Blood rushed through my veins, just as it floods the streets of Gaza every second of every day. My hands shook as I raised my hand to contend the droves of misinformation and hate speech being so passively thrown around in my journalism class.
“At least 8,000 children have died. The average age of civilians killed in Gaza is five years old. How could they have deserved that?” I asked, my shaking voice betraying my grief. A student in the back of the class straightened and looked at me, the gold of my Palestine pendant glimmering in his compassion-devoid irises.
“Every Palestinian is a terrorist, and they all deserve to die,” he said with a grin. My heart sank to the soles of my feet as I realized that in this class of future journalists and policymakers, I was completely and utterly alone.
