza—under siege, among ruins—I write these words to speak of the light that never dies within us, no matter how heavy the darkness becomes.
I do not write from a quiet place, nor do I live a normal life.
I write from a place where everything seems ready to collapse: walls, schools, dreams—even childhood itself.
But despite the darkness that surrounds us, there is a small light that lives deep inside me—a light that ignites my heart when sorrow tries to extinguish it.
That light is not something seen with the eyes. It is faith that lives within us, the hope we cling to when all doors close, the smile we draw even while in pain.
It is those moments when we help each other, when we comfort the tired, when we give from the little we have, and keep walking as if nothing hurts.
“Light through the darkness” is when you open your book during a power outage and decide to keep studying because you believe in your future.
It’s when you console a mother who lost her child and whisper, “He’s safe in heaven now.”
It’s when you rise from the rubble, put the broken pieces back together, and smile because you survived.
Gaza taught me that light doesn’t always come from outside—it grows inside.
In the heart that refuses to give up, in the eyes that have seen too much yet still seek beauty, in the call to prayer during an airstrike, in the smell of bread despite the shortage, and in the laughter of a child who only knows he wants to live.
Darkness is not the end—it is a test of how strong our light can be.
The road may be long, but we will walk it, carrying our light in our hands, lighting our steps, and sharing its glow with others.
From Gaza, from the heart of pain, we write, we dream, and we love—because we believe true light cannot be defeated, even by the deepest darkness.
Debate for Peace 