Mello @MMason66875 - Twitter Profile

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Mello @MMason66875

9 months ago

Not new, just starting over. Minor, Palestinian-German, Anorexic, Queer #FreePalestine HAAAAIIIII

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Mello @MMason66875

3 days ago

I think imma be gone for a few days. Am so drained but I love you all. I love u lukas I love you mika I love u Jayce I love u nyxie I love u dosto I love u luu I love you and all others so much, seriously. You all mean the world to me. Huuuggssss

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Mello @MMason66875

3 days ago

Pretty oomfies of mine I really don't have the strength to answer or scroll through posts rn. Hope you're well, imma be back soon:3

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MMason66875 retweeted

Dr. Ezzideen

@ezzingaza

5 days ago

There are wounds that belong to the body. There are wounds that belong to war. And there are wounds so deep that neither flesh nor medicine can fully explain them. One afternoon, a mother entered the clinic carrying her child in her arms. She did not look different from any other mother. She held him with the same careful tenderness, the same instinctive protection with which women have carried their children through every century of human suffering. I asked what had brought her to us. “Diarrhea,” she answered. It was an ordinary complaint in an extraordinary place. But as I leaned closer, I noticed dark patches scattered across the child’s face. I pointed toward them. Before I could speak, the mother interrupted softly. “That is not the worst of it.” Then she turned him over. What I saw upon his back seemed less like a disease than a sentence. A vast dark lesion spread across his small body as though some invisible hand had written its sorrow upon his skin. The same marks had already reached one of his hands. Quietly, patiently, they continued their advance. “What is it?” I asked. The mother shook her head. “We do not know.” Had she visited a specialist? Once. She had been given a cream and sent away with the terrible gift of uncertainty. Then I asked the question that revealed the true illness. Why had she never sought another opinion? The answer did not come immediately. Some silences require courage. When she finally spoke, it was not medicine that stood accused. It was humanity. Her husband refused to take the child outside. He was ashamed. Ashamed of his own son. Ashamed of the gaze of strangers. Ashamed of questions. Ashamed of whispers. He blamed his wife for the child’s condition, as though suffering were inherited from guilt and disease were evidence of a crime. Sometimes he would not even leave the house himself, fearing that others might see the child and, through the child, judge him. At that moment the lesion upon the boy’s skin became the smallest tragedy in the room. For there is something more terrible than a disease. It is abandonment. There is something more painful than physical suffering. It is teaching a child that he must hide. The world has always possessed a cruel habit. It sees what is unusual before it sees what is human. It notices the scar before the smile, the deformity before the soul, the wound before the child. And little by little, those who are stared at begin to disappear, not from life, but from sight. They are kept indoors. Kept silent. As I looked at the boy, I found myself wondering how many battles he had already inherited. A battle against disease. A battle against war. A battle against poverty. And now, a battle against shame. He had chosen none of them. No child chooses the burdens laid upon his shoulders. Yet there he sat, carrying them all. Small enough to fit in his mother’s arms. Heavy enough to carry the failures of an entire society. Perhaps the saddest part was not what covered his body. Perhaps the saddest part was the possibility that his family had suffered alone for so long that they had begun to mistake despair for destiny. War does more than destroy buildings and hospitals. It destroys the systems that guide people toward hope. It leaves families alone with terrifying questions and no one to answer them. Alone with shame where there should be support. Alone with fear where there should be treatment. And after enough years of carrying that burden alone, people begin to believe that nothing will ever change. That there will never be a diagnosis. Never be a treatment. Never be a future different from the one they see today. #WoundedGaza

ezzingaza's tweet photo. There are wounds that belong to the body. There are wounds that belong to war.

And there are wounds so deep that neither flesh nor medicine can fully explain them.

One afternoon, a mother entered the clinic carrying her child in her arms.

She did not look different from any other mother. She held him with the same careful tenderness, the same instinctive protection with which women have carried their children through every century of human suffering.

I asked what had brought her to us. “Diarrhea,” she answered.
It was an ordinary complaint in an extraordinary place.

But as I leaned closer, I noticed dark patches scattered across the child’s face. I pointed toward them.

Before I could speak, the mother interrupted softly. “That is not the worst of it.”

Then she turned him over.
What I saw upon his back seemed less like a disease than a sentence.

A vast dark lesion spread across his small body as though some invisible hand had written its sorrow upon his skin. The same marks had already reached one of his hands. Quietly, patiently, they continued their advance.

“What is it?” I asked.
The mother shook her head. “We do not know.”

Had she visited a specialist? Once.
She had been given a cream and sent away with the terrible gift of uncertainty.

Then I asked the question that revealed the true illness.

Why had she never sought another opinion?
The answer did not come immediately. Some silences require courage.

When she finally spoke, it was not medicine that stood accused.
It was humanity.

Her husband refused to take the child outside. He was ashamed. Ashamed of his own son. Ashamed of the gaze of strangers. Ashamed of questions. Ashamed of whispers.

He blamed his wife for the child’s condition, as though suffering were inherited from guilt and disease were evidence of a crime.

Sometimes he would not even leave the house himself, fearing that others might see the child and, through the child, judge him.

At that moment the lesion upon the boy’s skin became the smallest tragedy in the room.

For there is something more terrible than a disease. It is abandonment.

There is something more painful than physical suffering. It is teaching a child that he must hide.

The world has always possessed a cruel habit. It sees what is unusual before it sees what is human.
It notices the scar before the smile, the deformity before the soul, the wound before the child.

And little by little, those who are stared at begin to disappear, not from life, but from sight.
They are kept indoors. Kept silent.

As I looked at the boy, I found myself wondering how many battles he had already inherited.
A battle against disease. A battle against war. A battle against poverty.
And now, a battle against shame.

He had chosen none of them. No child chooses the burdens laid upon his shoulders.
Yet there he sat, carrying them all.

Small enough to fit in his mother’s arms. Heavy enough to carry the failures of an entire society.

Perhaps the saddest part was not what covered his body.
Perhaps the saddest part was the possibility that his family had suffered alone for so long that they had begun to mistake despair for destiny.

War does more than destroy buildings and hospitals. It destroys the systems that guide people toward hope.
It leaves families alone with terrifying questions and no one to answer them. Alone with shame where there should be support. Alone with fear where there should be treatment.
And after enough years of carrying that burden alone, people begin to believe that nothing will ever change.

That there will never be a diagnosis. Never be a treatment.
Never be a future different from the one they see today.

#WoundedGaza

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Mello @MMason66875

3 days ago

I WANNA KISS A GIRL TS IS UNFAIR

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MMason66875 retweeted

Andrey X

@the_andrey_x

4 days ago

🚨 Project Crimson Thread has already began destroying Palestinian agricultural land in the Jordan Valley. If completed, it will de-facto annex Jordan Valley into Israel, cutting off Palestinian access to the area.

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Mello @MMason66875

4 days ago

@fr3minet LECKEEEEER lass dirs schmecken

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Mello @MMason66875

4 days ago

@fr3minet YIIIPPEPEPEEEEEEEE

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Mello @MMason66875

5 days ago

@aeyzen_whoTf Wwiiee Cuuutteeee raahhhhh

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Mello @MMason66875

5 days ago

@_milkamika Honestly (don't wanna seem mean but) block him. It won't have real life consequences infact it may be better for ur wellbeing and if he got mental issued he deserves help but more than urs, professional. A weird vibe is also nun that benefits you n there r other ppl to help;)

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