I don't want to write about Gaza

I don’t want to write about Gaza. Don’t want to see still images of the bloodied streets full of blown off corpses, children, women, men, and the ghoulish videos of horrific screams pouring out of wounded human beings amidst macabre deaths.

Sometimes words leave you. Sometimes, the degree of horror and brutality snuff out heated air. And the responses from the civilized world, leaders and politicians, high brow scholars of glorified predilection to softening blows, intensify the silent acquiescence to massacres. In the name of furious self defense from rudimentary resistance of starved dehumanized, genocide is uplifted as camouflaged battle on fright.

I heard it enough!

I’d read the same stories many times now.

Nothing would change. People would die. Children would be crushed under collapsing buildings from bombs and missiles.

Agonies of women, widows, amputated school teachers would only be reverberated from the confined walls of their dismal surroundings. Emergency ambulances’ blaring roar would be faded away, as would the dying despairs.

Only the curses would remain for the living.

In words mumbled from blood dried swollen lips, and the silent stares of hopeless refugees, thoroughly maligned and smeared to the level of invertebrates, only the seething curse would be deciphered from exhaled grunts. Even the dismembered corpses in overflowing morgues would point the long stretched broken fingers in cold accusatory gestures.


Our culpability is affixed with destiny.