Gaza’s libraries will rise for the ashes

I was five years old when I entered the Maghazi Library for the first time. My parents had just enrolled me at the nearby kindergarten, specifically because it was sending its 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 wasn’t just a building; it was a portal to a world without boundaries. I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of awe as I crossed its wooden doorway. It was as if I had stepped into a different realm, where every corner whispered secrets and promised adventures.

Though modest in size, the library felt infinite to my young eyes. The walls were lined with dark wooden shelves, filled with books of all shapes and sizes. At the centre of the room was a cozy yellow-and-green couch, 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 rug and opening up a picture book. I was enthralled with its illustrations and letters, even though I could not yet read.

The visits to the Maghazi Library would instill in me a love for books that profoundly influenced 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 into pain as libraries across the Gaza Strip were destroyed, one after the other, over the past 400 days. According to the United Nations, 13 public libraries have been damaged or destroyed in Gaza. No institution has been able to estimate the destruction of the other libraries – those that are either part of cultural centres or educational institutions or are private entities – that have also been obliterated.

Among them is the library of Al-Aqsa University – one of the largest in the Gaza Strip. Seeing the images of books burning in the library was heartbreaking. It felt like fire burning my own heart. The library of my own university, the Islamic University of Gaza, where I had spent countless hours reading and studying, is also no more.

The Edward Said Library – the first English-language library in Gaza, created in the aftermath of the 2014 Israeli war on Gaza, which also destroyed libraries – is also gone. That library was established by private individuals, who donated their own books and worked against all odds to import new ones, as Israel would often block formal deliveries of books into the Strip. Their efforts reflect Palestinian love for books and drive to share knowledge and educate communities.

The attacks on Gaza’s libraries are targeting not just the buildings themselves, but the very essence of what Gaza represents. They are part of the effort to erase our history and prevent future generations from becoming educated and aware of their own identity and rights. The decimation of Gaza’s libraries is also aimed at destroying the strong spirit of learning among Palestinians.

The love for education and knowledge runs deep within the Palestinian culture. Reading and learning are cherished across generations, not just as means to acquire wisdom but as symbols of resilience and connection to history.

Books have always been seen as objects of high value. While the cost and Israel’s restrictions often limited access to books, the respect for them was universal, cutting across socioeconomic boundaries. Even families with limited resources prioritised education and storytelling, passing down a profound appreciation for literature to their children.

More than 400 days of severe deprivation, starvation, and suffering have managed to kill some of this respect for books.

It pains me to say that books are now used by many Palestinians as fuel for fires to cook or stay warm, given that wood and gas have become prohibitively expensive. This is our heartbreaking reality: survival comes at the cost of cultural and intellectual heritage.

But not all hope is lost. There are still efforts to preserve and safeguard what little remains of Gaza’s cultural heritage.

The Maghazi Library – the book heaven of my childhood – still stands. The building remains intact and with local efforts, its books have been preserved.

I recently had the opportunity to visit it. It was an emotionally overwhelming 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 Shahd” running between the shelves, filled with curiosity and a desire to discover everything.

I could almost hear the echoes of the laughter of my kindergarten classmates and feel the warmth of the moments we spent there together. The memory of the library is not only in its walls, but in everyone who vsited it, in every hand that flipped through a book, and every eye that immersed itself 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 resistance.

The occupation is targeting our minds and our bodies, but it does not realise that ideas cannot die. The value of books and libraries, the knowledge they carry, and the identities they help shape are indestructible. No matter how much they try to erase our history, they cannot silence the ideas, the culture, and the truth that live within us.

Amid the devastation, I have hope that, when the genocide ends, the libraries of Gaza will rise from the ashes. These sanctuaries of knowledge and culture can be rebuilt and stand again as beacons of resilience.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

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