SOURCE :- THE AGE NEWS
I grew up in Minto Heights in south-west Sydney, the youngest of four kids raised by two wonderful parents. Our home sat on a bush block, the kind of place where childhood felt expansive and full of freedom. We spent our afternoons riding bikes through the neighbourhood, swimming in the backyard pool, and camping out under the stars – not because we had to, but because it was fun. The rhythm of life was school, sport and sunshine. We complained about chores and violin lessons. We pushed our vegetables around our plates. That was the extent of our hardship.
Layan Ibrahim Sahloul, 4, at Nasser hospital on Sunday with second-degree burns from an Israeli army strike on her home in Khan Yunis that killed her pregnant mother and two siblings.Credit: AP
I’ve worked in Gaza – and the contrast between my childhood and the lives of the children I see here is impossible to ignore. In Gaza, children are camping out not for fun, but for survival. Their homes are gone, destroyed by relentless bombing. Walking down the street is a risk that could cost them their lives. Food is scarce, water even scarcer. A trip to fetch either could mean a mother never comes back.
This week Israeli air strikes across Gaza killed at least 92 people, including women, children and two journalists, officials said, as Israel prepared to again ramp up its campaign in the strip.
Some children sell black-market cigarettes on the side of the road to help support their families. Others scavenge through garbage to find bits of aluminium to sell. Many are suffering from malnutrition. Some have watched their parents, siblings or best friends die in front of them. They are small, exhausted, and traumatised – but they are still just children.
This is why I do what I do. In a world full of overwhelming problems, working in humanitarian emergencies is one way I feel I can help – tangibly, immediately, meaningfully. We can’t solve every crisis overnight. But we can get food to a family that hasn’t eaten in days. We can give a child a safe place to sleep, a mother a blanket to keep her baby warm, a father some cash to buy medicine. These are small acts, but they are also powerful lifesaving ones. In those moments, we’re not offering pity – we’re offering presence, dignity, solidarity, though with entry of aid supplies into Gaza now blocked for nine weeks, the ability to offer even that is increasingly stifled.
And I think Australians understand this instinct deeply. When bushfires or floods hit back home, people show up. We donate, deliver meals, open our homes to displaced strangers. We don’t ask for perfection or even gratitude – we just help. That same spirit of compassion is what connects us to the people of Gaza, even though the crisis might feel far away.
But Gaza is a dangerous place, with at least 51,300 Palestinians killed in Gaza since this conflict began. The death toll includes over 400 humanitarian workers and first responders. That’s more humanitarian workers killed in Gaza than in any other conflict in recent memory. And many of those deaths weren’t accidental. Aid workers have been targeted – despite clearly marked vehicles and the protections of international humanitarian law. It’s terrifying. The sounds of drones, airstrikes, and gunfire never really stop. They were the background noise to our lives.
And yes, I was scared. I wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t. But I also thought: what if it were my nieces and nephews fleeing in the night, foraging for food, dodging bombs? I’d want to know someone was there for them. That someone was showing up. That someone hadn’t looked away.
Still, there were days when it was hard not to feel hopeless. There were moments of fury and despair at what the international community is allowing to unfold, and at the deep dehumanisation of Palestinians. I worry that we are becoming numb – that we see another video of a grieving mother cradling her dead child and scroll past. That we tell ourselves it’s too much, too far, too complicated. And so we turn off the news to protect our own mental health.
I understand that instinct. But we wouldn’t turn off the TV if this were happening in Queensland. And we shouldn’t turn away now, just because it’s happening in Gaza. It takes courage not to look away. It takes strength to stay outraged, to demand more, to hold governments and institutions to account.
Australian aid worker Georgia Tacey in Gaza.
What gives me hope are my Palestinian colleagues. Their resilience defies comprehension. Eighteen months ago, they were living in normal air-conditioned apartments. Now they live in tents, sometimes with more than 20 family members. They wake up after sleepless nights which are filled with explosions, and begin the daily hunt for food, water and firewood. They have no cooking gas, no medicine, and yet – they still come to work.
Some arrive on foot, others on donkey carts. They do it to make sure other people’s children get assistance. That other families survive. Their courage is not innate – it’s something they’ve built, day by day, moment by moment. They remind me that resilience isn’t something you’re born with. It’s something you choose, again and again, when the world fails to uphold the protections you are owed.
Coming home to Sydney always feels surreal. It’s beautiful, peaceful, calm. I’m grateful every time I return that we live in a country that hasn’t known war for generations. But that peace is precious – and it should never be taken for granted. My work in Gaza, Ukraine, and Iraq has taught me that peace isn’t something that just happens. It’s something you nurture, protect, and invest in.
That’s why Australia must keep showing leadership on the global stage. We must be bold in our diplomacy. We must act early, speak up often, and always stand on the side of humanity.
Because no child, anywhere, should grow up like the children I saw in Gaza.
And no one should ever feel that this is normal.
Save the Children’s Georgia Tacey has been working on the Gaza program for over 12 months, including being deployed there since November 2024.
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