Little Girls
I sat with this for days before writing anything down. The bombing of a girlsโ school in Iran kept circling back into my thoughts, refusing to pass quietly like another headline that flashes across the screen and disappears by the next news cycle. Something about it lingered. Eventually the echoes started whispering the same words over and over until I finally understood what they were asking me to remember.
Four little girls.
That number lives somewhere deep in the American story whether we want to acknowledge it or not. When I first heard about the bombing of the school, I felt something familiar moving just beneath the surface of the news reports. It took me a moment to recognize what it was, because the two events are separated by more than half a century and by thousands of miles. One happened in Birmingham, Alabama, in 1963. The other happened in Iran during the first American military strike. Different countries, different circumstances, different explanations offered by America.
But the echo was unmistakable.
In both cases little girls were killed by bombs. In both cases the deaths were folded into a larger explanation about conflict, necessity, and the greater good. And in both cases the nation responsible found ways to explain the tragedy without ever fully confronting what had actually happened beneath the rubble.
I realized something else as I sat with it. Both bombings happened within my lifetime.
History is often presented to us as something distant and settled, a story already organized and interpreted by the people who had the authority to write it down. Over time the rough edges are sanded away. Language softens the violence. The horror becomes a paragraph in a textbook instead of a moment that once shook the ground beneath our feet. What is left behind is usually a cleaner version of events, one that allows the country telling the story to continue believing the best about itself.
Today I felt the need to slow that process down for a moment.
Because the gap between these two bombings is not as wide as we might like to believe. When the explanations are stripped away and the rhetoric settles, what remains are two scenes that look painfully similar: buildings torn open by explosives, parents searching through debris, and the quiet recognition that the smallest victims of adult decisions are often the ones who have the least power to escape them.
The more I sat with it, the harder it became to treat these events as separate tragedies that just happened to resemble one another. Birmingham was not simply a crime committed by a handful of extremists, and the bombing of a school in Iran cannot be dismissed as an unfortunate mistake made in the fog of war. In both cases the explosives were carried by the power of the same nation, the same mythology about righteousness, and the same belief that American purpose stands above the lives caught beneath it.
The men who planted dynamite under the steps of the 16th Street Baptist Church believed they were defending a Christian civilization that was being threatened by Black progress. The men who authorize missiles today speak in the language of security, strength, destiny, and even biblical pronouncement. The assumption underneath it feels hauntingly familiar: that American judgment is morally superior enough to justify the destruction that follows.
And as I read those justifications, I find myself returning to a question that has followed me for years:
Whose God is winning?
When you look at the pattern across decades, the faces and uniforms may change, Klan hoods to combat fatigues, but the underlying story does not. Again and again the ambitions of powerful white Americans, often wrapped in the language of faith and national virtue, seem to find their way back to the same place โ little girls buried beneath the consequences.
I first heard about Birmingham after Dr. King was assassinated. I was only six years old, too young to fully understand what the adults around me were trying to explain in hushed voices. What I remember most were the quiet murmurs, conversations that seemed to stop whenever children came too close, as if the truth itself was something we needed to be protected from. Somewhere inside those fragments I heard the story of four little girls killed in a church bombing in Alabama.
I couldnโt grasp the history or the hatred behind it at the time. All I understood was the part that didnโt make sense to a child trying to understand the world: someone had bombed a church, and little girls had died inside. Even then, before I knew anything about civil rights or segregation or the long struggle that defined that era, something about that story settled in my mind as proof that the world adults had built was capable of things children were never meant to see.
My, how different it is for children now. The innocence that once allowed adults to shield us from the harshest parts of the world has been replaced by a constant stream of images and information that arrives without warning and rarely pauses long enough for anyone to process it. Tragedy no longer travels slowly through whispers in the kitchen or conversations overheard in the next room. It arrives instantly, broadcast in real time across every device within reach.
Children today do not have to wonder what happened somewhere far away; they can see the rubble, hear the sirens, and watch the grief unfold almost as quickly as it occurs. The distance that once separated young minds from the brutality of the world has largely disappeared. What used to be filtered through careful explanations from parents and elders now floods the same screens where children watch cartoons and play games, blurring the line between childhood and the harsh realities adults once tried to keep at bay.
In Birmingham, on the morning of September 15, 1963, the day began the way Sunday mornings often did for families attending the 16th Street Baptist Church. It was Youth Day, a service where children would take part in the program, reading scripture, singing in the choir, and helping lead the congregation through the rhythms of worship that had long anchored the Black church. Parents dressed their daughters in pressed dresses and polished shoes, the kind of care that signals a special day even to a child who does not fully understand the meaning behind it.
Four of those girls made their way down to the church basement before the service began. Addie Mae Collins was fourteen, old enough to be thoughtful and protective of her younger sister. Cynthia Wesley, also fourteen, had been adopted by a local teacher and preacher and was known for her bright curiosity and love of school. Carole Robertson, another fourteen-year-old, played the clarinet in her school band and carried herself with the quiet confidence of a girl who was already beginning to imagine her future. The youngest of them, Carol Denise McNair, was only eleven, energetic and full of the restless excitement that often comes with being the baby of the group.
Like many girls their age, they gathered in the basement restroom that morning, adjusting their dresses, fixing their hair, talking and laughing as children do when adults are not nearby. It was an ordinary moment, the kind that disappears into memory a thousand times every day in churches across the country.
At 10:22 that morning, a bomb planted beneath the church steps exploded.
The blast tore through the basement with such force that the walls collapsed inward. Concrete, bricks, and splintered wood filled the room where the girls had been standing only seconds earlier. In the aftermath, rescuers digging through the rubble would find the bodies of the four girls beneath the debris, their lives ended before the service they had come to participate in had even begun.
The bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church did not happen in isolation. By 1963 Birmingham had already earned a grim nickname that spoke quietly but clearly about the violence simmering beneath its streets. People had begun calling the city โBombingham.โ
For years explosives had been used as a tool of intimidation against Black families who dared to cross the invisible lines segregation had drawn across neighborhoods. Homes were targeted when Black residents moved into areas whites believed should remain theirs. Churches were attacked when they became gathering places for organizing and resistance.
Behind much of that violence were members of the Ku Klux Klan, men who believed they were acting in defense of a Christian society that was being threatened by the demands of Black citizens asking for the basic rights promised by the Constitution. Their language was often wrapped in faith and patriotism, but their methods relied on fear and explosives.
What made the bombing of the church different was not the weapon or even the hatred behind it. What made it different was that the victims were children preparing for Sunday worship in a place that was supposed to represent safety, faith, and community.
And when the dust settled, the question that hung over the city was not only who had planted the bomb. It was why a place where so many bombings had already happened had allowed the conditions for another one to occur.
There was another girl in that basement bathroom that morning.
Her name was Sarah Collins, twelve years old, the younger sister of Addie Mae Collins. When the bomb exploded she survived, but the blast destroyed one of her eyes and left her body scarred with shards of glass. As rescuers pulled her from the rubble, she kept calling for her sister, unaware that Addie Mae was among the four girls who had been killed.
For the rest of her life Sarah Collins Rudolph would carry the physical evidence of that morning. The country would remember the four little girls whose names became symbols of the Civil Rights Movement, but the girl who lived carried a different kind of burden. Survival did not mean escape from the tragedy. It meant growing up with it.
As I thought about the girls who survived Birmingham and the ones who did not, another name kept returning to me, the way certain names sometimes stay lodged in memory long after the news cycle has moved on.
Virginia Giuffre.
I remember her name for the same reason I remember the names of the four little girls from Birmingham. In different ways, they did not survive the violence that entered their lives when they were still children.
The four girls never had the chance to grow up at all, their lives ended beneath the rubble of a church basement. Virginia Giuffre did grow up, but the violence she endured followed her into adulthood, shaping the course of her life long after the powerful men involved had returned to theirs.
Sometimes the world recognizes tragedy only when death arrives quickly. Other times the damage unfolds slowly across years, hidden beneath the language of scandal, lawsuits, and denials.
But in both cases the pattern is painfully familiar: powerful systems close ranks, explanations multiply, and the girls who were harmed are left to carry the consequences.
When I think about the four little girls in Birmingham, I cannot help but think about the girls in Iran.
They lived in different countries and died in different circumstances, but there is a thread connecting the rubble that buried them. In Birmingham the blast tore through a church basement where four girls had been preparing for Youth Day. In Iran missiles collapsed classrooms where girls had come to school expecting nothing more than another ordinary morning.
In both places little girls were killed because intelligence failed in the most fundamental way.
The men who planted dynamite beneath the steps of the 16th Street Baptist Church were not working from faulty maps or outdated coordinates. Their intelligence failure ran deeper than that. They had been taught a lie about Black people so complete that it convinced them terror was justified in defense of their version of America and their version of Christianity.
In Iran the failure appears to be more technical, targeting decisions made with information that should have been corrected long before missiles were launched.
But in the end both failures reveal the same dangerous truth. When the information guiding powerful decisions is wrong, whether corrupted by hatred or negligence, the consequences are not measured in strategy or policy, but in the lives of little girls who never get the chance to grow up.
As I sit with these stories โ four girls in a church basement in Birmingham, girls in classrooms in Iran, survivors who carry the damage long after the rubble is cleared โ I am left with a truth that refuses to soften itself for our national comfort.
We like to tell ourselves that Birmingham belonged to a darker, less enlightened America, the work of extremists whose hatred does not represent who we are today. But that explanation becomes harder to believe when little girls in another country die beneath weapons launched in the name of America while our leaders speak proudly about strength, precision, and lethality.
The language may change. The uniforms may change. The justifications may sound more sophisticated.
But the pattern feels disturbingly familiar.
When intelligence is corrupted โ by racism, by ideology, by arrogance, or by simple incompetence โ the people who pay the price are rarely the ones making the decisions. They are the ones with the least power in the room, the smallest voices in the story.
They are the little girls who never get the chance to grow up, and the survivors who must carry the memory of what powerful men decided their lives were worth.
History makes one thing painfully clear: justice rarely moves quickly when power is involved. When it does arrive, it is carried forward by survivors and by the stubborn refusal of ordinary people to forget the names of the girls who should have been allowed to grow up.
Source: Little Girls
