I wait for my missile

When I hear a helicopter, I go to the window, look at the sky, and wait for my missile; longing for the comfort it might bring. When I hear a tank and feel my breath choke under the bombardment, I think of others; burning alive and suffocating to death. When I hear silence, I remember the world and the life beyond, but it hasn't been quiet for two years, not since I was born a human.

I'm so heartbroken; my heart has shattered for a million reasons. After difficult shifts, I suffer the worst heartbreaks. And every shift has been difficult. It leaves me with numbness through my body and deep aches, as if I've been struck and trampled by a massive tank, a feeling that comes from a nightmare I once had, long before this genocide. In that nightmare, I didn't know who that person was; the one who disappeared into the sand. I never forgot that dream, and I never imagined it would come true, only to discover that reality would be far worse, far more horrific and inhumane.

I feel ashamed to admit my exhaustion and fatigue in front of those who are far more tired than I am. I am someone who has a home and a family to return to, where I can rest from my exhaustion. When you witness fatigue and illness, and you touch people's suffering, your soul grows humble and softens, and you become more compassionate.

But sometimes, the fatigue is so terrible that it leaves you unable even to feel for others; you want nothing more than to close your eyes, go into a deep sleep, and then wake up to start all over again; the cycle of survival, and trying to help others survive too.

Someone told me I should write my will. But for what purpose? I wrote one months ago, and I know that everything I put in it means nothing in this world. So I let it go and forgot about it, and I will never do it again. I will not beg the world to save me anymore.

I have done my part.

Now, I am a martyr, and a witness to the world's unforgivable failure!

May I be honest with you?

If the world had never become aware of us, they would have killed us all; and perhaps that would have been easier than enduring this endless massacre waiting to be saved.

Non-stop bombing and airstrikes today, and every day they grow more crazy like rabid beasts, while the world is still thinking of a way to stop them.

One more thing: we are all martyrs already. The world should not pity us, it should pity itself