I recently watched Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight, a film that shines a light on a seldom-discussed chapter of history – the Rhodesian civil war, which ended with the democratic elections of 1980 in what is now Zimbabwe. Told through the eyes of a seven-year-old girl, the daughter of a White farming family, it captures something often overlooked in stories of conflict: the silent suffering of children.
Through her bewilderment at her world being turned upside-down, we witness not only the brutality of war but the confusion and instability it breeds in young minds. Her world – once filled with routine and familiarity – fractures into something dangerous and unpredictable. And as I watched, I couldn’t help but think about today’s children caught in conflict zones, children whose lives are being shaped by fear and uncertainty before they even understand what those words mean.
That thought returned with force when I saw video clips of hostages being released from Gaza. Among the tears and celebration, one image stood out: a small child, expression blank, eyes darting between faces of joy she couldn’t quite share. She seemed unsure, almost alienated by the euphoria around her. How could she make sense of what was happening, or of the trauma that had preceded it?
We often believe that by shielding children from the harshness of the world, we are protecting them. But silence is not always protection. Even without words, children absorb the tension in a household, the fear behind their parents’ eyes, the unspoken grief that hangs in the air. Their innocence makes them intuitive, not oblivious.
Psychologists studying second-generation Holocaust survivors have long observed how trauma echoes across generations. Many of these individuals grew up carrying anxieties that were never directly explained to them – the inherited weight of fear and loss. Their lives were shaped by what was left unsaid, by the emotional scars of their parents’ experiences.
That legacy of unspoken pain should serve as a warning. When children grow up surrounded by unresolved fear and silence, the consequences may only reveal themselves decades later – in mistrust, anxiety, or a fractured sense of safety in the world.
As new generations of children live through war, displacement, and terror – in Israel, in Gaza, in Ukraine, and elsewhere – we must ask ourselves what emotional inheritance we are leaving them. The physical wounds of conflict may heal, but the psychological ones often last a lifetime.
Children should inherit hope, not fear. And if we are to build a more peaceful future, we must find ways to give them that – through honesty, compassion, and the courage to acknowledge the pain that shapes their world.
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