From Adina Ahmed and Manahil Rahman

For many of us, peace is the bare minimum — a given, not a gift. But for children in Gaza, on the borders of Israel, or growing up in the shadow of tension in Tehran, it is a distant dream. Often, even fighting for it feels futile.

While we sit in the comfort of our homes, debating “conflict” in theory, war becomes the very air they breathe. It is the hum of drones and the whistle of missiles overhead. It is the shattered remnants of a home, a lost limb, or a sibling buried beneath rubble. It is the erasure of childhood — live, unfiltered, and ongoing.

Even from afar, witnessing this pain chips away at one’s sense of normalcy. You carry it — quietly, constantly. Grief twists the soul in strange ways. For some, it drives them closer to their faith; for others, it shatters it.

And so, war seeps through screens and headlines into our hearts. It shapes the way we pray, the way we walk through the world. My hijab is no longer just a mark of devotion — it is a banner of resistance. An emblem of grief. A rebuttal against rising Islamophobia and the way religion is being weaponised in the global theatre.

Every time bombs fall, the world scrambles to choose a side. Commentators argue over who holds the moral high ground, whose grief is more “legitimate”.

But as I speak to a friend in Tehran, eyes locked on the sky for the next siren, the only truth I find is this: “War should never be about deciding who is more deserving of death.

Statistics that dehumanise

In this age of scrolling headlines, we have become numb to suffering. Numbers like 1,000, 100,000 or a million blur into abstraction. But each digit is a heartbeat, a name, a life cut short.

When our friend tells us that Tehran is too quiet — not peacefully still, but eerily uncertain — it sends a chill down my spine. Silence, in war, is never safety. It is suspense.

Our desensitisation is a luxury. We look away until the grief knocks on our own doors — until one of those numbers is etched into our family tree.

Can any war be just?

War doesn’t just kill bodies — it fractures identities, mangles psyches, and leaves the living walking wounded. Yet over and over, we are told that the death of some is “necessary” for the good of many.

Think of Paul Fussell’s justification of the atomic bombings on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A consequentialist lens argues that killing a quarter million saved a million more. But this logic only sustains the machinery of war. It erases the sacred worth of individual lives.

Just War Theory demands a moral line between combatants and civilians. But when that line is blurred — when children, families, and entire communities become targets — can any war be called just?

If victory demands the death of the innocent, then we must question not just the tactics of war, but the war itself.

A world torn apart

The damage of war isn’t limited to missile craters — it tears apart communities, pollutes perception, and fractures identity. Muslim-Jewish relations grow tense, communities divide within themselves, and unity dissolves under suspicion.

Let it be clear: Judaism is not Zionism. Judaism teaches justice. Zionism, when weaponised, becomes a political tool — one that has justified the erasure of entire peoples.

Not all Jews are Zionists. Not all Zionists are Jews.

This war is not a clash of religions. It is a reckoning with power, pride, and systemic dehumanisation. And once again, the voiceless bear the cost.

Faith, grief, and resistance

Faith should connect us. Our humanity should anchor us. When a child screams beneath the rubble, that cry should not be filtered through their passport or religion.

The mothers mourning, the chaos of overflowing hospitals, the stillness of streets — they belong to us. These people look like us, pray like us, love like us. And yet, a border — an arbitrary line drawn by power — has turned breath into privilege, survival into a miracle.

The war within our communities

War does not only rage somewhere — it is echoed in the glances of strangers, the racial profiling in airports, the ridicule faced by schoolchildren. A hijab, a beard, a yarmulke — symbols of devotion — are mistaken for flags of extremism.

Islamophobia is no longer subtle. Jewish identity is misread as complicity. Communities are judged en masse for the actions of a few with power.

And so, faith becomes protest. Identity becomes resistance. Existence becomes political.

Adina Ahmed and Manahil Rahman are undergratuates at the City of St George’s, University of London, and interns at FMT.

The views expressed are those of the writers and do not necessarily reflect those of FMT.