Everything is not ok

Everything I try to do here costs me so much of myself; my health, my memory, my time, and sometimes, my sanity.

It could have cost me my life, too, but I've been luckier than hundreds of thousands of my people.

Everything drains my humanity, leaving it fatigued, barely holding on.

Everything here is rough, cruel, and unbearably difficult.

We are drowning in oceans of suffering.

Everything makes me unbearably heavy, unbearably sad, so sad it makes me feel less than human.

What once was easy is now nearly impossible.

What was hard is now completely unreachable.

And everything slowly pushes you toward madness, until you become a ghost who feels nothing.

This is not what I deserve.

I deserved to feel others, and for others to feel me

Every time we hear the sound of an airdrop plane, we rush to the windows, lift our heads to the sky, just to see it.

The sight of a large aircraft flying above us amazes us, because most of us have never seen a single plane in our entire lives.

But just moments later, everyone returns to what they were doing, turning away from the sky, and from the freedom it holds, a freedom we've never known.

When the warplanes come, we barely react. We stay where we are, waiting, either for bad news, or to become the news.

Warplanes no longer scare us. They are simply the most familiar sound in our lives!

How are we coping?

I'm used to exhaustion. People are used to death. Children are starving.

And the enemy is closing in, choking us from every direction. Soon, we'll be nothing more than a sad memory in your lives.

Here, what doesn't kill you doesn't make you stronger; not most of the time. What doesn't kill you, makes you wish it did.

What doesn't kill you, shatters your bones and buries your dreams.

What doesn't kill you, leave you paralyzed in a collapsed hospital, without diapers, without laxatives, without painkillers. What doesn't kill you, leave you in a coma, unknown on a cold floor, alone. What doesn't kill you, makes you starve; slowly, until your body gives up.

What doesn't kill you, torture you, again and again, until it finally does. What didn't kill you, made you wish it had.

AND STILL, THE WORLD IS JUST SORRY.

Why do people ask what they can do for me? Why don't they already know?

It's been two years. Two years of genocide. Two years of begging, bleeding, breaking.

And people still ask what I need? I need to be saved.

I need every action to be made in the direction of saving my family and my people.

That's what I need. That's what would help me.

You cannot support someone who's waiting their turn to be erased by asking them how they cope. You can't help by telling them to "stay safe," or "stay strong," or "don't lose hope."

Hope doesn't change this brutal reality, not even a little. You want to help? Then do everything you can. Try new things. Try everything. Help end this!

I don't even know what to say anymore. Right now, I'm unsure of everything, and

I've lost my trust, and my hope, in the world, and in most people.

Still, I felt an urgent need to write, to share something, anything.

I don't deserve this. No one does. There isn't an emoji, a poem, a song, nothing, that

could capture how I feel. This is beyond dehumanization.

I'm not just tired. I'm not just overwhelmed, frustrated, or depressed; all the worst feelings at once.

No. I feel dead.

I only hope to be remembered as someone who never gave up, not on his people, and not on life.

And maybe that won't matter much once I'm gone, but I still care about the kind of memory I leave behind.

We must never be forgotten.

And those who did this must never be forgiven.