The Children of Gaza
Do not say they are numbers.
Do not reduce them to body counts,
statistics scrolling like credits on the end of a war no one asked for.
They had names.
They had nicknames whispered by mothers,
chalk drawings on the walls,
birthday candles they never got to blow out.
They had futures
architects of skylines that now lie in dust,
singers whose voices were buried before they broke.
And still the world watches,
flipping channels as if children are worth less than silence.
But we will not be silent.
We stand with Gaza’s children
with their laughter torn apart mid-breath,
with their soccer balls rolling through streets where tanks left scars,
with their kites still flying though the sky is heavy with drones.
Because their courage shames our cowardice.
Because their joy, even in rubble, is a revolution we cannot ignore.
Every stone they pick up is not just stone
it is testimony,
a declaration:
We were here. We are still here.
So say their names in your chest,
carry their faces in your voice,
make your stance clear:
We stand with Gaza,
with the children the world tries to erase,
with the future they still dare to dream.
And we swear this truth will outlive the lies.
This fire will outlast the bombs.
The children of Gaza will not be forgotten,
not while our mouths still know how to speak.
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