They say aid is entering Gaza. They say it in numbers, in press releases, in polished, moral-sounding phrases. And the world listens, because it is easier than looking. Convoys. Metrics. Logistics. Four hundred tons. Eighty trucks. Do you feel better now? But in Gaza, children are not counting. They are waiting. Waiting for bread that never comes. Waiting for the world to look up from its statistics and ask, what are we doing? What have we become? The great humanitarian names -UNRWA, the Red Cross, Médecins Sans Frontières- have confirmed the unthinkable: they are not permitted to help. Permission, as if mercy needed authorization. As if saving a child required a signature from the very men who built the fence. What little enters Gaza is not aid. It is mockery. Less than 0.5% of the food needed. A percentage, a decimal. Not a solution. Not hope. Just enough to tell the cameras: Look, we care. The food is not sent to nourish. It is sent to silence. To hand out flour not to the hungry, but to the headlines. To feed the conscience of the onlooker, not the belly of the child. It is a sin dressed as benevolence. And they call it policy. In recent weeks, as the world’s accusations grew louder, genocide by starvation whispered through parliaments, editorial rooms, and court halls, those in power felt the pressure. Not to stop the starvation, but to control the narrative. So they acted, not to save lives, but to manufacture an alibi. Let a few trucks in. Let the cameras roll. Let sympathetic voices point and say: See? Aid is moving. Gaza is not forgotten. But this is not relief. It is theater. A performance meant to pacify the outside world, not to preserve life inside the walls. The intention is not rescue, it is reputation. And it worked. It always does. Some governments who once condemned now avert their eyes. News tickers no longer mention famine, only aid delivery. The fog of suffering remains, but the lens through which it’s viewed is now softened, reframed, rebranded. The famine continues. The hunger continues. Northern Gaza remains cut off. And still, they say: we have a new plan. Organized distribution. Four aid points in the south. Four for two million people. 500,000 per gate. This is not planning. This is calculation as cruelty. You want to eat? You must walk. From the north, where you were born. To the south, where you are nothing. And if you leave, you cannot return. That road, once traveled, becomes a wall. Or a crater. Or a grave. This is not hunger. This is not war. This is a deliberate unmaking of a people. Bread is no longer bread. It is not the body of life, it is a weapon. A tool. A bargain. “Come,” says the sack of flour. “Come further from yourself.” And people go. They go, not because they choose to, but because they have no choice left to lose. And what does the world say? Nothing. Not because it doesn’t know. But because it knows, and fears the weight of knowing. Don’t lie to yourself. This is not humanitarian aid. This is not moral confusion. This is a theology of evil, executed in spreadsheets. And one day, when the hungry are bones, when the land is emptied and the maps rewritten, we will answer for it. Not to history. Not to law. But to the children who died waiting. And to the God who watched us watch them. #GazaGenocide‌
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