A Letter from the Mount

I write not as one who cheers the flag of destruction, nor as one who trades morality for power, nor as a voice from privilege, but as a witness and a soul in anguish.

I have seen enough images from Gaza to last a lifetime. I have seen homes flattened, children buried, fathers clutching the lifeless, and the living walking in the ash.

I no longer ask why. I ask, how can anyone not weep?

And yet, those who cheer this on, not in whispers but in shouts, walk hand in hand with power. They are embraced by Western leaders, who smile beside them and call it solidarity. Solidarity with what? With the silence of the dead?

Canadian politicians of all colours marched for the apartheid state and its Zionist leaders; your silence toward the multi-cides is louder than any speech you will ever make. I don’t have to name you; you know who you are.

You tell me this is complicated. I say: massacres are not complicated.

You call me antisemitic. I say: I am simply human.

You say nothing can be done. I say: we have done nothing for too long.

I write for those who feel powerless, who scream at their stone pillows at night, who watch the sky rain fire and have no shelter to take. They shake with fear and wonder if they’re losing their minds.

And I remember the night you came to my door, cold, soaked, wanting shelter, wanting my vote. I gave you both. And now you stand with those who bomb the shelters of others into dust. Know this: I have exorcised your presence.

You’re not. You’re alive. You see what’s real.

History will not remember every tweet or speech. But it will remember who stood silent—and who refused.

I will not be silent.

Share this like a warning bell. Speak like a storm. Let power know that silence is complicity.