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🚨Written Without Signal I write this with one dying hand raised to the sky, begging for a flicker of signal, as if God has been digitized, His mercy hidden in a satellite, unreachable by those He once made in His image. I type through an eSIM that is barely breathing, my phone lifted like an offering to the heavens. Last night, Gaza was not bombed. It was forsaken. The sky tore open above Jabalia and did not close again. Flames did not fall; they descended like judgment, deliberate and merciless. The eastern homes were not destroyed; they were erased from the memory of the earth, as if their existence had offended both men and gods. Cement turned to dust, walls to ash, and names into numbers. A girl, seven years old, died in her sleep. Not because she was near a battlefield, but because she was born under the wrong sky. A shard of metal found her heart and buried itself like a nail in the soft flesh of history. She died without warning, without a final word, in the arms of silence. And then, as a final act of divine mockery, they silenced us. The wires that held our voices, the trembling threads that stitched our grief together, were torn out. Not by accident. Not in the chaos of war. But with the intent of execution. The main fiber lines, once briefly restored by exhausted engineers, were struck again. Even the backup lifelines were hunted and destroyed. We are not just being killed. We are being made unknowable. Mothers cannot call sons. The dying cannot call for help. We cannot even whisper to each other that we are still here. In Gaza now, silence is not peace. It is suffocation. I am not writing this as a man. I am writing this as a grave that refuses to close. If this reaches you, know this: They are not merely destroying Gaza. They are un-writing it. They are dragging it into the void, so that even memory forgets how to mourn. And if you stay silent, then you, too, are placing stones over our mouth. #GazaGenocide‌

Ask me, and I will tell you that the bloodstains and torn limbs are still in my eyes—to the point that they turn red every time I remember the bags filled with the remains of my friends. Ask me, and I will tell you that my memory has emptied of everything except the blackness of night, the darkness of longing for the time before the catastrophe, and the knives of death planted in every lobe of my skull. Ask me, and I will tell you that it is not I who swim in the sea of blood—it swims inside me. This body has made room for an entire sea of blood, killing, death, oppression, hunger, thirst, loss, longing, and heartbreak without once letting out a scream. I remained still, silent, while this hand wrote my pain—and even my words are too small to contain it. Ask me, and I will tell you that there isn’t a form of death I haven’t seen, faced, embraced, or been embraced by. I kissed it, and it kissed me—but for its own emotional reasons, it couldn’t take me. I survived the drowning, but the sea has never left my eyes.

Five-month-old Siwar Ashour is being ravaged by severe malnutrition and acute dehydration. Her mother makes an urgent appeal to the world as Siwar’s life hangs in the balance, with Gaza’s crossings sealed shut by Israel since March 2, 2025. Doctors warn she will not survive much longer without immediate medical intervention. Contact Information: [Given upon request] Source: moaz_abutaha (IG)