Those who had the misfortune of growing up in a war zone require no explanation. War is hell, it is true, but for children, it is something else entirely: a confusing, disorienting fate that defies comprehension.

 

There are children who live only briefly, experiencing whatever life manages to offer them: the love of parents, the camaraderie of siblings, the fragile joys and inevitable hardships of existence.

 

There are over 20,000 children in this category who have been killed in Gaza over the span of roughly two years, according to figures released by the Gaza Health Ministry and repeatedly cited by United Nations agencies. Some were born and killed within the same short timeframe.

 

Others remain buried beneath the rubble of the destroyed Strip. According to humanitarian and forensic experts cited by the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), thousands of bodies are still missing under collapsed buildings, with recovery efforts hindered by the scale of destruction and lack of equipment. In some cases, extreme heat, fire, and the use of heavy explosive weaponry have rendered identification nearly impossible, meaning that many of these children may never be properly accounted for, let alone mourned at a grave.

 

These children will not have graves to be visited. And if they do, many will have no living parents left to pray for them. But we will always do.

 

And then, there are those who are wounded and maimed—tens of thousands of them. Visiting Amro, the wounded son of a relative who perished along with his entire family in Gaza, I witnessed one of the most heartbreaking sights one could possibly endure: the wounded and maimed children of Gaza in a Turkish hospital.

 

There were a few teenagers, many without limbs. Hospital staff had adorned them with the beloved Palestinian keffiyeh. Those who could flashed the victory sign, and those who had no arms raised what remained of their limbs, as if to tell every wandering visitor that they stand for something deep and unyielding, that their losses were not in vain.

 

But then there were the little ones, who experienced trauma without fully comprehending even the magnitude of their tragedy. They stared in confusion at everyone—the unfamiliar faces, the incomprehensible languages spoken around them, the empty walls.

 

My nephew kept speaking of his parents, who were meant to visit him any day. They were both gone, along with his only brother.

 

I was in kindergarten in a refugee camp in Gaza when I witnessed my first military raid. The target was our school. I still recall our teachers pushing back against soldiers as they forced their way into the building. I remember them being physically assaulted, screaming at us to run toward the orchard.

 

We began running while holding hands with one another. We were all wearing matching red outfits with stickers on our faces—none of us had any understanding of who these men were or why they were hurting the people who cared for us.

 

If the killing of children in Gaza, Lebanon, Syria, Iran, and across the Middle East is normalized, then it will become just another accepted feature of war. And since “war is hell,” we will all move on, accepting that our children—anywhere in the world—now stand on the front lines of victimhood whenever it suits the calculations of war.

 

I have thought about this often in recent years—during the devastation in Gaza, the wars across the region, and the killing of students at a school in the Iranian city of Minab.

 

Minab is not just an Iranian tragedy; it is our collective loss. Evidence from international investigations indicates that the strike on the Shajareh Tayyebeh school was not an accident, but the result of deliberate targeting within a broader military campaign.

 

Amnesty International concluded that the school building was directly struck with guided weapons. Investigations by major outlets, alongside US military sources, suggest the site had been placed on a target list despite being a functioning school. The result was devastating: children killed, families shattered, and yet another atrocity absorbed into the relentless rhythm of war.

 

The US administration may deny intent as often as it wishes. But we know that the killing of children is not incidental. It is evidenced in Gaza, where the scale alone defies any claim of accident. As UNICEF Executive Director Catherine Russell stated, “Gaza has become a graveyard for thousands of children.” That reality alone should end any debate.

 

I could pause here to tell you that all children are precious, that all lives are sacred, and that international law is unequivocal on this matter. I could invoke the Fourth Geneva Convention, which states that “protected persons (…) shall at all times be humanely treated,” and that violence against civilians is strictly prohibited.

 

Yes, I could do all of that. But I fear it would make little difference.

 

Everything we have said and done has failed Gaza, Lebanon, Syria and much of our region. International law, once seen as a shield, has become little more than a point of departure for conversations about its ineffectiveness and hypocrisy.

 

Speaking to Palestinians about international law often generates not reassurance, but frustration and anger. So I will spare you that, too.

 

Instead, I want to make a call to the world.

 

A call on behalf of Amro, and the many others from our family who were killed, and the thousands more who perished; a call on behalf of the frightened children of the Flowers Kindergarten in my old refugee camp in Gaza: please, do not allow them to normalize the killing of children.

 

Do not settle for indifference, or mere concern, or even moral outrage that is never followed by action.

 

Ramzy Baroud is a journalist, author and the Editor of The Palestine Chronicle. He is the author of six books. His latest, ‘Before the Flood,’ was published by Seven Stories Press. His other books include ‘Our Vision for Liberation’, ‘My Father was a Freedom Fighter’ and ‘The Last Earth’. Baroud is a Non-resident Senior Research Fellow at the Center for Islam and Global Affairs (CIGA)