In a development so bleak it could make the Grim Reaper himself order a double, health officials have confirmed the killing of a Palestinian infant by Israeli fire in the West Bank. The story, as reported by the usual conduits of horror, lands with the thud of a body bag on a morgue slab. The details are sparse, as they always are when the life of a baby is snuffed out by the mechanics of occupation.
Was the child a casualty of a targeted operation, a random burst of panic, or the systemic indifference that allows such tragedies to occur with the regularity of a coffee shop loyalty card? The answer, as it often is, is all and none of the above. It is the simple, intolerable mathematics of a region where a child's death is a statistic, a footnote, a bargaining chip.
The Israeli military, no doubt, will launch an investigation, a ritual dance of exculpation and obfuscation. The world will wring its hands, issue condemnations, and move on to the next outrage. But for one family in the West Bank, the silence will be absolute.
The baby's name, for now, is just a name. But it might as well be a question: How many more before the world decides that a Palestinian baby's life is worth the same as any other? The answer, like the bullet that ended that tiny life, is heading straight for us, and we are too busy with our headlines to duck.
