Gaza is a mirror of our existential impotence

The cries of October 7th tormented me... The screams of October 7th killed me...
The voices of Gaza, etched in my memory, tell me, I implore you, how can I forget them?! How can I forget them?!

Gaza, I feel betrayal.. though, by God, I have not betrayed you!

Gaza, I feel ashamed... though, by God, I have not sold you out! I feel a deep humiliation that shatters my foundations and demolishes my very being... even though, by God, I have never flattered, pledged allegiance, normalized relations, compromised, or applauded...

But I confess, Gaza, that my shame has been exposed before headless children... and my vulnerability laid bare before women who have sounded the alarm...
My God... my Beloved... my Master... I feel that my prayers are hypocrisy... my home is hypocrisy... my food is hypocrisy... my work is hypocrisy... my sleep is hypocrisy... I feel that my whole life is hypocrisy...

And I know that my tears are betrayal... and that my depression, which has split my being into selves, has brought about the Day of Judgment...
Gaza... I have never confessed my fall to any being on this capsule throughout my life... but I confess to you my helplessness, my shame, and my melting away...

And I know, Gaza, that you are weary of speeches, demonstrations, poetry, and appeals... and how noble you are... for how can Gaza be liberated by words alone?! You stand between a Sunni who casts aside his modesty and a Shiite who fears shame!

O Seventh of October, in your name some believe, and some disbelieve. I believe that God's victory is coming, but I don't know if God will accept my apology.

O people of Gaza, will you accept my apology?

O people of Gaza, what can I do when the bullet is in someone else's hand?!

As for this bullet, I don't know how I fired it. As for the word, I have spoken it. And know that in the beginning was the word, and no one disputes that the word is a responsibility. Because my homeland suffers from political opportunism in a time when it needs every conscious pen to redraw the Palestinian scene as it truly is, without silence, falsification, cowardice, hypocrisy, or escape, I have spoken my piece. In every free word I wrote, I felt life, yet my words hovered strangely in my own space, held by vile smiles that offered me one hand in prayer and the other a dagger to slaughter! And I won't hide from you that slumber was an existential choice for the sleeping Arab giant, which considered the homeland a spy. So it pulled out its teeth, cut off its fingers, and imprisoned its rebellious spirits before it even slept. As for America's beast, it fed us the bread of terror, then rewrote history, bombed curricula, created political parties, and tore apart poems and the entrails of that child who was forced out in the small offices of brokerage. The lies of the nation of two billion Muslims were exposed by a heartbreaking moment: a child from Gaza, born amidst the inferno, had his head severed from his body before he could breathe his first breath, his head flying into space like a free bird fluttering towards his Lord to tell Him all that had happened. Faced with the erosion of meaning and the collapse of "logos" in a world that possesses all the tools and technology that have taken it to Mars, yet stands helpless (or complicit) in delivering a sip of water or a bandage to the remains of a child in a small, exposed spot, I was and still am searching for my suppressed voice there, calling out to my scattered pieces. On the land of Gaza, "I kiss the severed head of a child, I keep a part of a girl's body," I beg them to forgive me... to pardon me... to overlook my weakness, my helplessness, my shame, and my utter annihilation... perhaps God will forgive me and pardon me...

And I don't know if God will accept my apology...

O people of Gaza... will you accept my apology?

Gaza... I swear to God I tried, but I have no power or means, and God knows the extent of the intellectual and existential predicament I face, which has created a terrifying chasm between my consciousness and reality, and which has forced me to redefine my relationship with this paralyzed blue planet... And amidst this willful paralysis, these emasculated marches, and my alienation from myself, before a bloody spectacle whose curtain I have no right to close, my weeping has become merely a sonic vibration lost in a digital space that changes nothing of the reality of the massacres... But I try to speak about this profound moral rift; Because, philosophically speaking, one feels that one is living at the expense of the death of Gaza, which one was unable to save.

In conclusion, my philosophy of helplessness and pain offers no solace, but it does give helplessness another dimension: that the continued feeling of helplessness and pain over what is happening in Gaza is the final moral proof that you have not yet died as a human being. So, planet Earth, have you died as a human being, or are you still alive?