I have deleted dozens of posts which I wrote in the past few days. Our hearts are torn. I sleep thinking of the sound of every stomach in my family who is trapped in this genocide.
My Dad, whose hair has turned gray. His shoulders have bent on. The skin of his once-full body has loosened.
My mom, who has never cooked a meal without leaving aside some for a beloved one who might catch its scent and pass by to visit.
My sister, who locks herself in a room to escape the cries of her hungry children.
My brother, whose feet are torn as he searches hopelessly for flour.
What kind of a hell is this that is not coming to an end?
Marah El Wadiya
18/07/2025
