Without access to safety or stability, an entire generation is growing up in fear and uncertainty, caught in a conflict they did not choose but will bear the cost of.
I was a refugee during the Cold War, displaced by the geopolitical struggle between the U.S. and the USSR. Like millions of other children from that time, I carried the heavy weight of that war. My family fled Afghanistan, and in the process, I lost years of regular schooling—years that were supposed to form the foundation of my childhood.
That experience planted the seeds for my work as a psychotherapist, where I now spend my days with people struggling with the trauma of war, displacement and the stolen years of their childhoods. The stories I hear from my clients echo the same loss I experienced—and the same loss that children in conflict zones today still endure, caught in cycles of violence that seem impossible to escape.
Like the ongoing conflict in Gaza that has unleashed a catastrophic loss of life, with children bearing the brunt of the devastation. According to a recent United Nations report, the majority of verified deaths in Gaza during the first 10 months of this relentless conflict were among children aged 5 to 9—innocent lives trapped in a nightmare beyond their comprehension. The U.N. report said 80 percent of those killed died in civilian homes and that 70 percent of them were women and children.
How often have we seen children bear burdens like this? How often has the world looked at their suffering, felt sorrow for a fleeting moment, and then turned away?
Children have always carried the weight of wars they did not start. And trauma never limits itself to those who directly experience it—it spreads, echoing across generations and shaping entire communities. War, injustice and exploitation do not just destroy buildings or bodies; they dismantle childhoods, shatter futures and create wounds that outlast any conflict. Every time we fail to address this suffering, we shift its burden to the most vulnerable among us—forcing children to carry the weight of a world that refuses to change.
We saw heartbreaking images of children in Gaza suffering, like the heartbreaking video of a little girl in Gaza, dragging herself barefoot for two miles. Her 3-year-old sister clung to her back, her small leg broken and limp.
“I have to get us somewhere safe,” the girl whispered, her steps heavy with exhaustion. She had been walking through destroyed streets, desperately trying to reach a displacement camp in Bureij to seek treatment for her sister. Watching her, I couldn’t help but think: How often have we seen children bear burdens like this? How often has the world looked at their suffering, felt sorrow for a fleeting moment, and then turned away?
We’ve seen this story before—in other places, in other wars. In October 1945, a boy stood in the ruins of Nagasaki, his brother’s lifeless body tied to his back. The atomic bomb had turned his city into ash, leaving nothing but destruction—and children left to carry the weight of loss alone. The boy waited at the crematory, his face expressionless. His image became a symbol of the unimaginable cost of war, but symbols cannot rebuild shattered lives.
In 1972, another child’s suffering earned the photographer a Pulitzer prize: a 9-year-old girl running naked through the streets of Trảng Bàng, South Vietnam, her skin burning from napalm. Her screams were captured in a photograph that became a global emblem of the horrors of war. And yet, despite the shock and sorrow it evoked, the bombs kept falling. The violence did not stop.
And then, there is the haunting photo of a starving Sudanese child collapsed on the ground, a vulture lurking behind the child, waiting. The image, taken by Kevin Carter during the 1993 famine, went on to win the Pulitzer Prize, forcing the world to confront the stark reality of suffering in Africa. But the story didn’t end with the photo. Overwhelmed by the emotional burden of witnessing such devastation—and by public criticism about not intervening—Carter tragically took his own life months later. The photograph remains a powerful reminder of both the suffering we document and the cost of looking away.
Even earlier, during the Holocaust, children stood in line at Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen, clutching their mothers’ hands—hands they would soon be ripped away from forever. Hunger gnawed at their small bodies, and cold fear settled into their bones. Those who survived carried the scars of abandonment and terror throughout their lives—proof that even when the war ends, the trauma remains. Their stories are still told today as warnings of what unchecked hatred can do.
We see the same stories playing out in other places today. In Afghanistan, children are born into decades-long cycles of war. Boys grow up in madrassas, taught to wield violence instead of dreams, while girls—banned from school—are sold into marriage to keep their families alive. Their childhoods are wrenched away, lost to a world that offers no space to imagine anything better.
Their childhoods are wrenched away, lost to a world that offers no space to imagine anything better.
Then there is the war in Sudan, which has created a humanitarian crisis where children bear the heaviest burden. Many face displacement, malnutrition and disease as essential services like schools and hospitals collapse around them. Separated from their families or recruited as child soldiers, these children are not only denied an education but are also forced to witness and endure unimaginable violence. The trauma of war shapes their future, leaving scars that may last a lifetime. Without access to safety or stability, an entire generation is growing up in fear and uncertainty, caught in a conflict they did not choose but will bear the cost of.
The weight of this suffering has always fallen on children. And just as the world once turned away from the children of Auschwitz, Nagasaki and Trảng Bàng, it turns away from children in Gaza, Afghanistan, Sudan and many other places today. We revisit those historical images as if they were warnings, as if by remembering them we could prevent history from repeating itself. But we haven’t learned. The children of today are still carrying the same burdens—only the names and places have changed.
It is easy to feel powerless in the face of these tragedies. I am no expert in foreign policy or politics, but I know that war does not happen by accident. War is sustained by systems like the military-industrial complex (MIC), which profits from conflict and thrives on the belief that peace is impossible. Military spending dominates economies around the world, making conflict not just a political issue but an economic one. The MIC ensures that war is treated as inevitable—even necessary.
Military spending drives global economies, turning war into an economic strategy, not just a political one. But war continues only because we’ve been conditioned to believe our voices don’t matter. They do.
But war is not inevitable. It persists because systems like the military-industrial complex profit from conflict and make peace seem impossible. Military spending drives global economies, turning war into an economic strategy, not just a political one. But war continues only because we’ve been conditioned to believe our voices don’t matter. They do. Awareness is the first step, but real change demands action fueled by compassion.
Healing, whether personal or global, begins by asking: What must change to stop the pain? We all have a role—whether as voters, policymakers, activists, educators or community members—to dismantle the systems that sustain war.
Use your vote to resist war’s grip. Research candidates and demand accountability from officials. Support only those committed to peace, share petitions, raise awareness and amplify efforts to challenge military spending. Push for policies that shift military budgets toward healthcare, education and mental health. Expose war profiteering and promote diplomacy over intervention. Protest, organize and persist—movements succeed because people refuse to give up.
There’s more we can do in our homes and communities: Teach children about peace. Hold community discussions and support war-affected communities. Demand your city divest from defense contractors and invest in social services instead. Advocacy starts with what we do in our homes and neighborhoods.
The children suffering today—in Gaza, Afghanistan, Sudan and beyond—cannot wait. History shows us the cost of silence and the price of every wasted moment.
It will only end if we act—not later, but now.
