Enough with the silence. Enough with the selective grief. Enough pretending this is not happening. Gaza is burning. Lebanon is trembling. Syria is bleeding. Sudan is drowning. And yet, many scroll past it like it’s just background noise, like these are mere “conflicts” on a map rather than massacres of human lives.
These are not accidents. These are deliberate crimes. This is not complicated. It is cruelty, dressed up in the language of politics and diplomacy. This is genocide plain and brutal while the world’s media dares to call it “tensions.” A three-year-old child in Gaza is not a terrorist. A grandmother in Lebanon is not a threat. A grieving father holding a blood-soaked baby is not collateral damage.
Where is the humanity?!? In a world where a broken window in a Western city makes global headlines, entire families wiped off the face of the earth in Palestine receive no names, no faces, no justice. Why??! Because their blood is not profitable. Because their resistance threatens a system built on control. Because they are Muslims, because they are Arabs, because they dare to exist where they were told not to.
Yet their voices, the ones buried beneath rubble and censorship are louder than ever. They are not victims; they are witnesses. They are not weak; they are warriors of truth.
Every child martyred leaves a scar on the soul of this planet and a reminder that silence is complicity.
You have a choice to look away, to scroll past, to stay quiet for your comfort, or to speak loudly, clearly, and fearlessly. History is watching. Allah is watching. The oppressed are calling, and your silence might be louder than the bombs.
Every day, Gaza bleeds. Children are pulled lifeless from the rubble. Mothers collapse over tiny white shrouds. And yet, the world scrolls on. This indifference hurts more than the images. The normalization of a genocide happening in real time is unbearable.
Gaza is under siege, under silence, under complete erasure. Walled in for over seventeen years, its people live without freedom, clean water, or electricity and now, without their families. Over thirty thousand people have been killed, many of them children. Newborns die in powerless incubators. There are no lullabies, only sirens; no baby blankets, only body bags.
Hospitals are bombed. Schools are turned to dust. Mosques are flattened. Refugee camps are struck repeatedly. If this is not genocide, then what is? Across the border, Lebanon trembles. A nation once called the Paris of the Middle East survives on fragments lining up for bread, living in darkness, burying dreams beside their dead. Their grief mirrors Gaza’s, a silent agony the world ignores just the same.
Posting and mourning are not enough when homes are rubble and babies are gone. There is no healing when bombs never stop. The loudest kind of pain echoes even when the internet is shut off and when the world does not listen.
This is not a war of weapons only; it is a war of narratives, and Gaza is losing both. The media calls it “complicated.” The powerful call it “self-defense.” But it is ethnic cleansing state-sponsored terrorism a brutal system built on walls, wires, and war designed not just to kill but to erase.
Still, Gaza refuses to be erased. Through dust and death, they write poems, pray, resist. Children smile. Mothers hope. Fathers rebuild what is destroyed. They live because their lives are resistance.
The United Nations warns that if nothing changes, 14,000 more children in Gaza could die in the next 24 hours. Yet, how does the UN only report the devastation without urgent action? Why are they counting bodies instead of saving them? Where is the protection? Where is the humanity?
As a reference, I would like to once again highlight the appeal to the world so powerfully conveyed by Qasim Ali (leader of Minorg), urging everyone to do all they can for Gaza. In making his appeal, he shared a story from Islamic tradition that holds profound meaning. When Prophet Ibraheem (AS) was thrown into a blazing fire by tyrants, all of creation watched in horror. Amid them, a tiny bird began flying back and forth to a river, scooping droplets of water in its beak and dropping them over the flames. The others laughed, asking, “What difference will your few drops make?” The bird replied, “It may not extinguish the fire, but I want my Lord to know that I DID what I could.”
This story is a powerful reminder that none of us can stop the bombs or rewrite history alone. But we can be that bird. We can show up with whatever we have our art, our voice, our prayers, our protests and flood the silence with resistance, humanity, and truth. I join him in that same plea. I beg you!! don’t underestimate the impact of your voice, your actions, your humanity. Whatever you can do, do it.
Let us create birds for Gaza not just paper ones, but symbolic acts of defiance, love, and remembrance. Let them fly across timelines and borders as signs that we will not be silent or complicit.
Gaza isn’t asking for charity. It’s asking for humanity for your voice, your outrage, for enough of the bombs, the lies, and the silence that kills as surely as missiles do.
If justice means anything, you cannot stay neutral. Act. Post. Protest. Educate. Amplify. Demand a ceasefire. Demand justice.
The war is real, the walls are high, the wires are live and history is watching all of us.
This is not just about borders or politics.
This is about babies who never got to open their eyes.
About mothers who never got to hear “mama.”
About people who only wanted to live, to breathe, to dream.
Don’t scroll past Gaza. Stand with it loudly, boldly, relentlessly, until Palestine is free.
And if my voice shakes while writing this, it’s because I carry their pain like a stone in my chest. I am not in Gaza. I am not in Lebanon. But I am a human being. And I refuse to let my words be silent when their cries are so loud.
If the world forgets them, I won’t.
And if I only have words to offer, then I will write them until my hands give out.
Because even ink can be a form of resistance.
And even grief, when shared, can become a spark.
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