https://x.com/ezzingaza/status/1930360856589566428
I saw a woman today.
No. She was not a woman.
She was a shadow in human shape, curled in the ruins of a kitchen that no longer existed, feeding her infant an empty spoon.
Over and over.
“Eat,” she whispered, as if mercy could be faked long enough to save him.
And the child obeyed. Because hunger makes gods of mothers, even when they have nothing left to give but lies.
This is not famine. This is theology.
This is where faith is tried like meat over flame; slowly, until it screams.
In Gaza, children are not raised. They are rationed. Born between airstrikes, raised under sanctions, educated in silence.
Here, death is no longer a tragedy. It is a statistic. It does not come like a thief in the night.
It comes like the postman; regularly, predictably, professionally.
They send trucks. Not enough. Never enough. Ten thousand people chase one truck, like dogs beneath the emperor’s table.
And the world says, “Why do they fight like animals?”
Because they are starving. Because they are forgotten. Because this was always the plan.
Yes, the starvation is by design.
Not just to kill, but to unmake.
To peel back human skin until only impulse remains. So that one day, when they eat each other, the world may say, “See? We were right all along.”
But I ask you:
If a child starves in the dark, while men argue over borders, and priests preach of patience, and human rights organizations hold another symposium.
What is the value of that child’s life?
Less than your comfort?
Less than your belief in a just world?
If a single child must die for your silence, if one infant must be buried beneath rubble so that your country may have good diplomatic standing, then I say:
Return your progress.
Return your civilization.
Return your peace.
I do not want it.
You say, “This is war.”
No. War ends. This is eternal.
This is the organized execution of hope. And somewhere in the dust, beneath the broken mosques and blood-streaked bread lines, God is watching.
But I do not know if He is weeping, or choking on His own shame.
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