To the World: Stop Normalising Our Extermination

Amid 23 months of genocide, the inspiration behind Gaza's Great March of Return demands the global public not to become numb to the mass killing of Palestinians.

Displaced Palestinians return to their homes in Gaza City, January 2025.

A group of women rush through the hospital gate, wearing their prayer clothes—thrown on hastily in panic. They scream in disbelief, running toward the emergency department, desperate for any news about a son, a brother, or a father who, they’ve just heard, was injured in an Israeli airstrike.

Desperately, they ask anyone in their path: Where is he? Is he still breathing? What are the details of his injury?

Too often, their hopes are crushed when someone points them toward the morgue: the bodies are there.

The women and men turn toward the morgue; the news strikes like lightning—hope is gone. Their beloved lies among the dead.

Cries erupt from the depths of shock . We can’t believe it! Just an hour ago, he was sitting with us, helping fill water containers, arranging the tent, and sharing stories. How could life vanish so suddenly?

Often, denial overtakes the families. They burst into the morgue, shaking the body violently, pleading with him to wake up: Please open your eyes, why did you leave us like this? If only denial could alter reality. But it ends with families collapsing in grief, fainting—or being forcibly removed by hospital security.

The more composed men make hurried phone calls to inform a few relatives nearby. They arrive quickly to take a last look. There’s no time for mourning, no time to process the shock. The morgue is full, and new victims need space.

Resisting numbness

People silently gather around the grieving family. Words of condolence feel empty. What can anyone say in such a moment? Journalists take photos and videos to document the scene. Even media coverage in Gaza has become a weary routine.

Who are you filming for, and why? Is there still hope that the cries of grieving mothers and the tears of the bereaved can stir the conscience of a world that continues to watch silently?

If the tears shed in Gaza over the past 22 months were gathered, they’d form a flowing river. And yet, all the weeping, all the screaming—nothing has changed. So why do journalists still believe documenting such anguish might mean something?

Some reporters ask about the number of casualties while sipping coffee or making small talk. They say this has been their daily routine for nearly two years.

But what the journalist or the doctor may perceive as routine due to repetition will never be routine in the heart of a mother, father, child, or lover.

Every soul has its own sanctity. Every new victim has a personal story, and loved ones whose hearts are shattered by their absence. Every cry, every tear from mothers, sisters, and daughters is sacred and unique—not a scene to be normalised.

In a time of mass death, the moral obligation is to resist the temptation to become desensitised—to refuse to normalise horror.

Death has lost its sacredness

Relatives now pray over their loved ones in the hospital courtyard. Sometimes no more than five or ten mourners are present. Before this genocide, a death was a solemn event; thousands would attend a funeral prayer. But in this massacre, even death has lost its sacredness.

In past wars and uprisings, the madness was less consuming. The pace of death was within the limits of our capacity to grieve. At the very least, we had time to hold dignified funerals. Hundreds or thousands would gather in mosques to offer prayers and accompany the deceased in a proper farewell.

Now, in the season of mass death, everything happens hastily. The time between a person’s last breath and their burial is often no more than an hour or two. There are no mosques left to gather in—most have been bombed into ruins. There are no cars to carry mourners to the cemetery—fuel is desperately scarce. Families often walk from the hospital to the cemetery on foot, carrying the dead in a single vehicle, or on a cart pulled by a donkey, or on a motorcycle.

We used to say that death was the only free thing in Gaza. But even that isn’t true anymore. Digging a grave now costs hundreds of dollars—a price many impoverished families cannot afford.

Just days ago, reports confirmed: there are no more graves left to bury the dead. A grim comparison is now possible—between the “lucky dead,” whose families found a plot of land to lay them to rest, and the less fortunate, for whom no space remains.

This massacre has even stripped people of their right to grieve.

Once the burial is done, there’s no time for silence, for tears, or for the comfort of mourners. There are no condolence gatherings, as people are scattered across displacement zones.

Most Gazans have lost their homes, destroyed by the Israeli army.

Communication is difficult; families are dispersed in distant tents, transportation is scarce, and few can afford to host mourning gatherings. Moreover, public gatherings are unsafe. In Gaza, it takes only the suspicion of a gathering—spotted by an Israeli drone—for it to be bombed, as has happened hundreds of times to markets, cafes, and mosques.

Israel is targeting us all

The harsh rhythm of life in Gaza forces people to break the sanctity of grief too soon. Sometimes just hours after losing a child, people must return to the daily struggle: fetching drinking water, scavenging for scraps of food.

Layers upon layers of sorrow and pain accumulate deep in the soul. Physics tells us that energy cannot be destroyed—so the suppression of grief and rage does not erase it. It only stores it, waiting for a moment of catastrophic eruption.

Before this genocide, the killing of a single loved one could plunge us into mourning for days. But the sheer abundance of death has numbed our senses.

Now, I learn by chance—casually—that a friend, a neighbour, or a former colleague has been killed. Sometimes I find out months after the fact.

We can no longer keep up with death—it is too frequent.

The death of a loved one, or a neighbour who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, is now a daily occurrence. We say a brief prayer for mercy, and then resume whatever task we were doing.

No one in Gaza is safe from death. Whether in a tent, a market, a hospital, a school, or standing in line for a plate of food from a charity kitchen—you are in the circle of targeting.

The message from Israel is clear: “Over two million people living in Gaza are legitimate targets at any moment. No place is protected, no soul is sacred. We are free to kill as much as we want to quench our thirst, and no one will hold us accountable. The world supports us.”