1. United States
2. Okla.
3. Letter

No mother should fear each sunrise. Yet in Palestine, fear is the rhythm of survival. Smoke paints the skies where kites once flew. Cries echo through the rubble where lullabies once hummed. Innocence is buried beneath broken concrete, and dreams are swallowed. What name do we give a world where a child’s final breath is taken beneath rubble? Where fathers dig with bare hands to find their sons, and mothers are forced to memorize the shape of their children’s hands in case they must later identify them? What moral claim survives when bombs strike hospitals, when aid is denied, when water and bread become luxuries, and living becomes a defiance? This is not a conflict. This is a catastrophe—deliberate and sustained. This is not war. This is not defense. This is devastation. Entire families are wiped from the registry of the living in seconds—names never to be called again, futures never to be written. How long will the world look away while children’s bodies are pulled from ruins? How many more olive trees must be burned, how many prayers silenced, before this is called what it is: the deliberate destruction of a people? No cause, no history, no policy can justify the bombing of hospitals, the starving of civilians, the systematic stripping of dignity from an entire nation. To flatten a land is one thing. To extinguish its spirit is another. There is no humanity in apathy. Silence is not neutral—it is betrayal. You do not have to be Palestinian to feel this grief. You only have to be human. And I, as a human, as a voice still free to speak, will not stay silent while Gaza bleeds. I will not turn away while the world permits the erasure of a people under the false guise of security. To stay silent is to condone. To look away is to allow. This is not politics. This is people. This is not strategy. This is slaughter. End the siege. End the silence. End the suffering. History is watching. And so are we. We will not forget. We will not forgive. We will not be silent.