Powerless

The scream of a child is a terrible thing. It rends the air, raw, inexplicable, a rebuke to our carelessness, our powerlessness, our imperfection. It is the sound of innocence defiled, of a shocking, untimely realisation that the world is not a haven, not a paradise waiting to be explored by pudgy fingers, saucer-like eyes and stubby, stumbling, seeking legs. How then to explain Gaza? As any mother knows, one scream will bring you running, your heart pounding, your hands shaking. You scoop your child into your arms, and promise, promise that everything will be alright. "Mummy's here, Mummy's here."
But what if you couldn't.
I have a two-year-old, a beautiful bundle of golden curls, pool-like eyes and boundless enthusiasm for a world that is still a playground of infinite possibilities. When she cries in the night, tormented by dreads that are as yet nameless, formless, perhaps childhood's premonitions of a harsher reality, I rush to her side, I cradle, I croon, I reassure, I vow. I could not imagine not doing this. I could not imagine not being able to do this. How then to explain Gaza?
I can't do anything about the images on my television screen, I feel I should. Surely, it cannot be right just to sit here, aghast, tears welling in front of pictures of terrified children with eyes full of "why", or covered in bloody bandages, or screaming with a pain that cannot be soothed because there are no medical supplies? The parents' grief is unbearable. The children's pain unimaginable. The screams unconscionable. The hope of an end intangible and too late now for more than 300 children. Children with infectious giggles, eyes like windows on a perfect soul, cheeks made for kissing, heads full of fantasies, dreams, barely born hopes. Children like my two-year-old or my four-year-old. Children too young to understand why.
When I am older, will my daughters-old ask me, 'What did you do Mummy?'?
I won't have an answer and I feel ashamed.