CHILDREN'S RIGHTS: A SINISTER JOKE

Children’s Day. A day when we warmly remind ourselves that the little ones deserve love, safety, and a future. A day when adults celebrate their achievements, parade the rights supposedly won, and renew their promises of protection. But in reality, the world’s children remain prisoners in a macabre circus run by adults who, instead of safeguarding them, use them—as pawns, as commodities, as guaranteed victims. What would the world look like without rules? Imagine the horror: children being fed in Gaza, teenagers alive in Ukraine’s trenches, streets in Mexico free of kidnappings. Total chaos. Thank goodness, then, that adults are in charge. They know better. After all, they have degrees, uniforms, neckties, and offshore accounts. If a child dies of hunger beneath the rubble, it's probably because they didn’t correctly fill out the United Nations form for the "right to survival." If a young person is sent to die in an absurd war, it's because they failed to understand that "freedom" means giving your life so that others may keep their privileges.

Children in Gaza are dying of hunger. Even as you read these lines. This is not a metaphor. It is not an exaggeration. It is the brutal reality of a conflict that has turned childhood into mere survival, and a meal into a memory.

Let us take Gaza as an example. Of course, the Israelis have a point: terrorists must be hunted down—with state-of-the-art missiles, precision drones, and solemn declarations about the “fight for security.” And yet, this high-tech surgery seems to have the eyesight of a blunt axe—it strikes hospitals, schools, markets, and children’s limbs. But hey, “intent matters,” doesn’t it? Humanitarian aid? What a good joke. In a conflict so “complex,” sacks of flour become suspicious objects, and powdered milk—potential weaponry. Better to let children die than risk a bag of rice reaching the uncle of a cousin of a possible Hamas sympathizer. We must be responsible, right? Children? Their misfortune is having been born on the wrong side of the border, at the wrong time, in the path of the right missile. But let’s be honest: in the adult world, there are no innocents—only collateral damage and spreadsheets waiting to be updated. But not to worry. Those who survive—barefoot, hungry, orphaned—surely won’t remember. They won’t grow up angry, they won’t dream of revenge. No. They will understand, in their infinite childish maturity, that “life is complicated.” That’s how adults will explain it to them, with that superior air of experts in tragedies caused by others. And Gaza? Gaza is the perfect stage for the theatre of global hypocrisy: everyone condemns, no one intervenes. Everyone weeps—from the comfort of HD screens. Adults continue to play their wars like spoiled children—with real weapons. And the real children? They can wait. Or die. What difference does it make?

Ukrainian and Russian soldiers: young men caught in a war they did not choose. Some were told they are fighting for their homeland. Others, that they are defending their land. But none of them ever truly had a choice.

Teenagers sent to die. By Russians and by Ukrainians. In a war that isn’t theirs, but for which they pay with their lives. Because, of course—homeland, honour, “values.” Whose values? Those of the ones who do not die, naturally. Putin? He keeps his own children well hidden, far from the front—likely in a Swiss boarding school or on a sunlit island with Wi-Fi. The oligarchs? Just the same. Instead, they recruit young men from obscure republics, from Russia’s forgotten corners, where a military contract seems like an escape from poverty. Eighteen-year-old boys sent to die in the name of a “special operation” they do not even understand. The promise is simple: if you survive, your family receives money. If you don’t, Ukrainian soil gets fresh meat. And the Ukrainians? They fight. They defend. They, too, send their young to die. For what? For land. The sacred land, which isn’t going anywhere, yet seems more valuable than the lives walking on it. Any thought of peace is betrayal. Any negotiation is shame. Better to burn everything and stand proud. Lifeless, but proud. One simple truth is forgotten: children are dying. On both sides. And the land? It remains. It always remains. It can be recovered, reclaimed, rebuilt. But your child? No. And what kind of country are you saving, if you’ve lost an entire generation in the process? But the adults, as always, know best. They play at history, at geography, and at death—with maps, speeches, and graves. And the children? The children pay the bill. In blood.

Children in Mexico vanish from the streets. Stolen from life by the cartels.

In Mexico, children are snatched from the streets like parcels. Some vanish on their way to school, others while playing outside. The kidnappers? Professionals. The cartels show no mercy—but they have procedures. Ransom is demanded. A child’s life is negotiated like a market transaction: polite tone, explicit threats, uncertain delivery. Mexican children? They are currency. Living reserves in an economy of fear. Exploited, sold, forced to carry drugs, handle weapons, serve as “messengers.” They are good for everything—especially for adults.

Adults with guns, with money, with power. Adults who no longer see children as human beings, but as opportunities. Parental grief? A footnote. A weakness. A pathetic detail in a well-oiled system. There is no time for tears when profit is at stake. Justice? A joke. The state? Complicit through silence—sometimes through total absence. In some regions, the cartel is the only functioning authority. But the adults know what they’re doing. They always do. Some shrug. Others cash in. And the children? They are lost in trafficking—literally. And who will mourn them? They were “careless.” They were born in the wrong place. Meanwhile, the world moves on, preoccupied with other outrages—more convenient, more media-friendly.

For the majority of African children, the right to food is an abstract concept. While meals are discarded elsewhere in the world, for millions of children in Africa a plate of food is not routine — it is a rare miracle.

In Africa, childhood is a luxury. There is no play, no dreaming, no boredom in front of screens. There, children learn early how to handle weapons — not in play, but in order to survive. You cannot blame them: each machine gun is an informal diploma in the "art of war sponsored by adults." Hungry? Of course.An empty stomach is part of the landscape.

They work at ages when others are just learning to tie their shoes —hauling water, digging soil, caring for younger siblings, or sent into mines, plantations, and workshops. Not for wages, but to keep their families from collapsing entirely. And if they are not exploited by desperate parents, they are recruited by militias, traffickers, or factions armed with noble ideals and AK-47s.They die of malaria, AIDS, hunger — or simply exhaustion. But surely, “Africa has potential,” as the adults at international forums like to remind us, smiling confidently with graphs and colourful reports. No, it’s not the children’s fault. They were simply born in a place where life is worth less than a rejected vaccine dose or a promised, forgotten subsidy. And the adults? They know best. They have plans. Conferences. Strategies. Terms like “sustainable development” and “humanitarian aid.” Meanwhile, one child dies. Then another. And another. But it’s fine. Another summit is just around the corner.

For many Afghan girls, childhood ends with the last school bell of primary grades. Beyond that point, school doors close, and home gates become prisons.

In Afghanistan, girls finish fourth grade—and that’s it. The game is over. They are no longer allowed to study because education—so it seems—is dangerous. That’s what religion says, that’s what the men decide, that’s what the “responsible” adults claim, who supposedly know best how to preserve the purity of society: with burqas, prohibitions, and enforced ignorance. Girls do not ask why. Or, if they do, the answer comes quickly—sharp tone or a slap. That’s tradition. That’s how it’s always been done. If you are a girl, you must be silent, sew, obey, marry young, and perhaps die young. The light has gone out—in schools, in their eyes, in their future. Only the sacred darkness of male authority remains. But rest assured, the international community is “concerned.” Statements are issued, roundtables organised, hashtags posted: #EmpowerHer, #GirlsDeserveBetter. Applause. Then silence. No change.

But, how we talk about progress! About gender equality, women’s futures, equal opportunities. All while in Kandahar, a ten-year-old girl cries because she is forbidden to learn the multiplication table.

Nike Workshop in Bangladesh: Children aged 6 to 16 are forced to work producing clothing.

In America, a happy child puts on a Nike T-shirt for gym class — a moment of pure joy, an absolute luxury. It is a symbol of success, of a good life, of… normalcy. But that T-shirt came at a cost. Not one printed on the label, but a real cost. Somewhere in factories in Pakistan or Bangladesh, other children work over twelve hours a day for a dollar and a bowl of rice. Hard labour, under miserable conditions, overseen by adults who smile only when they see the numbers on their balance sheets. The cruel irony is that this job is coveted, desired — almost a dream for young people who have nothing else to offer the world. In a society ravaged by severe poverty, being employed in a garment factory is a chance — a chance at survival, even if it means exploitation, exhaustion, and the loss of childhood. And the happy child in America? They do not know. Or they choose not to know. They are too busy showing off their T-shirt to their classmates. Adults know, but deep down “that’s just how the world works.” Business never sleeps, and children… well, children can wait. Why? Because they don’t matter. They are merely… side effects. Collateral damage. Blind bullets fired by adults with their eyes tightly shut. And, what do you know, these children did not ask for anything: no bombs, no wars, no kidnappings, no work to exhaustion. Only a childhood. But that is a scandalous demand in a mature, responsible, and deeply rational world. So, applause for the adults! They deserve a medal for their extraordinary skill in destroying everything they touch, with the solemn air of those who know exactly what they are doing. And no, it is not the children’s fault. It’s just that, unfortunately, they live on the same planet as some adults who still play War — but with living pieces.

Children working in gold mines. Small bodies, enormous burdens. They don’t dream of gold — they carry it on their backs, day after day, in exchange for a bowl of rice or a promise of nothing.

Children’s Day is an official celebration — with flowers and gifts. Yet in the real world, children pay with their lives, their suffering, and shattered dreams for the greed and folly of adults. On Children’s Day, it’s not enough to remember to give them love and protection. We should look in the mirror and ask ourselves what concrete actions we’re taking to avoid being complicit in this silent genocide of innocence. Until then, this celebration remains a grim joke — a false moment of calm amid the chaos we adults proudly and carelessly sustain.