n Sunday, two young Palestinian children — nine-year-old Karam and ten-year-old Lulu al-Ghussain — were killed in an Israeli airstrike while fetching water from a distribution station in the Nuseirat refugee camp in Gaza. They were carrying plastic containers and jerry cans, not weapons. They were seeking life’s most basic necessity, not engaging in combat. Yet their young lives were snuffed out in an instant — their bodies torn apart, their faces unrecognizably disfigured. Their deaths were described by the Israeli military as the result of a “malfunction,” claiming that a bomb meant for a militant target fell short. But this explanation — increasingly familiar in Gaza — raises deeply unsettling questions: Why is it that when such horrors are carried out by powerful militaries, they are explained away as accidents, yet if the very same atrocity had been committed by a Muslim individual or group, it would be branded as terrorism without hesitation? Had a Muslim, acting independently or as part of a non-state group, killed ten civilians at a water point — six of them children — the label “terrorist” would have followed instantly. Headlines around the world would scream of radical extremism, and global condemnations would roll in without qualification or ambiguity. The perpetrator would be hunted, sanctioned, and dehumanized — as indeed any person who targets civilians should be. But when a nuclear-armed state drops precision-guided munitions on children queuing for water, the language softens. Terms like "tragic incident," "unintended casualties," or "collateral damage" dominate the discourse. Investigations are “launched,” and “concerns” are raised. But the world moves on. The airstrike isn’t called a war crime. The people who ordered or executed it aren’t labeled terrorists. And the children? They become statistics in a growing pile of civilian casualties from a war many no longer want to confront. This double standard is not just about semantics. It’s about accountability. It’s about whose lives are valued, whose deaths are mourned, and whose actions are judged through a moral lens. When a Muslim kills civilians, there is universal outrage and a demand for justice. When a state like Israel does the same — even repeatedly, even with civilian deaths numbering in the thousands — the world too often responds with cautious language and diplomatic hedging. Heba and Ashraf al-Ghussain, the parents of Karam and Lulu, buried their children beside a grandfather because they could not afford a burial plot. They did so while their surviving children, including an 18-month-old daughter suffering from malnutrition and rashes, continue to live on the brink — without enough food, clean water, or medical care. Their daughter Lulu’s nickname meant “pearl,” a fitting description of the joy she brought to her family. Karam was known by his father as “my partner” because of his maturity and strength, traits no nine-year-old should have to bear. Their deaths are not isolated. More than 800 people have been killed near food distribution sites since May. Aid groups have warned of a man-made drought, with children beginning to die of thirst. Hospitals are collapsing. Infrastructure is gone. And now, even the act of fetching water — water — is enough to get you killed. If this isn’t terror, what is? If bombing a group of children waiting for water doesn’t fit into our definition of terrorism, then perhaps the definition needs to be rewritten. At the very least, the application of it must be consistent. Because right now, the world seems to be telling Palestinians that their lives, and their deaths, are not worthy of the same outrage. Justice doesn’t come from selective morality. It comes from confronting all acts of violence against civilians with the same horror, the same grief, and the same demand for accountability — no matter who the perpetrator is. And until we do that, innocent children like Karam and Lulu will keep dying in silence — their stories buried beneath euphemisms and political cowardice.