S is for Snails and Solidarity

My 8-year-old Saana and I were on a long bike ride one luminous autumn day. While I was looking to the sky for sightings of birds of prey, Saana kept their gaze on the road. Every few minutes, they braked to help caterpillars and snails cross the road safely, tiny lives spared from the crushing weight of tires. Flattened frogs dotted the asphalt, each one a small tragedy that made them wince. At one point, they stopped so abruptly to avoid a snail that I nearly crashed into their back wheel.

During one of these stops, Saana asked, “Maman, can you be against Israel but not pro-Palestine? Like, what if someone doesn’t have an opinion about either?”

I responded, slowly, “Well, as a human in this world, it’s important to take a stance when you see something wrong. That’s part of our responsibility as humans in this world. Remember how you kept risking a tumble to move these creatures to safety? Imagine if, right here in front of us, children were being hurt. Could you stay silent?”

They shook their head, eyes widening. “Oh, I get it.”

“What would you do?” I asked.

“I would take a stance. I would help them.”

Since that ride, Saana has asked more about Palestine. How “all this even started,” whether it was “always fighting and genocide.” I didn’t shy away from the nitty-gritty. I took my time, and they only interrupted me to ask clarifying questions. They were genuinely having zero trouble following along. Maybe it’s because they love fantasy fiction, with its tangled backstories and shifting alliances. They hung on to every detail without hesitation. An eight-year-old grasped what so many adults dismiss as a “complex geopolitical issue.”

It made me wonder how other caregivers are, or aren’t having these conversations about Palestine, or about the many atrocities unfolding across the world. Sundus Abdul Hadi, my dear friend and author of Take Care of Your Self: The Art and Cultures of Care and Liberation (2020), generously shared her perspective with me. She said, “Palestine has been a conversation in my household since I became a mother. It is rooted in teachings about justice, liberation, oppression, belonging, power, prayer, and care.” This resonates so deeply. For me, these talks are not optional. They’re a foundation of my parenting as well. I’m a descendant of genocide survivors, a child of migrants whose families were displaced many times over. Silence has never protected us.

For these reasons, I was so happy to hear from Christina, an Armenian mother I know through socials, who had mentioned that she uses my children’s book to talk to her kids about the Armenian Genocide. I wrote The Brighter I Shine during the aftermath of the Artsakh war. It was originally a poem, but a dear friend encouraged me to reframe it as a storybook for kids, so it could be used as a tool for families. The narrative follows a young Armenian child finding themselves in the stories of their ancestors and keeping their memories alive. Turns out that many caregivers and educators now use it as a guide for talking with kids about their lineages, how they came to exist, and the importance of knowing the stories of the lands they lived on. Everyone has ancestors. Everyone belongs to a constellation of stories. Knowing these stories and staying in relationship with elders (related or chosen) grounds us.

Christina also shared her approach to talking with her children about the Armenian Genocide, which her ancestors survived. When her firstborn was five, she told him the story of his great-grandfather’s survival. She softened the details, focusing on her grandfather’s bravery rather than on the horrors of war. Still, her son asked questions that cut straight to the heart: “Why did he leave his family? Why did his mother and sister die?”

“It’s not easy to answer,” Christina explained. “How do you tell a five-year- old that there’s hate in the world so grand and evil that it would cause a genocide?” She tried to keep her answers simple: that the leaders in Ottoman Turkey did not like Armenians, that sometimes people are so full of hate they do terrible things. And still, the questions came: “Why? Why would anyone do something so awful?”

Now, nearly eight, her son is still building on that first conversation. When his second-grade teacher asked the class to bring in photos for a Culture Quilt, their family dove into Google image searches together, sparking new discussions about identity, survival, and belonging.

Christina told me that being a descendant of genocide survivors makes it all the more urgent to talk about why it’s important to stand up for what’s right. She reminds her children that support can take many forms—sometimes loud, sometimes quiet—but both matter. It isn’t easy to strike the balance, she admitted. She often wonders if it’s landing. But she notices glimpses of it in the way her kids defend their friends, or the questions they raise after watching a movie or reading a book. Small signs that solidarity is taking root.

Now, I see these small signs everywhere. They often appear in the margins, or what Sundus described in her book as “the space where communities of struggle meet…” This week, I saw a sign in Saana’s little hands as they tenderly moved little creatures to safety. It touched me deeply. I want to live in a world where children lead the way in politicized conversations. This is why I’m interested in hearing from other caregivers about their experiences talking to their kiddos about solidarity. Because if we’re not teaching our kids how to take a stance, how can we expect our future to look any different than it does now?