The silence of my brothers surrounds me, along with a profound sense of solitude. Ah, the level of cowardice.

My concern extends beyond the situation in Palestine and its resilient people, who, with faith on their side, are destined to triumph.

What truly troubles me is the silence around me, and the fear of hearing our voice. My fear is losing our authenticity, buried beneath illusions of consumerism, crafted to satisfy our inflated desires. At what cost? Losing touch with reality, the suffering of others, and our connection with our global family—what price are we willing to pay?

Let’s dance.

Let’s drown out the sound of bombs with loud music. Let’s dance.

Our utopia remains untouched, or so we believe, even if it’s built on the suffering of others. Is their pain necessary for our happiness? Let’s dance.

Until the day I am the one screaming, and my cries become mere background noise for their dancing. You dance. I scream. Does anyone hear me? Please.

Who will be the next?

A monkey, joyous over a banana in a burning forest, oblivious to the approaching flames. The monkey dances on.

Palestine stands as a testament to all struggles. If we are conditioned to remain silent in the face of injustice, we may never find our voice again.

Am I witnessing the end?

Do I ask everyone to fight, write, or post? No. The definition of solidarity has now been reduced to simply saving the pictures of your avocado toast that you had today to post them later next week—after the Gaza babies are buried!

(The above was written in response to the shock I experienced upon seeing my friends’ posts on social media right after the first hospital in Gaza was bombed)