Don’t we deserve answers

Why must I survive a genocide? Why do I have to live like this?

We, are 2.3 million besieged souls in Gaza, and we are left waiting for the world to decide whether we are worth saving; in exchange for a single hostage. This is not a made up story.

This is a true story, Built upon real genocide; a genocide that has happened, and is still happening to this day. This isn't a scene from some cursed, never-ending horror series. This is our daily, bloody reality.

Perhaps we should thank Alexander the hostage, shouldn't we?

Although the hostage; along with the other hostages, was used as a pretext for the massacre of thousands of indigenous Palestinian families, and for the crucifixion of those who survived. He may now, in bitter twist of irony, be the reason some of the remaining families are spared from endless slaughter... from a death that never dies..

For long and harrowing months, they, and the state they serve, a state the world's conscience has long rejected; were the reason children starved to death, and beheaded with no mercy.

And today, one of them; holding the passport of a shameless colonial empire that fuels terror and manufactures and imports hell; may be the key to saving what remains of our children from hunger, from fire, from annihilation....after their childhoods were shattered, and their innocence stolen.

Or maybe, all of this is nothing more than foolish hope, or a lie, or another layer of deception.

Perhaps the release of the "white hostage"at the request of the "White House' soaked in the blood of innocents, is nothing more than an urgent condition imposed by a maker of hell upon a war criminal; to grant him the green light, once again, to fling open the bloody gates of hell.

Not just upon "the greens," but upon all of us: our fading grey families...and even their "blue" hostages.

I write this now as the weight of this universe burns upon my chest; like my patient, previously healthy, who came to me at dawn yesterday suffering a sudden heart attack. The ache in my back, my arms, my legs; like the young man in bed number 3, paralyzed, whispering, "I can't feel my body....I’m in so much pain”

Like the mother in bed number 8, left motionless by the same massacre that day, groaning past midnight from a fire-like pain ripping through her body; a pain no drug could silence, crying as she looked at me and pleaded, "Please...just give me something to help me sleep.

Can you imagine them? Can you feel it?

Imagine having to tell a young man that his wife; lying in the "blue zone", is brain-dead... and that nothing in this world can ever bring her back. And all this time, they've been pleading with the world..just to be saved. They were failed; by the men of this world. Abandoned; by the mothers. Imagine having to tell desperately thirsty, lonely children that they can't drink water; because their survival depends on surgery, and drinking could kill them.

I write this, paralyzed with sorrow, with exhaustion, with universes of discomfort. I'm still here. Writing in silence. Wishing I could gather all the screams of the tormented into one single cry.

A cry loud enough to wake the sleeping human conscience.

Until we all die, together, in a single day Or live free... by the

justice of heaven.