By Jafar Sherdoost
In the grand, cavernous hall of the United Nations General Assembly – a chamber built on the fragile promise of dialogue over destruction – an empty chair can scream louder than any orator. On September 26, 2025, as Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu approached the world’s most famous podium, one of those empty chairs belonged to the Iranian delegation. But it was not entirely empty.
It had been transformed into a silent, heartbreaking collage.
Spread carefully across the green table were thirteen photographs of children. This was not a political banner. It was a mosaic of stolen futures, an altar of grief placed squarely in the heart of global diplomacy.
One photograph showed a baby, so new to the world he hadn’t yet grown teeth, his gummy smile captured for an eternity he would never know. Another showed a toddler, his eyes wide with a curiosity that would soon be extinguished. In all, thirteen small faces stared out from the chair – boys and girls from across the country who knew nothing of geopolitics, but everything of the terror that rained down from the sky in June.
These children didn’t know about “preemptive strikes”. Their world was one of simple, profound truths: the cool sweetness of a saffron ice cream on a hot afternoon, its sticky nectar a race against the sun; the comforting weight of a mother’s warm hand holding theirs as they crossed the street. Their universe was measured in bedtime stories, schoolyard games, and the simple, unwavering belief that their parents could protect them from monsters. The monster that came for them this time, however, was not a creature of a fairy tale. This monster had a face and a name, and at that very moment, he was walking to a podium to show off about the crimes he has committed for decades. His name was Benjamin Netanyahu.
Now, here they were, in photographs, in the heart of the United Nations.
As Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu began his speech, his voice echoing with defiance and justifications for his “defensive” actions, the thirteen faces in the picture remained unchanged. They did not hear his words about security threats or existential dangers. They were beyond hearing. But their collective silence, their still images propped against the cream seat, formed a powerful, devastating rebuttal.
For every word spoken from the podium, the silent chorus of photographs asked a question.
When he said Israel is guarding others from “the barbarians”, the picture of the toothless baby asked: Look at my face. Was I barbarian in this story?
When he described the precision of the operations to “minimize civilian casualties”, the images countered: Was this precision? A world where we no longer exist?
When he condemned the “terror axis,” their small, still face seemed to say: We didn’t know about any axis. We only knew our family, our friends, the cat in the schoolyard and the taste of a chocolate sitting on our gap-toothed smiles. Was that terror?
The Iranian delegates who had walked out moments before did not need to issue a statement. The collage on the chair was their statement. It was a testament to the war crimes of the orator, a quiet accusation that no rhetoric could answer. It transformed an empty seat from a political void into a sacred memorial.
Other diplomats, glancing over, saw not just a vacant space but a heartbreaking narrative. They saw the faces of children who would never learn to ride a bike, never graduate, never fall in love, never again feel the simple joy of ice cream melting on their tongue. They saw a masked face of an infant who would never speak his/her first word, and other kids whose hands would never again feel the safety of a parent’s grasp. They saw the human consequence of a conflict fought with missiles from a safe distance against people who had no say in the matter.
In a chamber accustomed to the thunder of powerful men, the most profound statement of the day was the collective whisper of thirteen lives that were no more. The empty chair wasn’t just a protest; it was an indictment. And on it sat the ghosts of children, asking the world to remember their faces, their laughter, and all the simple joys they were denied.
