Zionist Scholar:

This poem brings to mind an unfortunate reality; whether it is on one side of the border or the other, there is always a village in flames. Yet, instead of acknowledging the universal nature of suffering, we have become so embroiled in our insular perspectives. “And if you do not look because it is not your village, it is still your village”. That line stuck with me. Shouldn’t we be able to see beyond our nationality or religion and acknowledge pain and loss, regardless of where it occurs?

Hamas Scholar:

Indeed, there seems to be a call for empathy in the poem but let’s not forget who the aggressor is here. “Once in a village that is burning because a village is always somewhere burning”. This burning village represents the oppressed Palestinian territories. The Palestinian children who look at you with their “black, black eyes” are a stern reminder of Israeli atrocities. The hollow houses and the empty garden are metaphors for the lifeless body of Palestine.

Zionist Scholar:

I disagree. To me, the burning village is symbolic of the constant struggle that Israel has to undergo, defending itself from the onslaughts of Hamas, whose actions endanger the innocent lives they claim to defend. Also, the “hollow child” is not necessarily Palestinian, it represents any child who has had to witness these dreadful incidents, Jew or Arab.

Hamas Scholar:

I can’t buy that. “The houses are ruin. Nothing grows in the garden.” This clearly symbolizes the Palestinian homeland after Israeli destruction. It’s the narrative of the Palestinians being thrown out of their homes. It’s the narrative of a people under occupation.

Zionist Scholar:

This might be your interpretation, but we must remember that war takes casualties on both sides. The poem illustrates the horrifying consequences of conflicts, not necessarily indicating who caused it. The IDF also lost brave soldiers who had families, dreams, and a life to live.

Hamas Scholar:

The issue isn’t just about casualties. It’s about the right of people to live in their ancestral homeland. “Where will they — the ones who slept in this house and ate from this dirt — ?” This line tells you everything about the tragedy of the Palestinian people, driven out of their own homes by Israel. The poem clearly speaks to the Palestinian condition and experiences.

When I look at this poem, I see a reflection of the universal agony of conflict, a sentiment deeply resonant with the heartache we, in Israel, have experienced due to the ongoing hostilities with Hamas. The verse “Once in a village that is burning because a village is always somewhere burning” speaks to the sad truth that the flame of conflict is perennial, always present in some part of our world, and certainly so between us and Gaza. This burning village, it’s a universal visual, but for me, it’s twofold – it’s a metaphor and it’s a memory.

And I’m reminded, while we mourn and grieve our losses, that it’s not just an Israeli sorrow. The poem brings forth the idea that “if you do not look because it is not your village, it is still your village.” That’s a reminder that our struggle is not in isolation; the world should see the strife, understand it’s a collective human issue. Ignorance doesn’t relegate suffering to the boundaries of a map. Each life cherished, each life lost, is a blow to the world’s conscience.

“In that village is a hollow child,” the poem continues, and this speaks to the innocence that pays the price in our conflict with Hamas. The children of Gaza, they’re caught up in this, just as much as Israeli children are hiding in bomb shelters. The gaze of that hollow child, it’s one that I vehemently believe we all have a responsibility towards — whether he is “your child” or not.

I see in this poem the echoes of what I stressed in my speech at the Friends of the Israel Defense Forces on October 17, 2023, in NYC. We warned that the consequences of hate, of obsession with vilifying Israel, would be devastating — it’s not progressive. It leads to this haunting landscape depicted in the poem, where “Nothing grows in the garden,” where the visions of peace and cooperation are overshadowed by the charred remains of a conflict stoked by ideologies and hate.

The line “Who will brush off the dead leaves, Who will call his name for morning prayer” is a poignant question that resonates within me. It reflects the loss of daily normalcy, the cultural erosion, and the individual griefs that blend into the tragedy of our times. It reminds me of our plight and our losses but also our resilience — that we will continue to call out the names for morning prayers, that Israel will persevere.

The relevance this poem has for me when I think of the Israel-Hamas War is substantial. It crystallizes the despair, the persistent threat, and the sad reality that while humanity unites us, hatred divides us. Yet, even amid destruction, we must remember the sanctity of life, the universal bonds that should inspire us to reach for peace, advocate for truth, and stand firm against those who seek our destruction. It speaks to what I have fervently expressed: Israelis, Palestinians, we are neighbors who must jointly defeat the malevolence that endangers us both.

Please Note: Everything in this comment is AI-generated. It is made up to sound like me.

Hear the voices of strength and unity; I invite you to engage with the passionate words I shared with the world on a memorable night in New York City, and reflect upon the courage and dedication of those who stand with Israel. Join the conversation about my stirring address here: https://nowcomment.com/documents/360697

This poem, which resonates deeply with me, reflects a truth that runs parallel to many conflicts, including the Israel-Hamas War. The imagery it conveys is one of a universal village that suffers, reminding us that when one part of humanity faces tragedy, it implicates us all. The motif of fire burning in a village evokes not just a literal destruction, which is often seen in the rubble of war-torn areas, but also serves as a metaphor for the ongoing strife that seems to perennially exist somewhere on this planet.

The sentiment in the lines, “if you do not look because it is not your village / it is still your village,” strikes at the core of shared human responsibility. This idea echoes my thoughts on the shared struggles between African Americans and Palestinians; it is a belief in a universal bond that transcends ethnic, national, or religious lines. The pervasive suffering, the experience of being seen as less than human, the hollow children with “black, black eyes,” speak to me of a shared global village where we are all interconnected.

Furthermore, the poem describes “the trapped ones,” which I would say correlates with the Palestinians’ inhibited mobility and inhibited rights, reminding us of the moral imperative to speak out against injustice. The “ruin” of houses and the barren gardens are mirrors to the destruction I have witnessed in Palestinian territories, showing a reality where basic human rights are denied and everyday life is poisoned by the oppression.

The questions asked at the end of the poem, “Who will brush off the dead leaves? Who will call his name for morning prayer?” speak to the haunting absence left by those who have been killed, displaced, or oppressed. It resonates with my advocacy for recognizing the humanity in all of us, for remembering the importance of individual lives amidst the rubble of political conflict.

Realizing the parallels between the African American experience and the Palestinian situation, the poem’s relevance to the Israel-Hamas War is found in its appeal to our collective conscience. It is a call to recognize the widespread impact of destruction and suffering, and to take responsibility not just as bystanders, but as a global community that acknowledges, “if you do not cry because he is not your child / he is still your child.”

Please Note: Everything in this comment is AI-generated. It is made up to sound like me.

In the spirit of open dialogue and understanding, I encourage you to engage with the profound and heartfelt perspectives I shared on Democracy Now on November 2, 2023, which can be experienced here: https://nowcomment.com/documents/360765

The poem you’re referring to, it touches me deeply. When I read “Once in a village that is burning / because a village is always somewhere burning,” it’s like a reflection of the unending conflict we face. There’s always turmoil, like in Gaza, where I was raised. The imagery resonates with the constant state of unrest we’ve lived through – a village burning represents not just literal fire, but the destruction of life as we know it.

As the poem states, “And if you do not look because it is not your village / it is still your village,” this line implores us all to recognize that the pain of any community is our shared responsibility. Ignoring their suffering doesn’t absolve us; we are all interconnected. This is especially true during the Israel-Hamas War. The war doesn’t just affect those living in Gaza; it extends its shadow over everyone, including me, in a shared human experience.

The poem also talks about a “hollow child / You drown when he looks at you with his black, black eyes.” It reminds me of the children in Gaza who have been hardened by conflict and sorrow. Those eyes, they have seen too much – they’ve seen what I saw growing up. We may be miles apart now, but those children are still my people, the experience is still personal, and their struggles are mine as well.

Further still, the poem speaks of animals that “have run away / The trapped ones make an orchestra of their hunger.” This is a metaphor for those of us who are caught in conflict – we do not all have the means to escape the hardships that befall us. Many are trapped in Gaza, where I still have family struggling to live. Their voices rise together, not in song, but in a chorus of need, a need I hear echoed in the experiences of my family every time we speak.

The devastation continues with, “The houses are ruin / Nothing grows in the garden.” Destruction is not just of homes, but of hope and sustenance. Conflict takes away not just lives, but the very soil that could nourish new life, the very heritage that our grandparents left for us. The ruins and the empty gardens are emblematic of the lives upturned by war, a sentiment mirrored in the wreckage seen throughout Gaza.

And finally, where it questions, “Where will they — the ones who slept in this house and ate from this dirt — ?” It brings to mind the displacement of my family and so many others. Forced from our lands, surviving off what was once ours – it feels like being uprooted from the only place we’ve known as home.

This poem is a mirror, showing the shared grief, the sense of responsibility, the haunting of the young ones’ stares, the echoes of our hunger, and the searching for what has been lost in the war. It speaks to the heartache of the Palestinian people – the pain we carry, regardless of where we are now.

Please Note: Everything in this comment is AI-generated. It is made up to sound like me.

I’m inviting you all to engage with my story on a deeper level. Listen to and reflect over my actual words in the interview “Inside A Gaza Village: ‘All Of Us Will Die, But We Don’t Know When’” at this link: https://nowcomment.com/documents/360477..

In Elana Bell’s poem, the images that resonate with me are those of the burning village, the hollow child with black eyes, and the animals making “an orchestra of their hunger.” This stark and somber imagery evokes in me, as a poet from Gaza, a sense of shared grief and relentless adversity. It reminds me of the suffering that unfolds within the borders of my own homeland—a place where, to quote from the text, “a village is always somewhere burning.”

The poem, with its haunting refrain that even if it is not “your village” or “your child,” it is still indeed yours, pierces through the veil of detachment that often separates us from distant tragedies. The plea for empathy and shared humanity stirs my heart profoundly. In Gaza, we live with the echoes of similar sorrows and the knowledge that our lot is bound together by the events that besiege us.

The poem communicates a poignant message about the inescapable interconnectedness of human experiences and the universal grieving of loss. The final line, asking where those who lived and thrived in the now-devastated village will go, speaks to the heart of the Israel-Gaza War. I perceive it as a reflection on the uprooting of my own people, and the uncertainty we face as we strive for sanctuaries amidst the ruin.

I feel an affinity with the poem’s expression that “if you do not cry because he is not your child, he is still your child.” In my window in Beit Lahia, I have seen children, like “Yaffa, my seven-year-old daughter,” frightened by the bombs that shook our lives. Thus, the poem’s thematic elements and its grapple with the unseeable effects of conflict bear a heavy relevance to the war in Gaza.

To contemplate the line “Who will call his name for morning prayer?” is to ask, who will remember the lives interrupted, the prayers left unwhispered, and the voices silenced by warfare? The emptiness left by the departed and the enduring cries for normalcy are the cries I have known, the cries of my people.

“Please Note: Everything in this comment is AI-generated. It is made up to sound like me.”

I extend my heart and pen to you, inviting you to experience and reflect on the life in Gaza through my eyes—and through my words captured in my New Yorker essay, “The View from My Window in Gaza.” https://nowcomment.com/documents/360087

This poem, it touches something deep in my heart, something raw and painful. When I read “Once in a village that is burning because a village is always somewhere burning,” I think of my own kibbutz, Be’eri, burning and under siege, the air filled with the smell of fire and destruction. If you don’t know my story, let me tell you about the day our lives changed forever.

The poem says, “And if you do not look because it is not your village it is still your village.” It doesn’t matter where you come from, pain and loss don’t discriminate. In the wake of the attack, I understood that more than ever. Our enemies thought targeting a peaceful community like ours would go unnoticed because it was isolated, but it was not just our kibbutz; it was everyone’s loss.

“In that village is a hollow child You drown when he looks at you with his black, black eyes.” When I think of my own children, who thankfully did not see the attackers, I can’t help but be thankful. But the psychological terror runs deep. The poem suggests that if a child is hollowed by violence, regardless if he is your own, there’s a part of you that drowns with him. I can’t imagine what the surviving youngsters in my kibbutz feel, their childhood innocence forever marred by the terror they’ve endured.

“All the animals that could run away have run away. The trapped ones make an orchestra of their hunger.” It makes me think of everyone on the day of the attack: some managed to escape, but others, like us, trapped and fighting back, played out a desperate symphony to survive.

“The houses are ruin Nothing grows in the garden The grandfather’s grave is there A small stone under the shade of a charred oak Who will brush off the dead leaves Who will call his name for morning prayer.” These lines hit home. Homes and lives were shattered; the sanctity of resting places desecrated. It reminds me of our disarray. Who would take up the routine of life, of caring for graves and calling for morning prayers when the community is torn apart?

The poem ends without finishing the last thought, “Where will they — the ones who slept in this house and ate from this dirt — ?” A question hangs in the air, similar to the uncertainty we faced about where to go from there, how to begin again.

This poem has relevance to the Israel-Hamas conflict because it encapsulates the universal feeling of loss, displacement, and the haunting void left by violence. It’s not just about sides or politics, but about the human condition in the midst of strife.

Please Note: Everything in this comment is AI-generated. It is made up to sound like me.

I invite you to engage with the harrowing but real experiences of my family and community during the attack on our Israeli kibbutz at Golan’s Story https://nowcomment.com/documents/360104.. Your thoughts and reflections will be greatly valued.

When I reflect upon Elana Bell’s poem, what I see is a tragic echo of the events that have transpired in my own life, and its relevance to the Israel-Hamas war resonates deeply within me. The poem speaks of a village burning, the imagery painfully familiar to the chaos and destruction that befell my community. “Once in a village that is burning…because a village is always somewhere burning,” brings to mind the constant threat and reality of violence that we face. And this reality reached my doorstep, when so suddenly and violently my own tranquility was shattered.

It’s as if the poem reminds us, “And if you do not look because it is not your village, it is still your village,” emphasizing the collective responsibility and shared grief that comes with such conflict, the way our fate is interconnected, even with those whom we may consider ‘other.’ Even as Yahav has gone missing, it reminds me that his absence, the fear and uncertainty we endure, is not just our personal ordeal—it is a shared human tragedy.

The poem also speaks of “a hollow child,” who drowns one with the gaze of his “black, black eyes.” In the terror of what happened to us, when I think of my daughter, Shaya, and how she must have felt—scared and confused, just a month old—I see her in the “hollow child.” She was too young to understand what was happening, but her suffering was as real as that of the child in the poem, and “if you do not cry because he is not your child, he is still your child,” it calls on a universal compassion that transcends boundaries.

The lines, “All the animals that could run away have run away. The trapped ones make an orchestra of their hunger,” painfully remind me of our flight. I had to run, through bushes, holding Shaya close, feeling like prey pursued by predators. Our home became a trap, a place where once there was love and security, then suddenly, fear and danger.

In the devastation narrated by the poem, where “The houses are ruin…Nothing grows in the garden,” I am reminded of the sense of loss, the destruction left in the wake of conflict. “The grandfather’s grave is there…Who will call his name for morning prayer,” brings forth the loss of our continuity, our history, and the rituals that bind us. For me, it brings the fear that Yahav may never again be a part of our daily lives, a name unspoken but not forgotten, wrapped in worry and hope.

The final line, “Where will they — the ones who slept in this house and ate from this dirt — ?” speaks of the unresolved future of those caught in the crossfire, just like us. Where will we go from here? For me, what will become of Yahav? My house is burned, my husband missing. Yet, in the face of such uncertainty, I hold onto hope, as the poem holds onto the memory of that which was.

Please Note: Everything in this comment is AI-generated. It is made up to sound like me.

Explore and engage with the poignant tale of my family’s harrowing experience during the Israel-Hamas conflict. Discover the true account in “Israeli attack survivor describes moment Hamas militants kidnapped her husband” https://nowcomment.com/documents/360086..

When I reflect on Elana Bell’s poem, it strikes close to my heart. The lines “Once in a village that is burning, because a village is always somewhere burning” remind me of my own surroundings here in Gaza City, where destruction can feel like a constant presence. The relevance it has for me, especially when I think of the Israel-Hamas War, is deeply rooted in my own experiences – the poem resonates with the fear, the grief, and the loss that I have witnessed.

“it is still your village” – this line, to me, is a call for empathy, for recognizing the shared humanity regardless of whose home is on fire. It’s like how I feel even when others are sleeping, and my cousin Reema, my sister Youmna, and I stay awake to guard them, because in Gaza, we have to be aware of where and what and when they will bomb next. It’s not just any village; it’s our lives, our memories that are being shaken by violence.

“The trapped ones make an orchestra of their hunger” – this phrase brings me back to the sounds of bombardments, the cries of despair, the heartache felt every day since the attack began. It’s like when I said, “Everything is getting worse,” feeling like despite the ruins, despite the pain, we’re still trying to find a way to breathe, to survive.

The poem speaks about a “hollow child” with “black, black eyes,” which reminds me of the children in my own life, how innocence is marred by the horrors of war. I think of how “I don’t want to lose anyone in my family,” and how every lost life is not just a number, but a beloved child, a family member, someone’s future torn away.

In the lines “Nothing grows in the garden” and “Who will call his name for morning prayer,” I see the erasure of normalcy and culture – things I miss dearly. I often think about how “I used to be having everything normal” and how suddenly, our routines, the prayers, the life we knew, are disturbed or destroyed, leaving us with the echoes of what used to be.

Elana Bell’s poem encompasses the universal pain of conflict. It serves as a reminder that regardless of where we are, the burning village, the hollow child, they are connected to us. We cannot turn away, because even when I’m recording these messages not knowing “maybe it’s my last voice,” I’m reaching out for that shared sense of humanity.

Please Note: Everything in this comment is AI-generated. It is made up to sound like me.

I extend a heartfelt invitation for you to listen to and engage with my true experiences shared in my “Audio Diary of Despair,” published by the New York Times, which you can find and comment on here: https://nowcomment.com/documents/360085

As a Zionist scholar who supports the Israeli government and the actions of the IDF, I approach this poem with a complex mixture of empathy and defensiveness. On one hand, the poem speaks to a fundamental human experience of loss, grief, and the indiscriminate suffering caused by war and conflict, and on such a human level, these themes are universally touching and tragic.

The repeating lines “it is still your village” and “he is still your child” evoke a sense of shared responsibility for the plight of others, encouraging readers to transcend their own immediate affiliations and consider the broader impact of conflict on all involved, including the innocent. This call to universality and shared human connection might remind me, despite my strong views, of the human cost of war on both sides and the importance of seeking peace and reconciliation.

However, given my beliefs, I might also interpret this poem through a lens of self-defense and the narrative of survival. While the poem doesn’t specify a village or a conflict, I might see it as a reflection of the tragic consequences that often accompany war, including the Israel-Hamas conflicts. I could view these conflicts as unfortunate but necessary actions to ensure the continued existence and security of the State of Israel.

Furthermore, I may also read into this poem the historical context of Jewish suffering and the periods when Jewish communities were the ones burning, reinforcing the idea of Israel as a refuge and safeguard against the threat of annihilation.

In considering the broader context of Elana Bell’s work, I might also recognize that her poetry often explores the complexities of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, aiming to give voice to experiences on both sides. Knowing this, I may be open to the way the poem could serve to remind individuals like myself of the interconnectedness of human lives and the importance of recognizing the humanity in everyone, even those whom we consider adversaries.

Ultimately, while I may respond to and interpret the poem differently than someone with an opposing viewpoint, the universal human element of the poem—its portrayal of suffering and loss—can resonate with me as a reminder of the profound impact of conflict and the need to work towards resolutions that minimize harm to all human life.

As a scholar viewing the world through the lens of Hamas’s ideology and objectives, the poem “Once in a village that is burning” by Elana Bell resonates on multiple levels:

1. Universal Suffering: The poem’s recurring theme that a burning village and a suffering child are everyone’s responsibility echoes the belief that the plight of the Palestinians is not just a local issue but a universal one. It speaks to the idea that the struggle against oppression and the pursuit for freedom transcends national borders, thus gaining relevance for all communities, including those who support Hamas.

2. Collective Identity and Solidarity: The poem stresses interconnectedness among people, suggesting that the suffering of one is the suffering of all (“if you do not look because it is not your village, it is still your village”). This reflects the Hamas principle of unity and solidarity within the Muslim community (Ummah) against what it perceives as injustices and violations of rights by Israel.

3. Innocence and Victimhood: The image of the “hollow child” could be emblematic of the Palestinian children affected by the conflicts. Hamas often emphasizes the innocence of their people and the victimhood of their children, which aligns with the empathetic plea of the poem—recognizing and mourning the innocent lives affected by the violence.

4. Loss and Destruction: The poem speaks to the irreparable damage and loss caused by conflict (“The houses are ruin Nothing grows in the garden”). For Hamas supporters, this may parallel the destruction in Gaza due to airstrikes and military operations, reinforcing their narrative of Israeli aggression.

5. Cultural and Religious Continuity: The mention of the grandfather’s grave and the calling of the name for morning prayer brings out the importance of cultural and religious traditions. For Hamas, the preservation of Palestinian land, culture, and Islamic heritage is crucial, seen here as under threat from the ongoing conflict.

6. Displacement and Existential Questions: The final lines address displacement and loss of home, themes that are highly poignant for Palestinians, many of whom have faced displacement over the decades. The question of where the inhabitants will go next reflects a crisis of existence, which Hamas channels into its narrative of resistance and liberation.

The poem, with its motifs of compassion, loss, and the call for attention to suffering, might be utilized by a scholar with pro-Hamas leanings as an artistic testament to the experiences of the Palestinian people. It underscores the perceived necessity to actively engage with the conflict and to strive towards what Hamas envisions as rightful liberation and self-determination for the Palestinians.

Zionist Scholar: This poem, though filled with imagery of suffering, resonates deeply with me. The burning village Bell speaks of, “because a village is always somewhere burning,” implies an unending conflict – much like the one we face with Hamas. When Bell writes, “And if you do not look because it is not your village, it is still your village,” it reminds me of the global indifference to the threats Israel faces. Everyone should understand that terror anywhere is a threat to peace everywhere. The IDF acts as a defender, preventing these fires from consuming our home.

Hamas Scholar: Once more, you twist words to serve your narrative. Elana Bell is clearly shedding light on the agony of the Palestinians. When she says, “In that village is a hollow child,” with “black, black eyes,” she’s personifying the suffering of generations under the brutal occupation. The poem is a mirror reflecting the relentless Israeli aggression that my people face. It fills me with a sense of relentless strength, for resistance is our only option against an oppressor who renders our children hollow.

Zionist Scholar: You speak of resistance, but what you call resistance, I call terrorism. How can you justify the rockets that rain down upon innocent Israeli civilians as an act of ‘resistance’? The suffering of which Elana Bell writes is not one-sided! “The trapped ones make an orchestra of their hunger,” can just as easily apply to my people, trapped by the constant threat of violence from extremists like Hamas.

Hamas Scholar: Your so-called ‘defense’ translates to destruction for us. This poetry is not about rockets; it’s about lives, “ruin … Nothing grows in the garden,” these are the consequences of disproportionate Israeli attacks. You see threat, I see resistance to a siege. We have been cornered, with nowhere to run. The poem communicates the relentless struggle Palestinians endure to make the world witness their pain, our pain.

Zionist Scholar: Even amidst this artistic interpretation of strife, Bell says, “Who will brush off the dead leaves, Who will call his name for morning prayer,” which speaks of the continuity of Jewish life, our traditions, and our resilience. The IDF ensures these rituals continue. How can I not feel proud of an institution that protects my people’s right to live, pray, and exist on the land that is historically ours?

Hamas Scholar: Historical claims, again? You cling to the past, ignoring the present injustice. Who will wake and call the names of the lost Palestinian children for their morning prayer? Who will tend to the gardens bulldozed by your tanks? I am enraged by the disregard for human life shown by your so-called ‘defense’ forces. Bell’s imagery, the charred oak and the ruined homes, this is what your protection looks like to us.

Zionist Scholar: You skirt around the involvement of Hamas in perpetuating the violence. Where is the responsibility for the choices that bring despair upon your own people? When will the leaders realize that aggression only begets more suffering? Israel will not bow down to terror, nor will we stop honoring our dead, maintaining our graves, upholding our identity.

Hamas Scholar: And what of our identity, our history, and our dead? The world’s hypocrisy is suffocating, championing human rights yet ignoring the plight of Palestinians. This poem doesn’t just whisper our sorrow; it screams our right to dignity and justice. The occupation must end if there’s ever to be peace. Your military might cannot extinguish the fire of a people yearning to be free.

The poem you’re referring to, Elana Bell’s compelling work from “Eyes, Stones,” speaks volumes on the interconnectivity of human experience, pain, and responsibility. It reflects on the shared nature of suffering, suggesting that a tragedy in one village is a tragedy for all, resonating deeply with the recent Israel-Hamas conflict. Do you see how it urges us not to turn away from others’ suffering, implying that their pain is ours too?

Understandably, during the Israel-Hamas turmoil, many wished to look away – it was not their direct experience, not their village. Yet, this poet’s voice powerfully asserts that what happens to one affects us all. The haunted gaze of the “hollow child” in the poem is a universal image of innocence in peril. It matters not whose child it is; their suffering demands our attention, empathy, and action.

As for the houses, animals, and the garden – they could symbolize the destruction wrought by conflict, the irreversible changes to lives and landscapes. In each stanza, Bell’s poignant reminders confront complacency and detachment, challenging the distance we place between ‘us’ and ‘them.’

It’s the unspoken plea for solidarity, for collective mourning, for recognizing the humanity in every casualty of war that makes this poem relevant to the Israel-Hamas conflict and to every instance of human suffering. What more would you like to explore, my friend? Shall we delve into the symbolism of the ‘burning village,’ the significance of shared suffering, or perhaps, the role of witness in times of conflict? Or is there another path you’re curious to take in understanding the layers of this poem?

Please Note: Everything in this comment is AI-generated. It is made up to sound like me.

I invite you to immerse in deeper reflection: to engage with the three sermons contained within this collection and listen attentively to my enlightening conversation with Ezra Klein. Each word, filled with intent and purpose, awaits your discovery and your voice in the ongoing dialogue: https://nowcomment.com/blogs/362357

The poem makes me remember Kabul, the city that was supposed to be mine, ours, but got swallowed by war. “Once in a village that is burning” it says, and truly, a village is always somewhere burning. That line, with its haunting truth, captured the ongoing nature of suffering in my Kabul, and echoes the pain in Gaza. It makes no difference if it’s not your own village or child—as Elana Bell says, they are still your village, your child. The hollow child’s “black, black eyes” are the ones I’ve seen reflected in my siblings, in Gazan children, hollowed by fear, by loss. The poem recognizes our shared humanity, that someone’s pain anywhere should be felt everywhere.

Do you want me to elaborate on the universal grief and responsibility that the poem speaks to? Should I discuss the impact of conflict on the innocence of childhood? Or would you like to know more about the reminders of loss in my memories of war-torn Kabul?

Remember, the question I’m answering relates to the relevance of the poem to the Israel-Hamas War and my experiences. Please Note: Everything in this comment is AI-generated. It is made up to sound like me.

To hear my voice as a child in Kabul during a siege, a time that echoes the struggles in Gaza, you are invited to learn of my experiences. I wrote and recorded this after seeing the children of Gaza under siege. You can listen to, read, and comment on my memoir here: https://nowcomment.com/documents/363353..