I find myself holding a question.
One I cannot answer.
And yet, it won’t let me go.
Why must so many children die in war?
They are not soldiers.
They do not choose sides.
They are not the makers of conflict.
And yet, they are the first to suffer… and often, the last to be remembered.
They die under rubble.
They bleed in makeshift hospitals.
They are silenced; by hunger, by fear, by weapons that know no mercy.
Their dreams end before they’ve had the chance to begin.
And this is not only true in one place.
But there is a place… a name… that won’t leave me:
Gaza.
Gaza, where so many children have died.
Where childhood has been bombed out of existence.
Where a lullaby might be a siren.
Where a safe place may simply mean a place less likely to be hit.
How is it that in this world
A world of so much beauty, so much capacity, so much knowledge
We still let this happen?
But even in the wreckage…
Even in the dust and despair…
There are lights.
There are doctors operating by flashlight.
Parents shielding their children with their own bodies.
Teachers rebuilding schools again and again.
Aid workers crossing borders.
People risking their lives simply to care.
And us, what of us?
We can’t all go.
But we can stay present.
We can bear witness.
We can grieve aloud, in a world that too often goes numb.
We can support those who serve on the front lines of mercy.
We can speak, donate, gather, remember.
This reflection… is not an answer.
It is a beginning.
A small act of turning toward what breaks our hearts
Not to be crushed by it,
But to let it awaken us.
Let this silence be for the children.
For their lives, their names, their never told stories.
And for the ones still breathing, still waiting, still hoping
May we not look away.