The face of a child

To the Editor:

On The New York Times website is the face of a young girl in a wheelchair. She has curly brown hair pulled back neatly, and wide, dark brown eyes. She is describing how she awoke from a coma to learn that her parents were dead. Her name is Dareen al Bavaa. She is 11. She is speaking to an off-camera interviewer from a hospital in Qatar. In bed nearby is her 5-year-old brother, Kinan. They are the only survivors of a bombardment that killed 47 family members. The video cuts to an image of rubble, with a caption that reads, "They were sheltering together in an area of Gaza the Israeli military had identified as a safe zone."

Even with her words rendered in English subtitles, throughout a three-minute video Dareen's voice and face express a lively intelligence and a wide range of emotions: incredulity and sorrow at the loss of her parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins; amusement as an uncle helps put on her socks; pain as a physical therapist gently manipulates her legs; tearful outrage as she demands, "I would like to understand why they do this to us."

Recently I watched in person, at Cleveland Heights City Hall, as a majority of city council members refused even to discuss a resolution calling for a negotiated ceasefire, the release of hostages and the provision of food and medicine to the victims of this devastation. I listened while neighbors, who I am sure love their own children more than life itself, argued for the continuation of the attacks. I heard one say, "collateral damage," referring to children and adults dead, maimed and orphaned by Israeli attacks in Gaza.

I need to believe that if each of these people could look into Dareen's face and hear her voice they would see that she is just like their own children. They would find it intolerable for even one more child to suffer as she does. If they were Jewish, like me, they would know the meaning of "Not in our name!" Those of other faiths or ethnicities would see beyond fear and indifference to our common humanity.

I need to believe these things, but I am still waiting.