Pernyataan Mereka (Saya tidak bisa berbeda)

"Dad... Mom..."
The little voice trembled in the quiet living room, where the walls were too tall and the ceiling too silent.
"They said I'm ugly... because I have pigtails."
The father looked up from his phone. The mother slowly turned from the kitchen sink, water still running.
"They laughed. They said I look like a baby pig."
Tears started to form in the corners of the girl's eyes, but she held them back, trying to stay strong. Trying to be brave. Trying to be small so she wouldn't be noticed again.

"Mom, they said Jesus is not God... That I'm wrong for believing that."

"Dad, they told me to take off my hijab... They said it makes me look weird. Like a ghost."

The mother's hands trembled now, a plate slipped in the sink. The father's grip on his phone tightened. Not because of the child-but because they both knew where this came from.
The world was not gentle anymore. It was unfiltered, unkind, and often unteachable. And yet, it was their daughter-and thousands like her-who had to face it every day.
What do we tell hem?
How do we explain the way the world teaches division before curiosity? How do we teach her that her hair, her belief, her scarf, her truth-all of it-are not wrong, but simply different? How do we tell her that there will be people who laugh, mock, spit on her soul not because she is less, but because they were never taught better? These are not just schoolyard insults. These are interactive effects in socialization. It begins with words-then laughter-then exclusion.

"You're not one of us."
"You look funny."
"That's not real God."

First, the mocking. Then, the isolation. Then, sometimes-the violence lead to genocide. And then wars?
Who teaches this?

We do.
We, the adults.

The ones who know everything. The ones they watch. The ones they hear whispering in kitchens and yelling on TV. The ones who sit in pews and mosques and temples, praying for peace-and then go outside and judge the neighbor.
We teach them pride... but often through violence. We teach them belief... but with arrogance. We teach them community... by building walls. We think they don't hear. But they hear. We think they don't see. But they see.
They watch when we mock people for the way they look, or what they wear, or what they believe. They notice how we treat "the other." And they repeat it-sometimes at school, sometimes online, sometimes in silence when they walk past another kid with a different skin color, or who prays differently, or speaks another language.

And what happens then?

The child begins to make decisions-from a place of confusion and pain.
"Daddy, I don't want to go to school."
 "Mommy, I hate myself."
 "Daddy, I want to be someone else."
 "Mommy, I need a cadar-I want to cover everything."
Not because they understand the full depth of what that means. But because they feel unsafe in their skin. Because hiding feels safer than being seen. They start to believe they are the problem. Not the cruelty of the world. Not the failure of grownups. Not the system that teaches hate under the disguise of strength.
And it's not just one child.
It's many. The little girl who hides her pigtails because someone laughed. The boy who stops praying in public because they mocked his hands when he did. The child who removes her hijab, even though it meant the world to her, because the pressure to conform drowned her sense of peace. The ones who stay silent when others mock faith-just to fit in. This is not sensitivity. This is survival in a world where kindness is optional-and cruelty is inherited.