LOOK IN THEIR EYES: and tell them it’s fake

Disclaimer

Some pro-Israel Christian voices have attempted to downplay the visible suffering of Palestinian children—claiming, for example, that images of starvation are not evidence of malnutrition, but rather genetic disorders. This is not only false; it’s profoundly cruel.

The child in this photo is not a faceless statistic. His name is Yazan Abu Foul, a two-year-old boy cared for by his mother, Naima, in al-Shati refugee camp. Yazan suffers from severe malnutrition due to the catastrophic shortage of food, a consequence of the Israeli blockade and the closure of Gaza’s border crossings. The image was captured by Haitham Imad/EPA and published by The Guardian.

To cast doubt on the suffering of millions—especially children—is morally indefensible.
To look upon this pain and dismiss it as propaganda is to betray compassion itself.

As followers of Christ, we are called to weep where others weep, to recognize the divine in every vulnerable life.
If we cannot affirm the dignity of Yazan, then who have we become?
And what gospel are we preaching?

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New rumors are now circulating that Gaza is just a performance—nothing more than a stage where blood is artificial and suffering is a calculated form of gaslighting designed to shame Israel. They’ve even coined a name for it: GAZAWOOD, a website dedicated to exposing what they claim is Palestinian propaganda, likening real anguish to film production.

But God help us if we ever reduce genuine suffering to political strategy.

To suggest that the starvation, the slow decay of malnourished bodies, and the emotional wreckage of war are all fabricated is to commit a deep cruelty. A detestable sin.  It minimizes the unbearable reality of what it means to die slowly, painfully, unseen.

Look into the eyes of those who ache.
And then try to say their pain is fake.
Say it out loud.
Then sit with your own silence.
Let it convict you.

Read what follows.
Then read it again.
And allow the truth to sink beneath the surface of every denial you’ve ever heard.

“Where Hunger Has No Stage”

Where olives danced in verdant grace,
now ash and silence fill the place.
The bowls are empty, dust their fare,
and sorrow hangs like desert air.

They say it’s staged—a cruel charade,
that suffering’s some act well-played.
But ribs don’t jut from make-believe,
and children’s eyes don’t falsely grieve.

No script could pen the mother’s moan,
or mimic famine’s hollow tone.
No theatre dares to choreograph
a starving child’s forsaken laugh.

The soil won’t lie, the sky won’t bend—
they witness truths we must defend.
No stunt, no spin, no clever twist
can cleanse the pain that won’t desist.

If hunger’s just a crafted tale,
then aid would not be doomed to fail.
Yet still they starve, while others claim
their ache is fiction cloaked in shame.

So let the verses bleed and burn,
where hearts are taught not to return.
Let lament rise with fierce refrain
till mercy walks through war and pain.