They say that silence is complicity. But what about the silence that stretches across oceans, that hums beneath headlines, that cloaks itself in diplomacy and geopolitical nuance? What about the silence that echoes while 14,000 babies in Gaza face death within days, not from bombs – but from starvation, dehydration, and abandonment?

This is the warning issued by the United Nations. Not an exaggeration. Not rhetoric. A desperate plea from those on the ground. And still, most of the world scrolls on, shrugs, changes the channel.

We’ve been told it’s complicated. That there are layers of history and religion to consider. That war is messy. That Hamas is to blame. That Israel is defending itself. That aid is trying – really trying – to get through. And yet, the babies are still dying.

No complexity in the world justifies this. No god sanctions the starvation of infants. No ancient text grants permission to bomb hospitals and blockade water. And no military campaign – no matter how righteous its cause claims to be – can explain away the bodies of newborns buried in rubble.

This is not a war. This is a catastrophic moral failure dressed in the language of national security and religious entitlement.

At Smart Healthy Women, we know the power of life. We've nursed children, comforted them through fevers, whispered lullabies in the dark. We’ve watched over fragile breath, knowing how precious, how sacred, how entirely defenseless the body of a baby is.

To now be asked to accept their death – as political collateral, as necessary sacrifice – is a violence beyond comprehension.

We are not speaking from a place of partisanship. This is not about being pro-Palestine or pro-Israel. It is about being pro-child. Pro-compassion. Pro-humanity. It is about refusing to let a single child’s life become disposable in a world that so easily turns the other cheek.

We are told this is about religion – as if God demands suffering. But this is not the divine. This is the weaponisation of a one-eyed god, one who claims to be only light while casting his shadow upon the earth in silence and blood. This is not the Goddess, who holds both light and dark, birth and death, rage and mercy. She does not deny the shadow. She walks with it. She does not mask violence as virtue. She does not call conquest holy. The Goddess we remember is not a god of blockades and bombs. She is the pulse of life itself, bleeding with the wounded, screaming with the mothers, rising in every voice that refuses to forget.

This is a lullaby not for sleep, but for awakening. A mourning song for the world’s conscience. Because if we allow this – if we look away while babies die – we lose something vital in ourselves. Something we may never get back.

So we choose to witness. To speak. To act. Even if our voices shake. Even if our reach feels small.

To the babies of Gaza: we see you.
We love you.
We will not let them forget.

What If We Simply Said: No More?

Imagine a world where war was no longer profitable.
Where bombs gathered dust in forgotten bunkers,
and generals found their medals meaningless.
Where politicians who whispered war were met not with applause,
but with the silence of a people who had finally had enough.

What if the engines of conflict stalled – not from treaties,
but because the people of the world simply stood up and said:

“No more.
Not in our name.
Not with our money.
Not with our sons and daughters.
Not while babies starve, and mothers scream,
and elders die waiting for water.”

What if the arms dealers looked around and found no buyers?
What if propaganda lost its grip – because we stopped believing
that anyone's child is worth less than another’s?

What if we stopped needing enemies at all?

A world like that begins not with policy or power.
It begins with refusal.
It begins with everyday people saying:

“We see through you.
We choose peace.
We choose life.
We choose each other.”

This isn’t utopia. It’s revolution through empathy.
It’s an uprising of the soul.
And it’s already starting, in whispers, in protests, in poetry,
in conversations like this.

The war machine depends on our apathy.
But what if, instead of apathy,
it was met with a wall of awakened hearts?

Then power would shift.
And war, finally, would become obsolete.