The American newspaper "Washington Post" published an article today, Thursday, by Queen Rania Abdullah titled "Celebrations of the Christmas Holiday Cancelled in the Land of Christ's Birth," in which she spoke about the tragic losses in Gaza, emphasizing that calling for a ceasefire is the least that can be done. Here is the translated Arabic text published in the "Washington Post":
Bethlehem usually vibrates with life at Christmas. But not this year. In the Holy Land, celebrations have been canceled; there are no parades, no markets, and no lighting of Christmas trees in public squares. In my country, Jordan, where Jesus Christ was baptized, our Christian community chose to do the same.
In the occupied West Bank, one of the churches in Bethlehem modified the nativity scene, placing a statue of the baby Jesus amidst the rubble of a bombed building. This reflects the story we see on screens everywhere: the horrific images of destruction in Gaza, especially the bloodied and shattered children there.
I watch a clip of a father in Gaza touching his daughter's face, asking someone to appreciate her beauty. You might think she is asleep, were it not for her white shroud.
I shift from one clip to another, witnessing a scene of a boy struggling amidst the rain in flooded streets, carrying the body of a child smaller than him, refusing to leave him behind. A mother embraces her daughter's body and tells her, "Put your heart on my heart, my dear." She cries as others try to take her away; she is not ready to let go yet.
We must see in these children's faces the faces of our own children. Each of those clips is a desperate call to the world to recognize their humanity and pain.
The people of Gaza have not lost hope in the humanity of others, despite many failing to see their humanity. Since October 7th, the vast majority of casualties in Israel, the West Bank, and Gaza have been civilians. Whether killed, kidnapped, or unjustly detained, each of them leaves an irreplaceable void. There is no difference between the pain felt by Palestinian and Israeli mothers at the loss of a child.
With each day that passes without a ceasefire, the losses mount tragically. In just over two months, Israel has turned Gaza into a hell. Approximately 20,000 dead, at least eight thousand of whom are children—a number greater than the combined death toll of Pearl Harbor, the September 11 attacks, and Hurricane Katrina.
About two million out of 2.2 million people in Gaza have been displaced—most of its population has become refugees. More than fifty thousand injured, while only eight hospitals out of 36 provide services.
On top of all this, there is hunger. Nearly half of Gaza's population is starving, as for over two months, aid sufficient to meet their needs for less than a week has been allowed in. How can starving a people be considered a legitimate form of self-defense?
International organizations now describe Gaza as a cemetery for children, and how painful it is to label a holy land with such a description.
The situation has become a clear humanitarian nightmare. And with each passing day, the threshold of what is acceptable declines to new lows, marking a terrifying precedent for this war and others. Regardless of which side you support, you can still call for a ceasefire, the release of hostages and detainees, and unrestricted access to aid.
Some will dismiss this call as being driven by emotion, insisting that an immediate ceasefire is neither strategic nor sustainable. It is a condemnation of our era when demands to return to rationality are rejected on the grounds that they are merely emotional pleas. We hear many talking about peace after the war as if that absolves them of the responsibility to act now.
A ceasefire is just the beginning. We must embark on the difficult process of restoring humanity—recognizing the humanity of others and working based on global interconnectedness.
I am a mother, and my heart breaks for the mothers and fathers in Gaza who do everything they can to keep their children alive—only to lose them. We all share as mothers and fathers the same drive to protect our children from harm. Regardless of who we are or where we come from, caring for and protecting those we love is one of the instincts we must cherish—not just for ourselves but for the stranger and even the adversary, as selectively respecting it undermines our humanity.
There is another clip I will never forget, of a mother bidding farewell to her children. They were killed in an airstrike while they slept after going to bed with empty stomachs. Her grief is unbearable; her guilt over their starvation broke me. She addressed one of her sons, "Don't worry, my dear, you are with God in the highest paradise," explaining, "I named him Job because of the story of the patience of Prophet Job—patience, patience, patience," and then she said while crying, "And I am, my mother, patient."
In the Torah, the Bible, and the Quran, Prophet Job lost his possessions, children, and health, yet he remained steadfast in his faith. His patience has been honored by Jews, Christians, and Muslims, who have shared the holy land in peace at different stages of history. His story is one of pain, but it is also a story of hope.
This war must end. Today, the question boils down to one that each of us needs to answer: If you could prevent the death of hundreds or thousands of other children, would you do it? Therefore, calling for a ceasefire is the least you can do. We must all do this together.
