I still have faith, but I no longer have hope

I still have faith, but I no longer have hope. I feel as though I have lost so much of what once made me feel human.

My life has been nothing but endless moments of oppression, frustration, and injustice. My home is collapsing on my chest, both literally and metaphorically.

War criminals will never stop killing the innocent. It runs in their blood to shed innocent blood as an act of revenge. The world itself has become an occupied place, owned by the powerful, who are destroying what remains of humanity. We are rapidly approaching a world unfit for human life, exactly as it has already become here.

This occupation feels like the end of everything. This injustice will not end, except with the end of life itself.

You think l am miserable? Can anyone imagine living under a brutal occupation for an entire lifetime, only to then endure an even more brutal genocide, with all its details and losses, for more than two years, just to face the very same criminals again? Criminals who deny mercy to thousands of children buried under rubble, and to hundreds of thousands of others robbed of their childhoods, all for greed and the pursuit of more power. Children left to die in the freezing cold, in pain. What kind of world is this?

A child writes," we are one million children, forced to wait for the unknown. Not to be compensated, not to live our childhood, but merely to learn whether we will be allowed to live even a single day in peace."

People experience pain at certain moments in their lives. As for us, our lives have been nothing but pain and loss. Even after we are killed, the pain does not end.

There will be no peace in a world built upon the ruins of our land and the corpses of our martyrs. This is an impossible illusion. Our land will curse you, and your own peoples wil curse you, until you begin to curse yourselves. Everyone, I am sorry we did not get the chance to meet in a better world. I am sorry you have to live in such a world with us. I am sorry that I can no longer feel the love, or hold on to the hope that so many still try to send me. This is a shameful end. I do not regret surviving to witness it.

My friend Aboud is a father now. His son was born weighing 3.1 kg. His name is Gaith, Which means, the rain that brings goodness. His mother gave birth in a field hospital, attended by a Palestinian doctor who once was my senior, the one who taught me how to deliver babies.