How dare you call this outrage?
We’ve watched the unspeakable unfold,
our screens soaked in blood
like ink spilled across history.
Yet you are outraged at what?
At the volume of the cry?
We’ve been watching a genocide
in 4K for over two years—
Thousands upon thousands of civilians gone,
The names dissolve in headlines.
The entire population is being starved
with deliberation, like a siege
performed for a global audience.
At people crawling toward sacks of flour,
At hands reaching for water.
And I will never unsee what I’ve seen—
Small bodies lined in rows,
Their faces blurred not by modesty
A girl with half a smile,
Still clinging to her doll.
His name scrolling past in silence.
I’ve watched mothers carry limbs
That used to be children,
Heard the breathless wails
Through my clean, well-lit screen.
They are wounds I carry in my chest.
I will never forget Hind Rajab’s voice,
trapped in a car full of her family’s silence,
“Is someone coming to help?”
She was on the line for hours.
Amputations without anesthesia.
reduced to rubble and dust.
buried beneath the weight of steel.
scattered like ash in the wind.
their lenses shattered beside them
like one last, unblinking eye.
Whole bloodlines folded like tents.
Millions displaced. Millions.
Wrap your head around that,
if your screen hasn’t numbed it out,
if your coffee still tastes like coffee.
when the streets fill with cries—
at the architects of this horror—
when we watched children die
When grain trucks were filled with death,
each bag of flour a tombstone,
When bread became contraband
and water, a death sentence?
Don’t lecture us about tone.
As if symmetry could be drawn
between the drone and the infant,
between the bulldozer and the cradle.
who taught you this symmetry?
Who taught you to ignore the body’s cry?
was another inch of earth
Every euphemism—conflict, incursion, strike—
was a disinfectant poured over blood.
You scrolled past the body,
but not for the siege to end.
after the microphones have been crushed.
The silence is not passive.
air-conditioned, sealed in plastic—
locked with a key you forged yourself.
and become unpublishable,
who kept their hands clean
heard the children scream
that governments armed the killers,
pundits blurred the crimes,
that people stood in the streets
with severed names on cardboard signs,
and were met not with justice
It means the atrocities of the past
only the rules in plain sight.
We asked how people could sit by,
say, “We were just following orders.”
We are watching it unfold.
So, the question is no longer “how.”
It is not how this happens,
to witness the end of children’s futures
and call it “complicated”?