When tragedy strikes close to home—when children are killed in our towns, our schools—our grief is rightfully loud. Headlines flash, vigils are held, tears are shared across screens. It feels like the world stops.
And yet, when children are killed elsewhere—in Gaza, in Palestine—the noise quiets. Their deaths too often vanish into politics, into debates, into distance. Why do their lives seem less valued? Is it because it’s not our backyard? Because their suffering has been normalized, written off as inevitable?
We are walking contradictions. We mourn the loss of children here while standing complicit, directly or indirectly, in the deaths of children there. We call one tragedy unthinkable and another unavoidable.
But it is the same grief. The same innocence stolen. The same human heartbeat.
Pause, for a moment, and ask yourself: What if it were my child? And then—what if I am contributing to the silence that allows someone else’s child to be lost?
Because in truth—there is no “other people’s children.” They are all ours.
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