Look at Gaza. Look at its grieving people who face death and annihilation every single day.

Look at them with compassion and humanity, for we are still being exterminated. We are still being killed. The suffering does not pause, not even for a breath.

People walk in the streets — ordinary people, mothers and children, fathers returning from the market — and suddenly a missile tears through a car at the height of rush hour. Just like that. A life erased, and the world keeps turning as if nothing happened.

What did these people do to deserve living every day in fear, in anxiety, in the constant anticipation that the next second might be their last?

Today, the War Returned

The bombing has escalated dramatically over the last three days. Since morning, the shelling has been relentless — in the north, in the central regions, and here in Al-Mawasi. Gunboats off the coast of Khan Younis firing heavy machine guns intermittently into neighborhoods. Artillery pounding the eastern edges of Gaza City. Military vehicles advancing towards Al-Sikka Street, east of Al-Zaytoun, southeast of the city, with heavy gunfire and shelling.

This is not a ceasefire. This was never a ceasefire. They just changed the rhythm of the killing.

The Names of Today

A kitchen belonging to a Turkish aid organization was struck near Abu Asad warehouses, north of Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital. Three people were killed:

Ahmed Salem Abu Asad. Abdul Rahman Ahmed Muhammad Muhaysin. Ibrahim Rayyan.

Three men who were near food. Near the simple act of eating. That was their crime.

Near the Rafah garage in central Khan Younis, a shell fell and took another life:

Abdullah Ahmed Abu Mustafa.

On the outskirts of Khan Younis, an Israeli drone fired on a young man:

Muhammad Akram Mohsen Al-Shaer.

A civilian vehicle was targeted opposite the gate of Al-Quds Hospital, near Al-Yazji Bakery. Al-Quds Hospital itself received nine injuries after an airstrike hit near the radio and television building in Tel Al-Hawa, southwest of Gaza City.

Dark smoke plume rising from a densely built area in Gaza following an Israeli airstrike, May 16, 2026

I want to say something about each of them. I want to tell you who Ahmed was, what Abdul Rahman dreamed of, whether Ibrahim had children waiting for him. But I don't know yet. All I know is that today, their names were added to a list that the world refuses to read.

From Where I Stand

The bombing is close to me now. Close enough that the walls shake and the windows rattle and the sound fills your chest like something physical, like a hand pressing down on your lungs.

I have video. Footage from the aftermath. It is very difficult to watch. Civil defense teams in Rafah transporting a martyr and wounded individuals from the outskirts of Khan Younis. But I can't send it. Not because I don't want the world to see — I want nothing more than for the world to see. But because when I look at it, something breaks inside me, and the words don't come.

I don't know when the pain will end. I think we here in Gaza will never find peace until we reach the grave.

Large plumes of dark smoke rising over buildings in Gaza after Israeli airstrike, May 2026

Where is the world? Where are the advocates of rights and humanity? How long will the international community remain a mere spectator, standing idly by in the face of all these painful scenes?

We have the right to live in safety. Children and everyone else have the right to walk in the street without fear, without a sudden goodbye.

And all this is just for today. The day is not over yet.

As I write these words, the bombing has started again. Close. Too close.

May God protect everyone — those walking and those driving. We are all in the same boat here, and only God knows what tomorrow holds.

May God accept our martyrs.