The hunger in Gaza is one of those global tragedies that roar like storms and demand the world’s attention.
Somewhere right now, a child is too weak to cry. Somewhere, a mother is holding her baby and counting the breaths left because there is no milk, no bread, no way to keep life going. Somewhere, a father feels the sharp edge of helplessness, unable to provide the most basic human need: food. This is happening in real time, in our lifetime, on our watch.
And yet, for many of us, life goes on. We wake up, scroll through our phones, sip our coffees. We might read a headline or two. We might whisper a prayer. But then we move on – it is, perhaps understandably, easier to do than carry the weight of such a reality. The human ability to normalise suffering can be scary.
Many of us have become experts at looking away from this ongoing catastrophe. We have mastered the art of detachment. A photo of a starving child might spark outrage for a moment, but outrage fades. Hunger does not. This is not just about Gaza. It is about who we are. It is about what happens to us when we allow something like this to unfold.
We talk about humanity as if it were a permanent state. But humanity is not guaranteed. It is something we practise and choose every single day. And right now, as children die for lack of food, too many of us are choosing not to see.
Hunger is not just the absence of food; it is the collapse of everything we think makes us human – dignity, compassion, care. And yet, we have the power to prevent it.
One day, our grandchildren will ask us about this time. They will ask how, in an age of abundance, when there was enough food in the world for everyone, did people still die of hunger. They will ask what the rest of the world did. And what will we say? Deep down, we all know the truth: we could have done more. Many of us could have cared more.
This is not about guilt. This is about responsibility – the kind that comes with being human. It is easier to feel powerless when faced with suffering on this scale. This isn’t to say that many aren’t already doing it. But more of us need to. Every act matters. Every voice matters. If you can speak, speak. If you can raise awareness, do it. If all you can do is refuse to look away, then start there because change begins when we stop pretending that we can’t see.
Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if we treated every life as if it were our own. If the child starving in Gaza were your child. If the mother holding her baby were your sister. If the father who feels helpless were your friend. Would that change what you do today? Would it make you pause before scrolling past the next headline? Would it make you act?
We live in a world that teaches us to protect ourselves from pain, to shield our hearts, to look away because caring too much might hurt. But what if the real danger is not in feeling too much, but in feeling too little? What if the real risk is losing what makes us human – our ability to care?
When we allow people to starve in silence, something dies in us too. It is not just their humanity at stake; it is ours. Because humanity is not measured by our inventions or our intelligence. It is measured by how we respond to the weakest, the most vulnerable, the ones who have nothing left.
So, let us not look away. Let us not let this become just another headline, another statistic, another story that fades as quickly as it came. These lives matter as does our humanity.
Gaza is starving. And the question that should ask is simple: what can we do about it? The answer to that question will define not just this moment, but who we are.
