Suffer the Children
“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.”
- Jesus (Luke. 18:16)
March 22, 2026. One hundred and three years ago today, the most world’s most famous mime artist was born into a Jewish family named Mangel. They lived in the city of Strasbourg, near the German border in northeastern France. Seventeen years later, the Nazis invaded, and the family fled southwest to Limoges. There the son joined the French Jewish Resistance, which was engaged in smuggling thousands of children out of occupied France. After the war, and with his new name of Marcel Marceau, he would perform his “art of silence” around the world until his death in 2007.
Marcel Merceau as “Pip the Clown”. Photo by Yousuf Karsh
Recently I went to see Marcel on the Train, a one-act play in which Marceau escorts Jewish orphans to the French border, from where they will hike clandestinely into Switzerland. Only a few years older than his charges, Marcel must use all his incipient mime and dramatic skills to keep them quiet when Nazis search the train and to boost their spirits when they start to lose hope. Played by the astoundingly supple Ethan Slater, Marceau combination acrobatics, dialogue, and pantomime give the play an unremitting intensity. I sat mesmerized for all 100 minutes – and yet, almost from the beginning, I couldn’t wait for the play to be over.
Part of my discomfort stemmed from the world beyond the theater, where Donald Trump and Bibi Netanyahu had just launched their undeclared war on Iran. Among the very first casualties were 175 students at the Shajarah Tayyebeh elementary school in Minab. According to reliable reports, they were killed by a Tomahawk missile fired by U.S. forces.
My reaction to the play was not political, and I write, not as a critic of this war (which I am) nor as an opponent of this administration (which I also am), but as the father of four children and grandfather of nine, a man for whom my family is the epicenter of my life.
My reaction was at once visceral and deeply personal. As I watched Marceau try to save the Jewish children from almost certain death in Nazi concentration camps, it was impossible not to think also of the 175 Muslim schoolchildren who had just been killed without warning in their elementary school in Iran. Nor is it possible to think of the inexpressible sadness their families are suffering without thinking of my own young grandchildren and how much I love each and every one of them.
We hear much these days about the evils of empathy. Elon Musk declared it “the fundamental weakness of western civilization,” and last year one of a growing number of conservative Christians published a book called The Sin of Empathy. But empathy is a far more complicated and difficult emotion than simply feeling sorry for someone. It involves trying to put yourself in the shoes of those who may be very different from you and to understand, from their perspective, what they are living through. This is the task of art: to transcend the merely political and take us to a realm that is at once personal and universal – to unite us with humankind. So often in war, the objective is the opposite – to dehumanize the other in order to more easily kill them – and to insulate our consciences from the unconscionable.
Guernica by Pablo Picasso
Those who make war do not, as far as I can tell, think of children, and so children, like empathy, become the first casualties of war.