One day, a historian will sit in silence, pen in hand, heart aching under the weight of untold grief. He will not know where to begin because what happened after October 7, 2023, cannot be captured by mere ink. He will write of a land that bled in daylight. Of a people who cried out to the world and no one came. He will not write history. He will write a mourning song for mankind. Gaza: Between Starvation and Sniper Fire. In Gaza, the night offers no peace and the day offers no mercy. Bombs from the sky. Hunger from within. Fear all around. People face a daily, inhuman dilemma: Stay inside and starve to death or step outside for a piece of bread and be shot by a sniper. There are no choices in Gaza. Only different kinds of death. Women step out for a bag of flour and return in shrouds. Children pick scraps from the street and are met with bullets. What kind of world lets a child die for a handful of rice? This is not war. It is starvation as strategy. Sniping as state policy. Egypt’s Locked Gate. To Gaza’s south lies Egypt, with the Rafah crossing the only artery of life. And yet it remains sealed, as trucks of food and medicine wait just meters away. Children in Gaza are dying not due to scarcity of aid, but because it’s being blocked. Egypt could open the door to life but chooses to keep it closed in fear of diplomatic consequences. History will ask: What kind of neighbor lets their child next door cry for water… and turns the tap off? Saudi Arabia: The Heart That Didn’t Beat. Saudi Arabia, home to the Kaaba, to the land of divine mercy, remained disturbingly quiet. Not a single real act of defiance. Not a single corridor of relief. Only words beautiful, empty words. A nation whose rulers are stewards of Islam’s holiest sites…Yet the blood of Gaza’s children didn’t move their hands. They raised their hands in prayer—but not in power. The Fear That Follows Us. And for those of us far from Gaza, there is another torment. When I scroll through social media, my heart races in fear: “Will the next reel show a father screaming over his child’s shattered body?” “Will I see a girl wiping ash off her baby brother’s face, only to find he’s gone?” I hesitate before tapping a story. I dread what my screen might show. Because each video, each image, tears through my soul. And I ask: How are they still surviving this? And how are we still doing nothing? The Ummah Had Everything Except Gaza. The Muslim world possesses wealth, armies, and political muscle. Over 5 million soldiers, powerful air forces, vast oil fields. But when Gaza was reduced to ashes, when children ate leaves, when babies froze to death in hospital ruins no army moved, no fighter jet flew, no bold step was taken. They tweeted. They condemned. They cried at summits. But they did not act. The Historian Will Write... And The Pages Will Burn. And when the historian writes, he will not write with a pen—he will write with fire. “Gaza was not defeated by bombs. It was betrayed by brothers.”

“Egypt closed the gate. Saudi Arabia closed its heart. The Ummah closed its eyes.”
“The world watched children die and changed the channel.” He will write of a mother who fasted for days to feed her child the last piece of bread. Of a father who dug a grave with his bare hands while holding his daughter’s hand—cold, limp, gone. Of a generation that died before learning how to speak but lived long enough to feel pain.
It Is Not Too Late… But It Soon Will Be.The gates of Egypt can still open. The planes of Saudi Arabia can still take flight not for war, but for mercy. The Ummah can still rise not in anger, but in humanity. And you, reading this, can still speak. Still pray. Still give. Still care. Do not let your silence become your signature on Gaza’s death certificate.
Gaza Will Be Remembered. But How Will We? In Gaza, even hope is under rubble. Yet its people rise in courage, in faith, in defiance. They are not just victims. They are heroes of our time. But what about us? Will we be remembered as bystanders? As the ones who posted stories but did not stop the story? Let us change the ending. Let us not be a paragraph in the history of shame. Let us be the turning point.

Email:-----------------------umairulumar77@gmail.com