snake, son of plane

I swear to you. Before God. Before this wretched century. Before whatever last flicker of humanity may still remain in me, what I saw today was not life. It was the collapse of everything that ever claimed to be sacred. Once, Fridays in Gaza were holy. Not because of tradition, but because they were tender. A father would come home with fish, or perhaps a piece of chicken, and for one hour, we would eat like people. We were poor, but not degraded. We would smile across the table, thank God for a small plate of meat, and feel alive. We felt worthy of breath. Even the poorest among us knew this dignity. They saved all week. They endured hunger not out of habit, but for hope. For that one day. That one meal. That illusion of a normal life. But now? Today is Friday. And I walked through the streets of Gaza, not to celebrate, not even to feed, but to hunt for rice. Rotten rice. Gray grains that stick to your fingers and taste like nothing. Anything. Anything at all to fool the stomach into silence. My brother searched one market. I searched another. We returned with crumbs. We paid with the last coins we had. They ask for gold in exchange for ash. And we pay it, because the children must eat, and because we no longer dare to say what is fair. But I have not come to speak about rice. I have come to confess what I saw. A truck passed by. It was empty. Its floor was covered in a thin layer of flour dust. Just dust. Not bags. Not bread. Only the trace of something that might once have saved a child. And then I saw them. Not rebels. Not criminals. Children. They ran, ran like hunted things, toward that truck. They climbed it with hands that have never held toys. They fell to their knees as if before an altar. And they began to scrape. One had a broken lid. Another, a piece of cardboard. But the rest, the rest used their hands. Their tongues. They licked it. Do you hear me? They licked flour dust from rusted steel. From dirt. From the back of a truck that had already driven away. One boy was laughing. Not because he was happy, but because the body goes mad when it is starving. Another was crying, quietly, like someone who no longer believes anyone is listening. And I stood there. With all my shame. With my hands in my pockets, like a man waiting for a bus. Like I wasn’t watching the end of the world. I wanted to scream. But what scream can reach Heaven, when Heaven itself is deaf? What words can I offer? What words can explain the sound of a child’s tongue scraping against rust for a taste of flour? There are no metaphors left. There is no beauty in this. Only sin. Only crime. And we are all guilty. You. Me. The ones who sent the truck. The ones who sent the planes. And God? If You are watching, then cry with us. And if You are silent, then we are alone in this hell. This is the twenty-first century. But history has not moved forward. It has swallowed its own children and called it progress. I don’t want to write this. I want to unsee it. I want to forget the boy who licked the floor. But I can’t. Because I saw him. Because he is real. Because he is more real than all the words I’ve written. And because if I forget him, then I am no longer human. #GazaGenocide