The City That Lost İts Voice: Gaza

This is not a poem — it is the gravestone of conscience.

The city fell silent.
But not the silence of peace —
A silence that screamed
so loud
it cracked the hearts of those who still had them.
The rest?
They heard nothing.
Their ears worked fine —
but their souls were deaf.

It was Gaza.
Where infants awoke before the stars,
cradled not in lullabies,
but in cannon fire.
Not the plaster —
but the dreams of children
fell from the walls each night.

There was a voice there —
Not a chant,
not a cry,
not a gunshot.
The very sound
of humanity choking
on its own indifference.

A child fell into the dust,
no toy in hand,
no goodbye on lips.
Just eyes
wide open
toward a sky
they thought kinder than the earth.

And you—
perhaps sighed,
"Such a shame,"
and went back
to your glowing screens.
But in that breath,
you helped bury a child
with your silence.

In Gaza,
a mother’s milk dried up,
and a baby
sucked at the earth,
hoping it would nourish.
You turned off the news —
because comfort
tastes better
without context.

To you, Gaza is far.
But to the soul,
it is closer
than your next heartbeat.

Your child went to school this morning.
Another
was wrapped not in uniform
but in a shroud.
You say,
“Geography is destiny.”
But no—
This is not fate.
This is failure.

A scream rose through the rubble,
louder than bombs,
a prayer woven
with the threads of ash and ash alone.
No smoke.
Just the scent
of burning innocence.

And still, we ask:
“Where is humanity?”
But silence answers back —
for even Humanity
is ashamed to be seen.

CODA (Let this burn where your conscience sleeps)

> There is a voice in Gaza—
not loud,
but endless.
Not fierce,
but final.
It speaks in the language
of what makes us human.

> There is a hand in Gaza—
if you do not take it,
it will fall.

> There is a gaze in Gaza—
deeper than the width of this world.
Not everyone is brave enough
to meet it.

> There is a grave in Gaza—
and we are all in it,
one heartbeat at a time.