Children of Israel, Children of Gaza: Whose Are They?

War too often teaches us to blur distinctions, to collapse entire peoples into a single label. But children are not labels. They are not soldiers, not militants, not representatives of governments or armed groups. Not every child in Palestine has something to do with Hamas — in fact, no child ever does. And not every child in Israel is a soldier or a settler. They are simply children — human beings who deserve to laugh, to dream, and to grow up free of fear.

Yet when wars erupt, it is innocence that pays the highest price. Headlines reduce children to numbers, politics casts them as collateral damage, and voices of anger brand them as enemies. But strip away the noise, and the truth is simple: a child in Gaza and a child in Tel Aviv both hold the same small hands, both cry with the same voice, both are worthy of the same protection.

This series is not about defending political sides or military strategies. It is about asking the question that pierces through all rhetoric: Whose children are they? The only moral answer is that they are ours — humanity’s children. To deny that is to deny our own humanity.

Through the imagined voices of survivors, leaders, poets, and symbolic figures, we will journey into the hardest truths: how trauma shapes memory, how silence and noise battle for the world’s conscience, how revenge masquerades as justice, and how one child’s face can outweigh a thousand statistics.

These conversations may be imagined, but the reality they speak to is urgent and undeniable. If we can dare to see every child not as “theirs,” but as ours, we may finally break the cycle that devours generation after generation.

Topic 1: Whose Children Are They? Innocence Beyond Borders

Malala Yousafzai (moderator):
When we look at the images from Gaza and Israel, we see children — sometimes lifeless, sometimes crying, sometimes holding each other in terror. They did not choose this war, yet they pay the highest price. I want us to ask together: when children are caught in war, whose children are they?

Question 1 — What does it mean when children are blamed for wars they didn’t choose?

Dr. Izzeldin Abuelaish:
When my daughters were killed in Gaza, it was not because they chose to fight. They were innocent girls in their bedroom, laughing. To equate children with Hamas is to erase their humanity. Children are not militants, not enemies — they are tomorrow’s hope. To blame them is to poison our shared future.

Elie Wiesel:
During the Holocaust, Jewish children were not spared because they were seen as “future enemies.” That cruelty is repeated whenever we deny innocence. No Palestinian child is Hamas. No Israeli child is a soldier. To blame them for the sins of adults is a betrayal of memory and of humanity.

Robi Damelin:
My son was killed by a Palestinian sniper. Yet I refuse to say every Palestinian child is my enemy. To do so would be to condemn innocence itself. When children are blamed, it is we — the adults — who have failed.

A Child’s Voice (symbolic):
I don’t know what Hamas is. I don’t know what soldiers are. I only know I want to laugh and play. But they say I am guilty because of where I was born. How can that be true?

Question 2 — Are Israeli and Palestinian children more alike in their suffering than adults admit?

Elie Wiesel:
Suffering does not ask for a passport. A child crying in Sderot or in Gaza City has the same sound of fear. But adults build walls of ideology that make us deaf to this truth. It is easier to say, “My suffering is unique.” It is harder, but more honest, to say, “Your pain is my pain.”

Robi Damelin:
I have met Palestinian mothers who lost their sons. We do not speak the same language, but when we cry together, we understand each other perfectly. In those tears, our children are the same. Yes, the suffering is alike — but the adults are too afraid to admit it, because to see the other’s child as your own threatens the walls we have built to justify violence.

Dr. Izzeldin Abuelaish:
In Gaza, I hear Israeli parents’ cries after October 7. I recognize their grief because it is mine too. The problem is not that children are different; it is that adults refuse to accept their sameness. We should build a future where a child in Tel Aviv and a child in Gaza both wake up without fear.

A Child’s Voice (symbolic):
When I see pictures of Israeli children, I do not hate them. They like candy, they like to laugh, they have dreams. Maybe we would be friends if we could meet. But the grown-ups say we are enemies. I think they are wrong.

Question 3 — How would humanity treat war differently if every child was seen as our own?

Robi Damelin:
If every parent saw another’s child as their own, there would be no justification left for war. Imagine politicians forced to look into the eyes of the children they put at risk — not as statistics, but as their own sons and daughters. We would choose peace much faster.

Dr. Izzeldin Abuelaish:
In my medical work, I have treated Israeli children and Palestinian children alike. When I hold them in my hands, I do not ask where they come from. I only ask how to heal them. If we lived with that spirit — healing before division — war would have no fertile ground.

Elie Wiesel:
The commandment “Thou shalt not kill” is universal, but it becomes most sacred when applied to children. If we could truly believe that every child — Arab, Jewish, Christian, Muslim — belongs to humanity as a whole, war would lose its moral disguise. We would not accept it.

A Child’s Voice (symbolic):
If you saw me as your child, you would protect me. You would stop the bombs. You would make sure I have food and a bed. I would not be a stranger. I would be yours.

Closing Reflection — Malala Yousafzai:

Thank you, all of you. What we have heard tonight is that children cannot be divided by borders, by religion, or by politics. They are united by innocence. And when that innocence is destroyed, it is not only a tragedy for one family or one nation — it is a loss for all humanity.

We often ask: “Whose children are these?” The answer must be: they are ours. Every single one. If we truly believed this, wars would end, because no parent would allow their own child to be sacrificed for politics.

Let us hold that thought: every child matters, every child belongs to us, and none of them should ever be blamed for a war they did not choose.

Topic 2: Memory and Trauma — October 7 and the Days After

Edith Eger (moderator):
Trauma is not only what happens to us; it is what lives inside us after the event. October 7 was a day of horror that scarred Israeli society, and the weeks after brought devastation to Gaza on a scale the world cannot ignore. Tonight I want us to ask: how do we carry trauma? And can we remember in a way that heals rather than destroys?

Question 1 — Can remembering October 7 coexist with empathy for Gaza’s suffering?

Amos Oz:
Yes, it must. To remember only one side’s pain is to live with one eye shut. Israelis cannot forget the cruelty of October 7 — the killings, the kidnappings — but if we stop there, we become blind to the pain of our neighbors. True remembrance demands we see both. To remember rightly is not to compete in suffering, but to recognize suffering as universal.

Hanan Ashrawi:
For Palestinians, memory is a constant companion. We remember displacement, bombings, checkpoints. And yet, I can grieve for the lives lost on October 7. It does not diminish my own people’s suffering to recognize another’s. Empathy does not subtract — it multiplies. The tragedy is that political leaders weaponize memory to justify further violence, instead of using it to build bridges.

Bessel van der Kolk:
In trauma studies, we know that unintegrated memory hardens into rage. If Israelis remember only their trauma and Palestinians only theirs, the cycle will repeat endlessly. Healing begins when both communities allow space for the other’s story. This does not erase their own pain — it allows them to metabolize it.

Israeli Survivor (symbolic):
I was at the festival on October 7. I lost friends. I still hear the screams. But when I see images of Gaza, children buried under rubble, mothers crying, I know that pain too. My empathy for them doesn’t erase my grief; it makes me human.

Question 2 — How does trauma harden hearts, and how can it be healed?

Bessel van der Kolk:
Trauma traps the body in a loop of survival. Hypervigilance, anger, nightmares — these are not choices, they are symptoms. A traumatized society begins to see the world through the lens of danger. Healing requires safety, but also the ability to tell our story and be heard. Without that, the trauma calcifies into hate.

Amos Oz:
I have often said: stories are the key. When people tell their stories, they discover complexity. When they remain silent, or when their story is reduced to propaganda, their pain curdles into vengeance. Literature, dialogue, shared memory — these are tools of healing.

Israeli Survivor (symbolic):
Trauma hardens because people tell us, “Be strong, don’t cry.” But inside, we are breaking. I think healing comes when we can cry openly, and someone listens. That is why I am here, to speak, because silence would destroy me.

Hanan Ashrawi:
For Palestinians, trauma is not a single event — it is ongoing. Living under occupation, bombardment, displacement. When trauma is continuous, hearts grow bitter, because hope feels stolen. Healing requires justice, not only therapy. Without dignity, wounds cannot close.

Question 3 — Is there a way to hold both griefs without erasing either?

Amos Oz:
Yes, but it requires courage. To say “your grief is as real as mine” feels like betrayal to some. But I believe it is the opposite: it is the highest loyalty to humanity. Two truths can coexist. Two griefs can share the same ground.

Israeli Survivor (symbolic):
Sometimes people tell me, “How can you care about Gaza after what happened to you?” But my grief does not disappear when I show compassion. It grows larger, yes — but it also grows deeper. To hold both griefs is heavy, but it is the only way to live without hatred.

Hanan Ashrawi:
It is not easy. Palestinians often feel that empathy for Israelis erases our decades of pain. But we must rise above that fear. Justice will not come from denying each other’s grief. Justice will come from recognizing both. The alternative is endless war.

Bessel van der Kolk:
In neuroscience, we know the brain can hold multiple truths. The limbic system is wired for survival, but the prefrontal cortex can say, “This is painful, and that is painful too.” It is not about erasure. It is about integration. This is how trauma becomes wisdom instead of vengeance.

Closing Reflection — Edith Eger:

What I hear tonight is the language of survivors. Survivors know that pain is real, but they also know that pain is not destiny. To remember October 7 is necessary, but if that memory becomes a wall, it will imprison us. To see Gaza’s suffering is necessary, but if that suffering becomes fuel for more hate, it will destroy us.

The challenge is not to choose whose grief is valid. The challenge is to say: all grief is valid, all suffering deserves compassion. Healing does not mean forgetting. It means remembering differently — not as a weapon, but as a bridge.

I know, because I lived it. I carried Auschwitz inside me for decades. Only when I chose to transform memory into a call for life did I begin to heal. Israelis and Palestinians must do the same. Remember, yes — but remember to heal, not to hate.

Topic 3: Silence, Noise, and the Global Conscience

Desmond Tutu (moderator):
I once said, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” Yet today, the world is filled with both silence and noise. Some say nothing is being done, while others point to millions of voices shouting online. So we must ask: is the world truly silent? Or is it making noise without conscience?

Question 1 — Why do some say the world is silent, while others say it’s too noisy?

Arundhati Roy:
Because silence and noise are both illusions. Governments are silent when they should speak, and people shout when they have no real power. The result is a theater of contradictions. Silence at the top, noise at the bottom — and in between, suffering continues.

Noam Chomsky:
The so-called noise is often manufactured. Media filters shape what the public hears. Palestinians may cry out, but their voices are marginalized. Israelis may cry out, and those voices are amplified. The world is not silent — it is selective. That is more dangerous than silence, because it creates the appearance of speech while burying inconvenient truths.

Greta Thunberg:
When I protest climate change, people say I’m too loud, too disruptive. But disruption is necessary to break silence. The same applies here. People say the world is silent, because governments do little. Others say it’s noisy, because activists flood the streets and social media. Both are true — silence where it matters, noise where it’s easy.

Social Media Activist (symbolic):
On my feed, I see Gaza, Israel, hashtags, videos. It feels like the whole world is talking. But when I step outside, politicians act as if nothing has changed. Maybe that’s why people feel both silence and noise at once. Online, it’s deafening. Offline, it’s mute.

Question 2 — Does posting online equal real solidarity, or is it performative?

Noam Chomsky:
It depends. Solidarity is action, not just expression. To post online without organizing, without challenging power structures, is performance. But posts can also raise awareness, which is the seed of action. The danger lies in mistaking awareness for change.

Greta Thunberg:
Social media helped me build a global movement. So yes, it can be solidarity. But I agree with Professor Chomsky: it must not stop at hashtags. True solidarity demands sacrifice — skipping comfort, risking reputation, standing against the powerful.

Arundhati Roy:
Performative solidarity is like applause after a tragedy. It soothes the conscience but changes nothing. Real solidarity requires aligning your life with the oppressed — even when inconvenient. Social media can be a beginning, but it is never enough.

Social Media Activist (symbolic):
I’m guilty of this. I post, I share, I cry at videos. But then I go back to my coffee, my job, my normal life. I wonder if I’m helping, or just making myself feel less guilty. Still, I know silence is worse. At least posting says: I see you.

Question 3 — What would meaningful action look like beyond hashtags and uploads?

Arundhati Roy:
Meaningful action is disruption. Boycotts, strikes, resistance that forces the world to notice. Uploads are feathers in the wind; real action is weight that tips the scale.

Noam Chomsky:
It begins with education. Citizens must understand how their governments enable violence — through weapons sales, alliances, vetoes. Meaningful action is to hold those governments accountable, even when it feels hopeless.

Greta Thunberg:
Children skipped school for climate protests, and the world noticed. The same spirit can apply here: people leaving comfort to demand justice. We cannot all stop the bombs, but we can refuse to be complicit. Our silence feeds injustice; our disruption starves it.

Social Media Activist (symbolic):
For me, meaningful action might be donating, volunteering, pressuring my representatives, not just posting. Uploads can spark a fire, but fires need fuel. Maybe the test is: does your solidarity cost you something? If not, it’s not enough.

Closing Reflection — Desmond Tutu:

I have heard tonight that silence is not simply the absence of sound, and noise is not always the presence of truth. There is silence in government halls, where courage should speak. There is noise online, where courage is easy.

But the test of conscience is not whether we speak or stay quiet. It is whether our words lead to life or to death. If we post and scroll, but do not move, the children will still die. If we shout, but never challenge power, injustice will still reign.

So let us be both loud and faithful. Loud in naming injustice. Faithful in turning words into deeds. The world does not need silence, nor noise — it needs conscience.

Topic 4: Justice vs. Revenge — What Cycle Are We Feeding?

Martin Luther King Jr. (moderator):
We stand at a crossroad between justice and revenge. Revenge is a fire that consumes the avenger and the victim alike, while justice is a light that restores dignity to all. Tonight, let us ask: when blood is shed, do we answer with vengeance, or do we break the cycle with justice?

Question 1 — What’s the difference between pursuing justice and seeking revenge?

Golda Meir:
Justice is measured. It seeks safety for one’s people, accountability for crimes. Revenge is blind — it kills beyond the guilty, it spreads terror without end. Israel, too often, has been accused of revenge. I will say this: we must protect our people, but protection must not become vengeance. Otherwise, we betray our own humanity.

Mahatma Gandhi:
Revenge is born of anger; justice is born of truth. Revenge says, “You hurt me, so I will hurt you.” Justice says, “You wronged me, and now the wrong must be righted, not repeated.” A society that confuses the two will drown in endless blood.

Nelson Mandela:
In prison, I had much reason to seek revenge. But I realized that if I left Robben Island with bitterness, I would still be chained. Justice seeks freedom for all, including the oppressor who must be liberated from his hatred. Revenge only deepens chains.

War Orphan (symbolic):
When my parents were killed, people told me, “One day you will grow up and take revenge.” But revenge will not bring them back. It will only make another child like me. Justice would be if no more children lost their parents.

Question 2 — Do cycles of retaliation ever end, or do they just shift victims?

Mahatma Gandhi:
An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. Retaliation is a wheel; it turns and turns, but no one steps off. The only way to stop it is for someone to refuse to strike back. That refusal is not weakness. It is the strongest act of all.

Golda Meir:
Cycles end only when leaders choose courage over anger. Israel and Palestine mirror each other’s wounds — a bomb for a rocket, a raid for an attack. Victims change sides, but suffering remains constant. Breaking the cycle requires restraint, which is the hardest demand of leadership.

Nelson Mandela:
I know cycles can end, because I saw it in South Africa. We chose reconciliation instead of revenge. It was not perfect, but it broke the rhythm of hatred. It showed that the victim can become the teacher, guiding both sides into a new way.

War Orphan (symbolic):
For me, the cycle has not ended. It is still going. But maybe it can end if enough people say, “No more.” Not one side, but both. Otherwise, I will grow up, and another child will lose their parents because of me. That is not life. That is death passed on.

Question 3 — Who benefits when vengeance is mistaken for justice?

Golda Meir:
Politicians benefit, because revenge is easier to sell than patience. It unites people in anger, even as it leads them into disaster. Real justice is slower, harder, but far more enduring.

Mahatma Gandhi:
Arms dealers benefit. Leaders intoxicated with power benefit. The oppressed and the oppressor both lose. When vengeance masquerades as justice, only those who profit from war gain. The rest inherit sorrow.

Nelson Mandela:
I saw how revenge serves the powerful. It divides the people, keeping them weak. True justice unites. When leaders demand vengeance, ask: what are they hiding? Whose power is being protected?

War Orphan (symbolic):
When revenge is called justice, children like me lose everything. Maybe the leaders gain power, maybe the armies gain weapons. But I gain nothing. I only lose my family, my home, my childhood.

Closing Reflection — Martin Luther King Jr.:

Tonight we have heard the truth: revenge is seductive, but it is a lie. It promises closure, but delivers only more graves. Justice is harder, because it asks us to rise above our pain. But it is the only path that builds, not destroys.

The cycle of retaliation is a wheel, and it keeps turning because no one dares to step off. But history shows it can be stopped. Gandhi refused revenge. Mandela chose reconciliation. Even the voice of the orphan tells us: revenge cannot heal, but justice might.

We must ask ourselves: do we want to feed the fire, or do we want to light the lamp? The fire will consume us all. The lamp can guide us to a future where no child is sacrificed for the hatred of yesterday.

Topic 5: The Value of a Single Life: Numbers vs. Faces

Anne Frank (moderator):
When I wrote my diary, I did not think of millions. I thought of my father, my sister, the friends I missed. Yet somehow my little words came to represent countless others. So I ask tonight: when war reduces lives to numbers, what do we lose? And how do we give back faces to those erased?

Question 1 — When reports mention “thousands killed,” does it make us numb?

Albert Einstein:
Yes, it does. Statistics dull the imagination. The human brain cannot truly grasp a thousand deaths, much less ten thousand. Numbers become abstractions, but one photograph of a child, one name, one story — that pierces the heart. It is not mathematics we need, but compassion tied to individuals.

Rachel Corrie:
When I stood in Gaza, I saw faces. Children running, women hanging laundry, men telling jokes even in rubble. If you only hear “casualties,” you miss the laughter, the humanity. Numbers numb because they erase the intimacy of life.

Humanitarian Worker (symbolic):
I have written names in ledgers. At first I cried for each one. Then the list grew longer and longer, and I felt myself shutting down. To survive the work, I had to. But numbness is dangerous — it makes us forget these were mothers, sons, friends.

Yahya Hassan:
As a poet, I fought against numbers. Each poem was a name, a pulse. But the world prefers numbers. They are easier to dismiss. To write a life into words is to rebel against statistics.

Question 2 — How does seeing one face, one name, change the moral weight?

Rachel Corrie:
When you know someone’s face, you cannot dismiss their suffering. I remember children who showed me drawings of flowers and tanks. Those children are not “numbers.” When they die, the moral weight is unbearable, because you know who they were.

Humanitarian Worker (symbolic):
I once held a girl who survived a bombing. Her name was Amal, which means hope. Later, when I read reports of “25 dead,” I thought of her. She was not “one of 25.” She was Amal. Her name gave weight to every statistic.

Albert Einstein:
Names anchor us to reality. The tragedy of war is that anonymity becomes normal. To resist that is to insist: every human being carries a universe within them. One face shatters indifference.

Yahya Hassan:
That is why poetry matters. A name is a spell. To write “Ahmed,” “Leila,” “David,” “Sarah” — these are acts of resurrection against oblivion. Numbers bury; names resurrect.

Question 3 — If every victim were honored individually, would war even be possible?

Albert Einstein:
I suspect not. If leaders had to read aloud the names of every child killed before authorizing another bomb, their hands would tremble. Bureaucracy hides blood. Individual memory exposes it.

Rachel Corrie:
If we honored each life individually, wars would slow to a halt. Imagine stopping a parliament session for each child lost. Imagine soldiers knowing the names, seeing the faces of those they target. Dehumanization makes war easy; rehumanization would make it nearly impossible.

Yahya Hassan:
But here is the danger: honoring names can also be selective. Some names become symbols, while others remain forgotten. We must guard against valuing one life more than another. True humanity honors all, not just the politically convenient.

Humanitarian Worker (symbolic):
I once lit candles for 50 victims in one night. It took hours. I thought, “If the world did this for every death, war could not continue.” Yes, if every victim were honored individually, wars would collapse under the weight of remembrance.

Closing Reflection — Anne Frank:

When people read my diary, they say, “Anne, you gave us the face of one child, and through you we felt millions.” That is the power of a single life.

Numbers may numb, but faces awaken. A name, a smile, a diary entry, a poem — these remind us that every human being carries eternity within them. If we forget that, we are lost.

Perhaps wars continue because we have not yet learned to count differently. Not as “thousands dead,” but as Amal, as Rachel, as Yahya, as Albert, as Anne. Each unique, each irreplaceable.

If the world were to stop and honor every victim individually, perhaps war would end — not because peace is easy, but because forgetting would no longer be possible. And remembrance, true remembrance, is the first step toward peace.

Final Thoughts

When we strip away politics and propaganda, one truth remains: children are never guilty of the wars waged around them. No Palestinian child is Hamas. No Israeli child is the military. To confuse innocence with ideology is not only false — it is a profound betrayal of our humanity.

Revenge feeds on this confusion, turning children into symbols instead of lives, into targets instead of beings. But the voices in these conversations remind us: trauma does not erase dignity, silence does not absolve responsibility, and vengeance does not heal. If we dare to look beyond numbers and see faces, if we dare to say, this child is my child, the moral landscape changes entirely.

Justice begins where collective blame ends. It begins when we refuse to punish the innocent for the crimes of others. It begins when we insist that no child, anywhere, be sacrificed for the anger of yesterday.

The choice before us is stark: continue feeding the fire of vengeance, or light the lamp of justice. If we choose the lamp, then perhaps one day, children in Gaza and Tel Aviv will wake up to a dawn where they are no longer counted as enemies, but simply counted as children — precious, irreplaceable, and belonging to us all.

Short Bios:

Malala Yousafzai — Nobel Peace Prize laureate and global advocate for children’s rights and education, survivor of a Taliban attack, and a voice for peace.

Elie Wiesel — Holocaust survivor, Nobel Peace Prize recipient, and author of Night, he devoted his life to remembrance and preventing indifference to suffering.

Dr. Izzeldin Abuelaish — Palestinian doctor and author of I Shall Not Hate, who lost three daughters in Gaza and turned his grief into a mission for peace.

Robi Damelin — Israeli mother and activist with the Parents Circle–Families Forum, who lost her son to a sniper and now works toward reconciliation.

Bessel van der Kolk — Psychiatrist and author of The Body Keeps the Score, his research revolutionized the understanding of trauma and healing.

Amos Oz — Israeli novelist and essayist, a leading advocate for empathy and a two-state solution through literature and dialogue.

Hanan Ashrawi — Palestinian legislator, academic, and human rights advocate, long a prominent voice for Palestinian dignity and justice.

Edith Eger — Holocaust survivor, psychologist, and author of The Choice, she transformed her trauma into a message of resilience and forgiveness.

Desmond Tutu — South African archbishop and Nobel Peace Prize laureate, renowned for his role in dismantling apartheid and championing reconciliation.

Arundhati Roy — Indian author and activist, best known for The God of Small Things and her critiques of global injustice and silence in the face of oppression.

Noam Chomsky — Linguist, philosopher, and activist, one of the most influential critics of media, power, and foreign policy.

Greta Thunberg — Swedish climate activist and youth leader, her uncompromising voice on justice resonates across global movements.

Mahatma Gandhi — Father of India’s independence through nonviolent resistance, his philosophy continues to inspire struggles for justice worldwide.

Golda Meir — Prime Minister of Israel from 1969 to 1974, remembered for her leadership and controversial decisions during conflict.

Martin Luther King Jr. — American civil rights leader, Nobel laureate, and preacher of justice through nonviolence and love over hate.

Nelson Mandela — Anti-apartheid leader, first Black president of South Africa, global icon of forgiveness and reconciliation after decades in prison.

Rachel Corrie — American activist killed in Gaza, remembered for her commitment to solidarity with Palestinian civilians.

Albert Einstein — Nobel Prize–winning physicist, refugee from Nazi Germany, and outspoken advocate for human rights and global peace.

Yahya Hassan — Palestinian-Danish poet whose raw verses humanized marginalized voices and gave face to those reduced to statistics.

Anne Frank — Young Jewish diarist whose words during the Holocaust became a lasting symbol of innocence, resilience, and the power of one life.

The Child’s Voice — Represents the millions of children in conflict zones, reminding us of innocence beyond politics.

Israeli Survivor — Embodies the trauma of those who lived through October 7, torn between grief and empathy.

Social Media Activist — A symbolic participant representing online voices, balancing genuine solidarity and performative action.

War Orphan — The universal child left parentless by war, speaking of grief and the fear of repeating cycles of violence.

Humanitarian Worker — A composite of aid workers who bear witness to suffering, insisting that every statistic hides a human life.