Through a series of blows, they are gradually destroying our capacity for wonder. But one thing—already quite brutal—is to no longer be able to be amazed… and quite another is to cease being moved by sensitivity, by the ache in our chests, the rage and disgust when a child is killed.
And it’s not just one. In less than two weeks, in Iran alone, 180 children have been killed by attacks from Israel and the United States. Of that number—and I’m calling children killed by bombs a "number"!—168 were girls between the ages of 7 and 12.
At the hands of the same thugs, 83 children have been confirmed dead in Lebanon since March 2, adding to the macabrely human list of another 329, also killed in that country by Israel, in just the last 28 months.
A little further south, in the Gaza Strip, international organizations confirm that more than 64,000 children have been killed or maimed by the Zionist, interventionist, and colonial entity since October 2023 alone. More than 56,000 have lost one or both parents.
This is not a novel. It is not a chronicle of the Indies found in the dust of centuries past. It is not happening in some distant galaxy. It is happening here and now, in front of television cameras and smartphones, before a world that is seeing everything—yes, seeing it all—and doing nothing.
From the Cuban perspective, it is a matter of life and death to understand and acknowledge how these acts of violence are interconnected with our realities.
Our sons and daughters are no safer, at this moment, than the sons and daughters of Iranians, Lebanese, and Palestinians. Our sons and daughters are under the crosshairs of the same planes and the same intelligence apparatuses.
Not just ours, but also those of all the people who are currently "ill-placed" in the world, so to speak.
All those living atop rare earth elements or important minerals, near strategic rivers, in geopolitically and economically vital areas: they are "surplus." All those who "have to leave" and have already said they aren't leaving—or going—anywhere: they are "surplus."
Those of us whose blood is a mix of more races than a stray dog, those of us burdened by centuries of collateral trauma, broken borders, and promises left unfulfilled by time, are not welcome either.
And it's not that we're surprised at this point—how cruel to be beyond astonishment—it's that we have to do something about our sensitivity, about the hunch in our chests, the rage and disgust when they come, once again, to kill a child. They've already come. We already know.
