The Grave Silence Over Gaza

I write not with anger, but with the burden of sorrow that cannot be cleansed by diplomacy nor buried beneath the noise of geopolitics. For in Gaza, the earth drinks the blood of children, and the sky records the cries of mothers, while the world—our world—calculates the cost of silence. Under the shadow of international law, we proclaimed the right to life, the protection of civilians, the inviolability of human dignity— yet those laws now hang shredded, like tents in the wind over the ruins of Gaza. Collective punishment is not security. Starvation is not strategy. Bombing hospitals does not build peace. What name do we give to this crime, when a child is crushed by steel, not by accident—but by policy? The Geneva Conventions did not expire. The UN Charter did not sleep. But your conscience did. To those who wage war on women and children, not in defense, but in arrogance— you have not struck a blow against terror. You have summoned it. And to those who watch in indifference, turning grief into political currency— remember: justice delayed is not justice denied. It is simply injustice rehearsed, for it may one day wear your name. The ashes of Gaza shall not be forgotten. History is not kind to those who close their eyes. And when the world asks how genocide returned to our time, it will look not only at those who dropped the bombs— but at those who watched.