*Ahmad Abu Omar writes from Gaza for the newspaper «Kokkini» («The Red»)

How Long, oh World

Oh cowardly world,
how long will you be silent?
How long will you continue to say nothing,
while Gaza bleeds under your quiet,
while our dying is reduced to statistics,
while our voices are swallowed by your convenience?

How long will you watch us fade,
so slowly that sanctions feel cleaner than bombs,
so slowly that excuses have time to form,
while you keep eating, keep scrolling, keep calling it complicated,
as though human life were negotiable?

Every day here is a book written in ash,
a chapter of rubble and names,
an ending with no witnesses,
a story that begins with hunger and ends with silence.

Today, a big storm came,
not an accident,
but another pressure added to people already crushed,
the sky leaning heavy on our homes,
the wind finishing what policy had begun.
A house beside mine collapsed.
Children screamed from beneath the ruins,
their voices clawing at the air,
while we stood still, empty-handed,
watching hope suffocate.

Tell me—how long will this continue?

Morning arrives carrying news the way coffins carry bodies.
Today’s headline: a virus spreads freely through Gaza,
a new mutation, stronger than the last pandemic,
fiercer than the fever of our fear,
racing faster than hope can heal.

No medicine reaches us,
not because it does not exist,
but because borders decide who deserves to live,
and the world has already chosen who it will save.

My children burn with fever
in a place where hospitals are targets
and aid is conditional,
their lungs collapsing into coughing storms,
their bodies emptying of strength,
while I, a parent, am reduced to watching,
watching helplessly as law, diplomacy, and silence conspire against life itself.

Should I wait until their breathing stops
before you call it unacceptable?

Tell me, Oh world,
from behind your parliaments, your glowing screens,
tell me what to do
when law has no teeth,
when humanity needs permission to act.
Tell me.
Tell me.
Tell me.

But I already know the answer.

We will die carefully,
quietly,
soft enough not to disturb your trade, your elections, your headlines.
You will not feel our absence.
You will not hear us accuse you.
We will disappear like smoke you chose not to see,
like people history pretends were inevitable losses.

Do not worry.
We will not say you were watching.
We will not say you chose this.

Goodbye,
world of statements without action,
world of laws without justice,
world of silence more lethal than any storm.

Ahmad Abu Omar

This poem was written by a member of the Gaza Support Network, living in Gaza and struggling to survive under inhumane conditions.

The Gaza Support Network is a community of people from Israel and around the world who refuse to look away. Through direct, monthly support, small groups of donors stand with families in Gaza—helping them secure food, medicine, and dignity. Together, we raise about $1,000 a month per family, send directly to them.
This is not politics.
This is not charity.
This is human beings choosing to care for one another.

Learn more:
https://www.gazasupportnet.com/english
Stand with a family in Gaza:
https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSfhUt1UfLPggPDS3IRt9VFu6YYVFLKzkbLtw7LNtIYeSZeH0Q/viewform

*The poem has been published in the newspaper «Kokkini» (Issue 31, March 2026).

**You can read the poem in Greek (translated by Lale Alatli).

***You can also read «This is Gaza. This is our voice» by Ahmad Abu Omar at this link.