What happens when children are given the chance to ask the most important questions and to look at the world without fear or prejudice? In this powerful and symbolic story, Sumeja takes us into an unusual courtroom where children assume the role of those who seek truth and justice. Through simple yet deeply meaningful questions, the greatest problems of our world are revealed, reminding us how sincere, brave, and necessary the children’s perspective truly is. This work invites us to stop, to listen, and perhaps to relearn what we, as adults, have forgotten.
Read Sumeja’s work and remember how important is to listen the children’s voices, which teach us truth, empathy, and the courage to change the world.
„The World Must Learn from Children Again”
They say that children ask meaningless questions. Yet sometimes those simple questions carry the weight of the whole world. Adults often think they know more and that their words matter more. And children? Children simply ask. In those questions, there is often a truth that adults avoid for years.
One morning, the world woke up different. The sky was the same and the sun rose on time, but the silence in the air carried a sense of anticipation. The most unusual court in the world was opened that day. In a large hall, children were judging the world. Children from different parts of the world sat on long benches. Some wore schoolbags and worn-out jackets and held toys that had survived long journeys. Their eyes were different colors, but their gaze was the same—serious, curious, and a little sad at the same time. Those on trial stood in the middle of the hall.
The first to stand in front of the children was War. It was cold and heavy like a winter that never ends. It moved slowly, leaving behind shadows of burned houses and empty playgrounds. Only silence remained where children’s laughter had been. A boy stood up from the bench. His voice was not loud, but it was clear.
“Why did you take our playgrounds?” he asked. “Why did you plant silence where laughter used to be?” War did not answer. It lowered its gaze, like a person seeing their own shadow for the first time.
Then another accused was brought in front of the children. Its name was Poverty. It was pale and quiet, like an old photograph faded by time. It carried empty plates and long evenings in which children go to sleep early because hunger sometimes asks for sleep instead of dinner. A girl looked at it and softly asked:
“Why are some plates full while some tables are empty?”
Poverty had no answer. It stood speechless, like someone who knows that every excuse is too small.
Finally, the third accused entered the hall. It was the quietest of all. Its name was Indifference. It did not walk coldly like War, nor did it have the pale face of Poverty. It looked completely ordinary. Perhaps because it lived among people every day. One child watched it for a long time and then asked a question that echoed louder than all the others:
“Why were you silent when you could have helped?”
For the first time, Indifference was left without words. Silence filled the hall—a deep silence in which a person begins to hear their own thoughts.
The children looked at one another. None of them wore a judge’s robe. None held a gavel to announce the sentences. Because children do not know how to punish like adults do. One boy then stood up and said:
“We don’t know how to pass sentences. We only know what it looks like when toys are shared.”
Another girl quietly added:
“We also know how it hurts when someone is left alone on a bench.”
Then the youngest child among them slowly spoke the verdict:
“The world must learn from children again. Until adults learn to share toys, they will not know how to share justice.”
Those words became a mirror for the entire adult world. And for the first time in a long while, the world looked into that mirror without excuses. War lowered its head. Poverty remained silent. Indifference searched for words, but none came. The children then rose from their places and went outside. In the square, the sun was still high. Some children began to run, some laughed, sat, and talked—as if nothing unusual had happened.
And yet, something important happened that day. The world finally understood what it had long forgotten. Children’s questions may sound simple, but they often hold more truth than many great speeches. Perhaps a more just world will not come when adults become wiser, but when they become brave enough to learn to think like children again.
