I remembered why I hate watching the news and why I am so uncomfortable when my daughter is near me when I watch it. She was sitting at the dining room table, deep in thought about how she could break up the number ten in three different ways. I was washing dishes with the news playing softly on my phone. College campuses filled the frame — students chanting across green lawns hemmed in by police in riot gear. It felt surreal, as if I were watching a war zone unfold on an Ivy League campus.

My daughter hears the shouting: “Free, free Palestine!” I try to mute the video, but it’s too late. Since our trip to Palestine last year, she has developed a kind of radar — anytime the word Palestine is mentioned within earshot, she rushes over to see what it’s about. She is drawn to her roots, pulled by something deep and familiar. She comes running to me, eyes wide with recognition and hope.

“Mama,” she says, “I want to go.”

In our home, justice isn’t something we just talk about — it is something we practice. We’ve discussed boycotts, what it means to use your voice with purpose, and how standing up to oppression is an act of faith. With all the protests these past months, she has joined them more than once, her small hands keeping rhythm with the drums as voices around her rose in unison.

But before she can finish her sentence, footage flashes across the screen of students being thrown to the ground and arrested. Confusion crosses her face. Her eyes search mine for an explanation. I froze. I realized in that moment something irreversible was happening — something I had hoped wouldn’t happen for a very long time.

My daughter was growing up in front of my eyes. These few seconds would shape her being faster than years of childhood ever could. For the first time, she was seeing just how unfair and unjust the world she lives in can be.

I tried to explain that some people don’t want others talking about the genocide happening in Gaza. Her brows furrowed. “But Mama, people are dying,” she said softly. “That’s never okay.”

That moment will stay with me forever: the first time my daughter experienced moral dissonance. It was a concept I had read about so many times, but I never felt the full weight of it until now. That painful awareness in her eyes that the values she has been taught to hold sacred do not always govern the world around her. For children, moments like this aren’t abstract. They aren’t “complicated.” They are simple and formative. They build the architecture of their belief systems.

Developmental psychologists like Lawrence Kohlberg tell us that as children grow, they move from obedience to conscience. They grow from doing what is expected to understanding why something is right or wrong. When that understanding collides with the punishments or silences of the adult world, they enter a moral freefall. Their conscience and consequence no longer align.

“Children are not born with distrust. They are taught it. They learn it by omission, by silence, by the lessons we are too afraid to name.” [PC: Melbin Jacob (unsplash]

What pushed them into this freefall? Realizing that their world punishes empathy toward Palestinians because it challenges the narratives of power. They realize that mourning the murdered is seen as defiance because the world refuses to acknowledge the oppressed.

Muslim children are taught that courage means standing for justice, but then they watch college students handcuffed for doing exactly that. They are told that honesty matters, but they see adults stay silent to keep their jobs. They see compassion rewarded only when it is convenient, and condemned when it challenges power.

This isn’t confusion. It’s something far deeper — it’s a spiritual and moral collapse. A wound that forms when their moral world shatters. Those in power have betrayed the very values they claim to uphold, and it has fractured our children’s moral foundation. In schools, we call it cognitive dissonance. In childhood, it simply feels like heartbreak.

Then we turn around and pretend to preach Social/Emotional Learning (SEL). We tell them to practice empathy. We tell them they must be self-aware. We teach them to make responsible decisions rooted in ethics. Yet the world they live in violates every one of these principles in plain sight. “Responsible decision-making” in our world has little to do with ethics. It’s about bottom lines, hidden agendas, and five-year plans that ignore human impact unless it aligns with profit or power.

How are we supposed to teach empathy when compassion for certain lives is punished? How can we model social awareness when silence is praised as professionalism? How can we ask for “responsible decision-making” when we, the adults, excuse violence because it’s “complicated,” —  which really means I don’t want to look closely enough to see the human cost?

For Muslim youth watching Gaza unfold, these lessons ring hollow. They are being asked to regulate emotions that adults are too afraid to name. They are being asked to build relationships in a world that others their faith. They are being asked to make “ethical choices” in a moral landscape that keeps shifting beneath their feet.

No wonder our kids are exhausted, anxious, and depressed. They live in a world that preaches empathy but rewards apathy. They live in a world that teaches inclusion but normalizes exclusion. The world keeps telling them, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Then we wonder why they don’t trust the systems that are meant to guide them. We wonder why they question everything. We don’t have a generation of children who “just listen” anymore because the world no longer makes sense.

The faith we once placed in authority no longer exists. We grew up believing the adults around us wanted to keep us safe. Our children are watching those same adults look away as their tax dollars kill tens of thousands of people who look and speak just like them. They are witnessing a moral dissonance so loud it drowns out every promise we make to them. Somewhere deep inside, their instincts whisper: trust no one.

Children are not born with distrust. They are taught it. They learn it by omission, by silence, by the lessons we are too afraid to name. When young people repeatedly witness injustice without repair, they internalize one of two messages: either morality is performative or they must carry the moral weight that adults have dropped.

And so they do.

They carry it.

They carry it in their sleeplessness and in their anger. They carry it in their posts, their protests, and their art. They begin to see everything as a cause because the world has shown them that indifference kills. Their restlessness is not rebellion…it is grief with nowhere to go.

Erik Erikson reminds us that adolescence is the stage of identity — of testing who they are against what the world says they should be. Albert Bandura’s social learning theory reminds us that children model what they see. So what happens when they are testing their limits in a world that models hypocrisy? When every adult in the room looks away instead of calling it out?

They learn that silence is safer than truth.
They learn that empathy must be rationed.
They learn that belonging requires erasure.

If we, as educators, want to heal this fracture, we have to start by being honest about it. We cannot ask students to “self-regulate” emotions we refuse to validate. We cannot praise “perspective-taking” while silencing their own perspectives with “It’s too complicated.” We cannot teach courage as a virtue while punishing its expression.

SEL without moral clarity becomes compliance training.
Character education without justice becomes performance.

When I think back to that night with my daughter, I realize she wasn’t just asking about Gaza. She was asking about justice itself — whether the world still has a conscience. I don’t want her heart to harden before it fully blooms. I want her to keep believing that justice, humanity, and truth still matter. I want her to keep believing that speaking for the oppressed is not a crime but a command.

As the chant for “cease-fire” echoes across the world today, people begin to find slivers of hope, but then the news breaks again: more assassinations, more bombings, more death. In that moment, I can’t help but wonder how deep this wound will go for our children.

They are living in a constant state of contradiction — hearing one thing on mainstream news while knowing, in their bones, another truth entirely. It’s a unique kind of dissonance. It is the dissonance that comes from watching the attempt to erase an entire society in real time: thousands killed, thousands more entombed beneath rubble, hundreds still breathing through dust and despair.

Yet, our children are still hearing people call this genocide “complicated.”

This is the work before us as educators and as parents: to rebuild moral trust. We need to show our children that the values we recite are not decorative words but living principles. We need to prove to them, through our actions, that integrity still exists somewhere between silence and survival.

We may not be able to undo the harm they have witnessed, but we can choose not to deepen it.
We can teach with moral courage.
We can speak with gentleness and understanding.
We can model what it means to be human in a world that keeps forgetting — because our children are watching, and one day, they will rise to rebuild what our silence allowed to crumble.

Related:

– Real Time Scholasticide: The War On Education In Gaza

– Ice Cream: A Poem On The Loss Of Childhood In Gaza