Today, my toddler woke up; wanted tummy; ate cereal; watched Go Diego Go; played with his cars; ran all around the house to avoid being dressed and washed; dodged his hairbrush; ran out of the house and straight up the tree in front; climbed down reluctantly; took his Mr Men umbrella and began walking towards the high street; returned home a few minutes later to get his buggy; put a leaf in it and ran back with it down the street; backed up and went over every single puddle on his way pretending he was a tractor; ate part of his salmon sandwich; went to a playgroup; shouted ‘I’m here’ upon entry; sang nursery rhymes at the top of his lungs; played some more – with cars of course; ate 4 biscuits and drank squash; finished the rest of his salmon sandwich; demanded chocolate when passing a cafe; waved at passing cars; ran all the way back home singing little red tractor…
In the three hours that I watched him, kissed and hugged him, and savoured every moment, one child – beloved just like him – died in Gaza as a result of the Israeli assault.
And in the next three hours whilst he painted; drilled the walls with his toy drill; drove his scooter up and down the living room; watched some Fireman Sam; ate some more; and had an afternoon nap, yet another child died.
And then another.
One every three hours.
And they dare to say it is not a war crime.