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Dear people, military and government of Israel,
As our feeble hands guide our thoughts into words, we yearn not for sympathy or commiseration but for understanding of the pain that has found a home in the marrow of our ever-fragile selves; a pain that is sourced from the tribulations we've been forced to endure. We write to you as the starving children of Gaza, not just the physical embodiment of desperation, but as the enduring spirit of humanity crying out for the recognition of our plight.
Have you ever felt the gnawing pain of an empty stomach? It is not the gentle ache of the skipped lunch, but a relentless torment that pangs every moment, overwhelming any room for the tranquility of thought. We starve. We starve, not because we wish to, not because we choose to, but because the circumstances of life have so dictated.
We encompass more than just a harrowing statistic, our suffering is more than just the mere shortage of food. Our souls starve as the world looks on. Our bodies wither; our clothes hang loosely, and our bones jut out in stark relief against sinewy flesh. But more worrying is a starvation of the soul, the crushing of our spirit - the very essence that makes us human. This is the starvation that leaves one a corpse long before death's inevitable embrace.
Water - an elixer as fundamental to life as breath itself. Yet, we beg for a sip more precious than rubies in our parched throats. Our parched tongues have long forgotten the simple joy of a cool drink, leaving the sensation a distant memory that paints our dreams with a bittersweet flavor. The action of begging, of pleading for the necessity of our survival, somehow makes the plight even more agonizing.
We beg not because we want to, but because we are driven to desperation. The thirst cripples our bodies; dryness penetrating the skin, causing cracks and fissures on our fragile skin. But it’s the thirst that cripples dignity, that crushes pride and leaves one trembling with humiliation. This is a thirst that doesn't just drain the body, but the spirit too.
It is a scar that sears through the innocence and the joy of being a child, leaving a mark that runs deeper than mere flesh, carving its path into the very soul. Our parents, constantly in a state of fear and anxiety, risked their lives, running towards aid trucks to feed us, to ensure we have water but often being met with an insurmountable peril.
The sound of gunfire is a lullaby too often heard. It echoes against the deserted walls of our homes and reverberates in the chambers of our hearts. It sows the seeds of fear and despair that bloom in our innocent eyes.
We ask you, as fellow children of Abraham, do we not bleed the same? Do we not share the same land, the same sun? Are we, too, not born from mothers who cherish us, fathers who work for our futures? Are we not part of the same source, crafted by the same divine hand?
Our parents, daring to hope, make a terrifying run toward aid trucks. Gunfire meets their desperation, their courage is returned with violence. The violence that turns our world into a living nightmare. Beaten and bruised, they return. Not always. It feels as if they're being punished for a crime they never did, a crime we certainly never did. Their only crime was to take care of their children, to provide for us, to ensure we, the younglings, wouldn't go a night hungry or thirsty; that we wouldn't be tormented anymore by the relentless pain.
We implore you, people of Israel, to understand us, to reform the context in which we find ourselves, not through the lens of hostility or prejudice but through an embracing perspective of shared humanity. It is not resignation but resolution to which we aspire. It is not to invoke commitment to a cause; instead we seek to awaken compassion for the children of mortal humans who live amongst gunfire and deprivation.
We are entwined in threads of history, conflict, and grievances here in this land we've both cherished. Our words, sprung from the depths of torment and infancy, echo a simple plea for peace: a plea for an existence where we are not defined by strains of our political contexts, but by our shared experiences; by our mutual hopes for the future.
We hope our words etch a vivid portrait of our battered, yet unyielding resilience, and our commitment to a promise of a better day, where thirst and hunger are mere shadows, and where our parents and loved ones need not risk their lives for a sip of water or a morsel of food. We hope for closure of this chasm, so we may rise above it, together, united as one.
We wish to live.
The Starving Children of Gaza.
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