For the souls of Gaza, and all who mourn unheard.
I weep for the children whose names were never written in victory, only in ledgers of loss.
I cry for the mothers whose wombs bore only graves and whose lullabies are now silence.
The streets run with fear thick as blood, and the walls echo with prayers unanswered.
How many times must the sun rise on the bones of brothers buried in dust?
They say “security,” but I see only siege. They say “conflict,” but I hear colonization. They say “both sides,” but I count bodies, and they are not balanced.
My lament is not for politics but for proximity— to pain, to powerlessness, to the peril of being born in the wrong place beneath the wrong sky.
And yet— beneath rubble, songs. In alleyways, resistance. In every mother’s whisper, the vocabulary of survival.
I write this not for attention— but because silence is betrayal. And I, I choose to speak.