Faith Whitby

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@CityPowerJhb This outage also affects Glenhazel and other areas. Ref CPWEB 5232759.

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@CityPowerJhb Power off in Glenhazel. Ref CPWEB 5232759. Please update.

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@JHBWater What is the update on Linksfield reservoir?

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@JHBWater What is the update on Linksfield reservoir?

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@JHBWater Water off in Glenhazel

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@JHBWater Please provide an update on water outage in Glenhazel, Linksfield and surrounding areas.

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@JHBWater Water off in Glenhazel. No notification of maintenance work being done. What is happening?

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@JHBWater No water in Glenhazel - falls under Linksfield reservoir. What is happening?

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@CityPowerJhb Power out in Glenhazel as well.

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@CityPowerJhb Power out in Glenhazel as well.

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@CityPowerJhb Power out in Glenhazel. Ref CPWEB 4967122.

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@CityPowerJhb power out in Glenhazel. Ref CPWEB4936188. Please escalate.

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@CityPowerJhb Good day - we received notification that there would be a planned power disruption today, Wednesday 22 October, from 9am to 5pm. Is this the cause of the outage?

[Dr. Ezzideen @ezzingaza]

Two years ago, on a Friday that now stands outside of time, my father prepared a feast. It was meant to honor life, my graduation, my return, the promise of a future. The table was full, not only with food, but with faith: the quiet, unspoken faith that tomorrow would exist. How easily we believe in continuity, in the mercy of another morning.

We gathered as one family, laughing, speaking over one another, breaking bread with careless joy, pouring juice into glasses as though it were the wine of peace itself. Each gesture was a prayer, though none of us knew it. My father’s hands moved as Christ’s once did, blessing the bread, dividing it among those he loved. And somewhere, though no one could name it, there hung in the air that same fragile foreboding that filled the upper room in Jerusalem, when love spoke its last words before betrayal.

The air trembled with that kind of happiness which only later reveals itself as farewell.

And then, silence.
The silence that only the dead can teach.

When I look now at the photographs, I see the faces of the condemned, though they did not know it. More than half of them are gone, devoured by what men call war and what truth calls murder. The homes that once contained our breathing, our prayers, our smallest tenderness, crushed. The gardens that smelled of oranges and evening, erased. I walk in memory as one walks through ruins, touching the stones of vanished laughter.

October 7 was not the birth of a war; it was the death of illusion. On that day, history tore itself open, and the wound has not closed. It bleeds through every surviving soul. And in that blood I see not only the crime of one nation against another, but the crime of humanity against itself, the old, endless betrayal that men repeat while invoking God.

If justice still exists, it must weep.
If God still looks upon this earth, He must avert His eyes.

This day should be marked forever, not as an event of politics, but as a revelation of the human abyss. Let every flag descend into silence. Let every tongue fall still. Because what was taken from us was not only life, but the very rhythm of being alive, the rustle of bread torn by a father’s hand, the sound of a child laughing before she learns what grief is.

They took from us the ordinary, and left us with eternity.

And yet, I remain. I, who ate with them, who still taste that bread in my mouth as though it were guilt itself. I live, and I do not know why. Perhaps only to remember. Perhaps only to tell the world that history is not written in treaties or speeches, but in the trembling of hands that once passed a dish across a table, in the laughter that did not know it was bidding farewell to the world.

There was a feast once, and it became the Last Supper of my people.
And the world, indifferent, learned, self-satisfied, did not attend.
But it must remember. Because if it does not, then we, the living, will have died for nothing, and the dead will have died twice.

#GazaGenocide

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@Dr_SaebGaza .

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@MotazSaleh2001 .

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@CityPowerJhb Power out in Glenhazel. Ref CPWEB4717287. Please escalate.

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@CityPowerJhb No power in Glenhazel and surrounds. Ref CPWEB 4702269. Please escalate.

[Faith Whitby @FaithWhitby1]

@CityPowerJhb Power out in Glenhazel. Ref CPWEB 4674895.

[Dr. Ezzideen @ezzingaza]

There are places on this earth that God has abandoned. Or perhaps it is not God who has abandoned them, perhaps it is man who has exiled God, slaughtered Him, buried Him beneath the rubble with the others, and then dared to go on speaking His name.

Gaza is not a city. It is a wound that festers in full view of the world. It is hell, not the theatrical hell of fire and demons, but a silent, suffocating abyss into which all meaning has collapsed. There are no people here. No. There are phantoms shaped like people, creatures who continue to move only because death refuses them out of boredom or cruelty. They wake. They eat when there is food. They sleep if the bombs allow it. They do not live. To live requires hope, and hope has been torn out of them like entrails from a corpse.

The war, if one still dares to call it that, is not a conflict. It is a ritual of annihilation. A meticulous dismantling of anything that breathes, thinks, creates, or dreams. And the young, God, the young, how they tried. During a ceasefire, those damned, brave fools believed, even if just for a moment, that they could still forge a future. They made cafés. Not cafés, sanctuaries. They scraped together shattered desks and flickering bulbs and dying routers. They sat there, faces gaunt with hunger, backs bent not from age but from exhaustion and fear, and they worked. They worked. As if work could save them.

Then they were bombed.

Not soldiers. Not even agitators. Just children with laptops. Children who clung to dignity the way the drowning cling to driftwood. Their blood soaked the same keys they used to send CVs into the void. Their corpses slumped forward as if still searching for a Wi-Fi signal, still trying to live.

And the child. The boy. Thirteen, maybe. He sold coffee. That was his contribution to this desperate little civilization gasping for breath. His final act on this earth was to carry a cup of coffee he would never deliver. He died for that cup. And there he lay, blood pooling beneath his body, hand still clenched around a handle, as though he could not, would not let go.

There is no war here. Only execution. Only the mechanized, deliberate erasure of a people’s very existence. Not for victory. Not for defense. For nothing. For sport. For madness.

Gaza is not dying. Gaza is being murdered. And the murderers are not hiding. They do not need to.

They know the world has no soul left to stir.

#GazaGenocide