That's it

We wrote to be their voice, we wrote to tell the world about the horrors of what people are living under the genocide, how they died, how they were bombed, how their limbs were amputated, how much hunger and thirst they lived, how much fear lurked for them in the chapters of the war that has not ended, while they continue to experience all kinds of torment, oppression and death, and live the horror of reality and the strangeness of events, and the curse of displacement, tents and shelters. We thought that if this world did not hear the voices and did not see the pictures, it would certainly read what was happening, and it remained incumbent upon us to print with our words the scenes of genocide. We never thought that our words would end and that the language of speech would cease, and the war of genocide did not end, and we never thought that what we were counting on, a civilized world with international and UN charters and international law, would intervene to stop the massacre, and that it would not abandon its humanitarian duty. No one could have imagined this grave moral downfall, which has silenced most international institutions, which have adopted this foolish neutrality.

The ink has dried, but the bloodshed in Gaza has not stopped, nor has the ongoing suffering, unjust siege, and great devastation. All that remains for us is to silently carry all the pain inside us, and to count the disappointments that have befallen us from this fake world, which has remained silent and evaded its responsibilities, while the people of Gaza live under the weight of genocide, siege, and the woes of death and constant hunger, which is intensifying and increasing with the passage of time, in these days burdened with calamities and uncertain destinies.

Words are no longer able to console a child searching for his mother under the rubble, or to calm the heart of a mother carrying her newborn's shroud and crying bitterly, or a wife gathering the remains of her husband that were scattered by the bombing, or the grief of men who die unjustly and oppressively. When the pictures shattered, the lights went out, and only the truth remained screaming in the face of this mute world, words could no longer add more than what was said. Death has become daily bread, fear an incessant companion, and the massacres an endlessly repeated scene. We have often said that the story is over, for the horrific scenes that are conveyed in sound and image are greater than words can describe, the magnitude of the pain cannot be reduced to a few lines, and the distance of fear and horror is greater than the meanings of language, and in the face of the reality of the situation, words are silent.

We said that we are witnesses to what happened and is happening, and that the least you can do is to feel for the victims, to write for them and about them, to tell stories to soothe their bleeding wounds and their eternal pain, to tell the world the horrors of the occupation’s brutality and bloodshed, to describe the ugliness with words, and that duty dictates that the voices of the bereaved, the stories of the oppressed, the displacement of the survivors, the hunger of the children, the oppression of the men, and the sin of the world’s silence not be absent.

We wrote about the bonds that bind us together, hoping that the human conscience would move and awaken, so that the genocide would stop, and with it the ethnic cleansing projects would stop, and the chapters of the massacre that have not ended would come to an end. Rather, the occupation and its extremist government insist on continuing it, and on moving forward on the path of destruction and devastation. This is the reality of Gaza, where every detail is surrounded by death: its air, its soil, its sea, and even the dreams of its children, whose limbs were amputated before they grew up, to experience a moment of embrace.

We wrote, waiting for the day we would wake up to write "Good morning Gaza," hoping for a morning without planes and tanks besieging it, and we are certain that that morning will come, no matter how long we wait.

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Words are powerless to console a child searching for his mother under the rubble, or to calm the heart of a mother carrying her newborn's shroud and crying bitterly, or a wife gathering the remains of her husband that were scattered by the bombing, or the grief of men who die of oppression and injustice.