Since I have no communication whatsoever with my family back in Gaza, I’ve been examining the faces of the killed and wounded, looking for them.
When I realize that the woman covered with blood, due to Israeli, American, British, French, and Austrian terrorism isn’t my mum, I feel relieved.
When I realize that the man crying over his demolished house because of Israeli, American, British, French, and Austrian terrorism isn’t my dad, I feel relieved.
When I realize that the young women lying on hospital beds, due to Israeli, American, British, French, and Austrian terrorism aren’t my sisters, I feel relieved.
When I realize that the young men being pulled from beneath the wreckage of the destroyed houses, due to Israeli, American, British, French, and Austrian terrorism aren’t my brothers, I feel relieved.
When I realize that the killed babies who are covered with debris, dust, and their own blood, due to Israeli, American, British, French, and Austrian terrorism aren’t my little nephew and niece, I feel relieved.
A relief that lasts for seconds because I know that those innocents killed by the Israeli military are someone else’s mum, dad, sisters, brothers, nephews, and nieces.
Then, a sound in my mind whispers back to me, “They survived this raid. But don’t raise high hopes for the next one because it’s coming now.”
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