It is justice and respect that I want the world to dust off and

The words of Alice Walker—“It is justice and respect that I want the world to dust off and put—without delay, and with tenderness—back on the head of the Palestinian child. It will be imperfect justice and respect because the injustice and disrespect have been so severe. But I believe we are right to try.”—resound like a lament and a prayer, carrying both the sorrow of long suffering and the hope of restoration. In her voice, there is the anguish of one who has seen innocence wounded and dignity denied, yet also the courage to speak of healing. She does not call for vengeance, nor for triumph, but for the simplest, most sacred gift: that a child, stripped of dignity by conflict, should once again wear the crown of respect and taste the bread of justice.

The ancients knew the sacredness of children as symbols of purity and of the future. In every culture, the child represented the hope of tomorrow, the vessel of promise, the unbroken shoot springing from weary soil. To dishonor a child was considered a crime against both the present and the future. Thus, Walker’s words carry an ancient weight: the cry that justice, so long buried under blood and hatred, be uncovered and placed gently upon those who most deserve it. She reminds us that the measure of any society, of any conflict, of any nation, is not in its armies or kings, but in how it treats its children.

History offers us painful parallels. During the American Civil Rights Movement, Walker herself witnessed the degradation of Black children forced into segregated schools, humiliated by laws that denied their humanity. Yet through struggle and courage, the marchers of that era demanded that justice be “dusted off” and returned to their sons and daughters. She saw firsthand that though the work was imperfect and the wounds deep, the attempt itself was holy, necessary, and transformative. Just as children in Birmingham or Selma once needed dignity restored, so too do children in lands torn by war and division today.

Her acknowledgment that this justice will be “imperfect” is also profound. The ancients taught that when balance has long been broken, even the most noble efforts at restoration can never fully erase the scars. Like pottery mended with gold, the vessel may never be what it once was, but its beauty can shine all the more because of the cracks. Walker’s vision is not naïve; she does not imagine that decades of suffering can be undone in a single gesture. But she insists that to do nothing is far worse—that to begin, however imperfectly, is still righteous.

The Palestinian child in her words is both literal and symbolic. It is the boy or girl living under fear, deprived of home, safety, and peace. But it is also every child in every place who has borne the inheritance of conflict, whether in Rwanda, Bosnia, or the ghettos of America. By invoking this image, Walker calls upon the world to remember its highest duty: to protect innocence, to restore dignity, to clothe the vulnerable in the garments of respect.

The lesson for us is clear: we must never allow cynicism or despair to silence the work of justice. Even when the road is long, even when the balance cannot be perfectly restored, we must act. For every gesture of dignity, every act of compassion, every attempt to honor those who have been trampled, is a step toward healing. To refuse to act because justice cannot be perfect is to abandon the very soul of humanity. Better to lift imperfectly than to leave the fallen in the dust.

Therefore, let Walker’s words stand as a summons to us all: let us dust off justice, let us polish respect, and let us place them, with tenderness, upon the heads of children everywhere who have been denied them. Let us accept that our efforts will fall short of perfection, but let us act nonetheless, for the attempt itself is sacred. In this striving, we keep alive the flame of humanity, and we honor the eternal truth that even in the face of profound injustice, the work of restoration is never in vain.