‘I know the weight of these words. I don’t write them lightly. I write them because I’m tired of euphemisms. Tired of pretending this is a conflict when it is clearly a massacre.’
It’s hard to explain the feeling of watching your homeland shrink into a cage. To know your family is still inside—crammed into a suffocating corner of what was already one of the most overcrowded places on Earth.
To hear your mother’s voice tremble as she says they have nowhere left to go. Not north. Not south. Not east. Not even to the sea because the sea now brings only the hum of warships and the echo of explosions. This is Gaza now: a territory reduced to a trap.
In recent months, nearly two million Palestinians have beenpushed into a fragment of land that itself was already a fragment. Gaza is just 365 square kilometres. That means over 2.3 million people are being squeezed into just over 120 square kilometres. That’s a population density of nearly 20,000 people per square kilometre—more than ten times that of London, more than any major city on Earth.
Schools have becomedormitories, floors shared by strangers, andbread has become a memory. There are no tents left. No clean water. No food. And no silence.
When I call my family in Gaza—those who survived the latest Israeli airstrikes—I hear chaos: babies crying, the crackle of distant explosions, the clinking of empty pots.
My niece tells me she now shares a floor with eleven others in a school never meant for living. My cousin, a father of four, texted me last week: “We queue two hours for a stale piece of bread. We drink water from puddles. Israel starves us, then bombs us again.”
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