The story of our century is being written in the cries of children. Their faces, fragile and luminous, should have been mirrors of innocence and hope. Instead, in Gaza, they have become shadows of despair — lifeless bodies pulled from rubble, hollow-eyed survivors clutching at memories too heavy for their years, and the sound of parents weeping into dust.
Humanitarian agencies call Gaza a graveyard for children. Bombs have torn apart their schools, their playgrounds, their dreams. Thousands have been buried, thousands more lie broken in hospital corridors, and starvation creeps like a silent assassin, cutting off food, water, and medicine from the smallest and most defenseless among us.
Yet Gaza is not the first chapter in this book of sorrows. Syria’s children once gasped under clouds of war. In Yemen, famine and disease swallowed countless young lives. In Sudan, Congo, and Ukraine, the little ones still perish in silence, unseen by the wider world. But Gaza is different — it is happening before our very eyes. Every image, every funeral, every skeletal child denied bread is broadcast to us in real time. And still, the suffering continues.
The United States, a nation that presents itself as guardian of freedom and champion of children’s rights, finds itself at the center of this tragedy. It sends not only billions in weapons and aid, but also diplomatic cover to shield Israel from accountability. With every veto of a ceasefire, with every shipment of bombs, the war stretches on — and it is children who pay the price. One cannot help but ask: is America the protector of children it claims to be, or the executive sponsor of their destruction?
Beneath the politics lies something far simpler, far more profound: a child’s right to live. To smile. To run barefoot on a street. To sleep without fear. Strip away the flags and borders, and what remains is humanity’s oldest and truest obligation — to shelter its young.
Michael Jackson’s song once echoed across the world: “We are the world, we are the children, we are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving.” It was not just a melody, but a plea, reminding us that the suffering of a single child diminishes us all, and the protection of every child strengthens the very soul of humanity.
Confucius warned us long ago: “To see what is right and not do it is the want of courage.” The children of Gaza test our courage not in words, but in deeds.
And Nelson Mandela, whose voice rose from the struggle against oppression, left us this truth: “There can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than the way in which it treats its children.”
If the world turns its back on Gaza’s children, then it is not only their future that dies beneath the rubble — it is our own soul that slips quietly into the grave beside them. And so the question hangs in the air, aching and unanswered: how many more children must be buried, starved, or silenced before humanity decides that “never again” truly means never again?