Greetings between us have turned to plastic. Our well-wishes are made of air. Compliments now feel like suffocating hypocrisy—words devoid of meaning, soul, substance, or purpose. They’ve become mere language, rituals, or customs we repeat automatically.

We’ve lost faith in everything. Lost our sense of safety and peace. And when the noise around us dies down, it awakens in our minds a scream louder than the roar of warplanes or the crash of bombs.

We have lost our lives along with those we lost—our family, our loved ones.
We are the products of war.
We are the living dead, awaiting execution.

Those whose loved ones were killed, whose homes and wealth were destroyed, are dying every single day—again and again.
And I am not trying to falsify reality or paint a false image to deceive outsiders, pretending we are okay.
I am not made of wood.
I am not a non-metal that does not conduct heat.
I am not forgetful. I do not have a shallow memory.
I am human.

I grieve deeply when grief is due.
I rejoice sincerely when joy is justified.
My glands function, my hormones are active, my emotions alert.
I was never made of legend or myth, and I never pretended to be something I’m not.

Sorrow stormed us with no shame.
Anguish struck us in broad daylight—not in secret, not in the shadows.
Our humiliation, our death, our destruction—all happened in full view of a filthy world.
They saw it all.
They heard it all.
And they did nothing.

Our blood was cheap.
The betrayal? Enormous.

Their greatest act of solidarity?
Boycotting KFC.
Refusing to drink Coca-Cola.
Others danced in the streets with fine food and cold drinks in hand.
Meanwhile, the bodies of our martyrs lay rotting in the streets—bloated, decomposing by the tens of thousands.

The world punished the oppressor by not drinking Pepsi.
Women—noble, dignified, pure—were raped.
Others crushed beneath tanks while still alive.
Children burned alive in their bedrooms, their tiny bodies smashed under concrete.
Their cries rang out for days, pleading for rescue—until death finally silenced them.

And the world?
Still not eating burgers from McDonald’s to make a statement.

We used to hear of famines in Africa, in Mali, in Somalia—never imagining such horror was real.
But we lived through worse in Gaza.
People died of hunger and thirst.
They ate animal feed. Grass from the earth.
No one brought them food.
No one brought salvation.

What madness is this?
What vile joke?
What pitiful, degrading absurdity?
What kind of foul, crippled calculations were our leaders making?

The world’s reaction to our suffering was repulsive—and still is.
Yet the fools among us continue to hope for its compassion.
That hope itself adds to our pain.

We used to exchange holiday wishes.
We prayed for peace, for health, for bright futures and joyful lives.
And now?
Our decaying corpses are devoured by stray dogs, wild cats, rats without mercy.
The tame turned savage.
Herbivores became flesh-eating beasts feasting on our bodies.

What crime did we commit to deserve this?

Is this how we are rewarded for clinging to our land, for enduring the siege, for rejecting exile?
As some who fled said: “The land has a Lord to guard it, and over a billion souls who care.”

But even if we sinned—what about the innocent among us?
The children?
The pregnant women?
The elderly?
The disabled?

To be crushed this way—with such cruelty, such disgrace—defies all reason.

We prayed.
We fasted.
We begged God in the quiet of night to destroy our enemies.
To wipe them out.
But instead—we were the ones who died.
And in the most horrifying, inhuman ways.

We suffered every imaginable injustice and humiliation.
So where is the outcome of our devotion?
Where is the victory promised to the faithful?

Is religious appearance enough to win wars and preserve dignity?
Or do we need to build humans of principle—honest, hardworking, thoughtful, and kind?

Does belief in miracles guarantee success?
Or is strategy, intelligence, and careful planning essential?

Is relying solely on religion enough to protect society?
Or does faith require thinking, patience, and precision—especially in crucial decisions?

Should we pursue benefit if it’s certain—or first prevent the harm that’s inevitable?

Does victory come from strength, numbers, and preparation?
If we can’t match our enemy’s power, then maybe standing still is better than destruction.

Which is greater: the land or our dignity?
The country or its people?

Did God create us only to die for Him?
To spill our blood in order to please Him?
Or is preserving life a greater and more sacred duty?

What has more worth—human beings, the Lord’s own creation?
Or Jerusalem, the Kaaba, Al-Aqsa, and every sacred site combined?

Is homeland made of land, trees, and shores?
Or is it people—full of culture, values, and meaning?

What happened to us in Gaza demands a full, deep reevaluation—
Of how we think, how we live, and whom we trust.

“Indeed, God does not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves.”

And as always…
Eid Mubarak.
Another year, still beneath the rubble.

By Dr. Ahmad Hesham Hilles