Earlier this year I called on my network to write a letter to their counterpart in Gaza, as a creative and heart-felt piece of advocacy. The suggestion was to share it widely; on social media, to the local news paper as a letter to the editor, to politicians, to blogs... This is the letter I wrote:

Dear Mama,

Over the past six months I feel like I have written this to you many times over in my mind; a collection of many moments in which I have thought of you. My words will never come close to expressing what I feel in my body, but it's time to put them down on paper none-the-less.

Though we are a world apart, separated by language and circumstance and perhaps even culture, we are united in our motherhood. As Mums we are the same.

I have a four year old son. Four and a half, actually. Every minute with him has the potential to turn into a prayer for you.

At the moment my son is a fussy eater. He used to love everything but now mostly eats bread, rice, pasta... It's a challenge to get fruit and vegetables off the plate and into his tummy. Last night I snuck some pumpkin into the sauce I made and he gobbled it all up and I felt such relief. And I thought of you Mama. Deliberately starved. Deprived of nourishment yourself and deprived of the ability to nourish your children. Forced to live on herbs or grasses that you have scrounged. Forced to wait, and wait, and wait for aid that is not even adequate or appropriate when it does manage to reach you. And I sent out a prayer for you.

At the moment my son needs to be reminded to drink water. A few days ago I asked him to have a drink but he was cheeky and took such a small sip I wondered if any liquid actually went down this throat. And I thought of you Mama. Without clean water to drink. Relying on bottled water, of which there is not enough. Having to turn to dirty water and to salty water. I thought of the anguish you must feel in the face of your children's thirst and the anguish you must feel at giving them water you wouldn't usually think fit for an animal. And I sent out a prayer for you.

Recently my son was sick with a virus. Nothing serious. A fever and a cough and a runny nose. But he was miserable and needed plenty of hugs and I fussed over him constantly trying to relieve his discomfort. And I thought of you Mama. Of you and your children facing far more serious medical issues with the majority of your health infrastructure wiped out. Few facilities or medicines or professionals. I thought of your family and friends and neighbours, some of whom need insulin or dialysis or chemotherapy, who suffer more and more every day in the absence of these. I thought of the injured, enduring surgeries and amputations without anesthesia. And of the wounded children with no surviving family members. And I sent out a prayer for you.

I feel like most of my day is spent keeping my son safe. "Look both ways before you cross the road, sweety." "Both hands on the ladder, handsome." "Do you feel secure standing on the end of the shopping trolly like that, dude?" Just last night as I was cooking that sauce that I hid the pumpkin in, my son came into the kitchen to show me a vehicle he had built with Lego. And I told him "that's great honey, but Mummy is cooking with hot oil and it might spatter. Leave the kitchen darling, it's not safe." And I thought of you Mama. There. Where nowhere is safe. Where no matter what you do, and through absolutely no fault of your own, you cannot keep your children safe. And I sent out a prayer for you.

Today I walked with my son as he rode his bike to kinder. He always rides his bike there because the journey helps him to prepare for the separation to come. Until starting kinder, my son had never been away from me or his Dad for more than a few hours. And even then he was always with family. As he rode today he told me his tummy felt a bit sore, and that he thought it was because he feels sad. I told him I feel that in my tummy too sometimes. That it's normal. When we hugged he said "we are always together" and I continued "even when we are apart." I have taught him that we are always in each other's hearts. All of this to prepare him for four hours without me. And I thought of you Mama. At the wrenching feeling of being separated from your children. Of the torture of not knowing whether they are alive or dead. Of the deepest longing that wonders if you will ever be together again. And I sent out a prayer for you.

See Mama, I think about you all the time. I feel you are with me, next to me, in every moment. We do not know each other. But also, we know each other intimately. We are so different and yet we are the same.

Yes, I think about you all the time Mama. But I doubt you ever think of me. Why would you? Unless, perhaps it is to wonder if I even see you, if I even care? If I am complicit? If I am doing anything at all to help you, mother to mother?

I want you to know that I do see you. And I care. And my letters to politicians and my shares to social media and the conversations I have with family and friends feel grossly inadequate. Yet I persist because I know that if enough people take these small actions it can alter the actions of our governments and corporations. Compared to all that you have to carry, the burden I have to carry, the burden of knowing that I do not - cannot - do enough for you, is one I shoulder willingly because it drives me to do more for you, to do better for you. Even this letter feels inadequate at best, self-indulgent at worst. But I figure it is better said than left unsaid?

Mama, I wonder if you feel close to your God? It is Allah? I grew up without a faith. Through Yoga I have found a love I never knew existed, and I have never felt closer to God. For me it is Krishna. Or Kali. Or Universal Consciousness. Or the Earth. So many names! I meditate and I pray and I make offerings. I hope that some how it reaches you, from my heart to your heart.

My vow to you is to keep bearing witness and to keep using my own voice to call for an end to this genocide. My vow to you is to keep thinking of you, and to send out a prayer for you every time I do.

With great love and hope,

Shae