July 10, 2020
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It’s Not Okay To Kill Children

It’s Not Okay To Kill Children
It’s Not Okay To Kill Children
outlookindia.com
1970-01-01T05:30:00+0530

How difficult is it really to understand that it’s not okay to kill children? Children, playing on the beach, huddled inside warm homes or those others just staying put in the surroundings that they have always called home?

How difficult is it really to understand that it is not okay to kill? Especially when many of the victims end up being non-adults who had no part to play in either your ideology or that of your opponents. Who have had no role aggravating the differences between you and your opponents, simply because they are not just about capable of taking sides, for the strife that dogs your life is not their creation at all. Is it, really rocket science? A simple thought —'Do Not Kill'— is it really hard to get?

How many protests, petitions, discussions and outraged demonstrations, would it take for the world to figure that children are not about war? They are the outcome of what you may have yourself once called love? How does one then, as a collective humanity, give these children what they don’t deserve?

Imagine a 10 year old, eagerly awaiting an evening, only wanting to wear his sports shoes for a game of football with neighbourhood friends, to be delivered a war zone reward. Imagine, a little girl, with only expectations of a promise delivered from her parents, to be awarded a bullet, a bomb or a shrapnel. Does it not shake you up?

Your needs could be more urgent than mine. Your grouse more relevant than mine. Even your cause more superior and holy to mine. Does that mean, you will blind yourself and shoot those that belong to us collectively? These are children. Look at their faces. Look at them as dead even if you didn’t have a chance to look at them with love when they were alive.

Look at their clenched fists, their blood stained baby clothes, their lifeless bodies hanging from the strange arms of an unknown rescuer, being carried away for a quiet burial. Look at that soft hair flowing in the wind, the head hanging. And then smell the stench that you have created. The stench of death and destruction.

You wish to fight for a world that you think must exist. You fight for rights that you think are yours. But to what end? You finish today what could have existed tomorrow and perhaps made your vision of the world a possibility. You finish today what you think must be finished when you know that like most other things you are not permanent either. You will go. So will this cause. So will these differences that you have magnified in your heads so much that you can’t differentiate between graves and baby burials.

Is your God really okay with what you are doing? Is your soul (do you have one left?) in sync with your actions? Are you, really, for real?

Do you really think, on judgement day when you meet your God, he won’t be surrounded by these cherubic faces that you have lined up as body bags all across the world? Do you really think, that, that final day when you will have to answer for all that you did, your conversations won’t be punctuated by innocent laughter from these children who would laugh off every reason you offer for your actions?

There must be one child that you may have loved in your life. Just one, if not more. There might be a niece, a nephew, a son, daughter or a grandchild somewhere in the past. There must a long lost lingering image of a younger sibling that you ever cared for as your own.

Think about that gleam in the eyes, that sparkling laughter, the softness of a small hand that guides you into silly playfulness. Would it not be difficult for you to wield the gun or trigger that bomb if you ever thought of it even once?

Love has a way to heal. It need not be between two humans, communities or countries but a swimming soothing feeling of belonging. If you allowed yourself to look into the hopeful eyes of those little ones, perhaps there would be a way to solve the strife that concerns your all.

I am not a mother. But I have felt love as a mother for other people’s children who have touched my life and changed it forever. I don’t expect you to think as a mother. But for once, maybe, think of yourself as you and not a soldier of God espousing a cause. Think of you as you. And think of those many smiles that you ended midway. Of those many conversations that you didn’t allow to be completed. Think of those candy promises that were just an hour away from getting fulfilled. Just candy. And the balloons that remained hanging in the toy room, waiting to be set free in the blues skies. Just balloons. Think of what you destroyed as what never belonged to you.

Do you then, really have the right to destroy what you can’t create yourself?

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