They Called It War. But It Was Slaughter.
Once there was a people whose only crime was being born in the wrong place, at the wrong time, under the rule of the wrong oppressor.
They lived on ancient land, land soaked in the history of prophets and peace, but peace was long gone. Replaced by drones. Missiles. Lies.
Their killers didn’t wear masks. They wore uniforms. Ties. Flags. They came in the name of “security” and “defense,” yet they killed in cold blood. Entire families erased in seconds. Infants torn from life before they even learned how to speak. Playgrounds reduced to rubble. Hope crushed beneath the weight of indifference.
And when these people cried out, the world looked away.
Worse still, some powerful nations applauded. They signed arms deals, sent billions in aid, and stood before cameras pretending to care about human rights while fueling the horror in the dark.
The killers had allies, not just on the battlefield, but in global courts and media rooms. They had the power to decide who was a “victim” and who was a “terrorist.” Even grieving parents were accused of extremism. Mourning was outlawed. Telling the truth was criminalized. Standing up for the children became an act of hate.
Imagine this. A world where saying “Don’t bomb children” gets you labeled dangerous.
A world where compassion is terrorism.
That is the world these people are forced to live in.
And yet, they still rise each day beneath shattered skies. Their faith, unshaken. Their voices, trembling but still speaking. Their eyes, haunted, but defiant.
Because the oppressors have power, but the people have truth.
And truth lives longer than tanks.
The world can bury the headlines. Silence the witnesses. Jail the voices. But it cannot erase the memory of those children. It cannot destroy the truth that genocide was committed, systematically, knowingly, and with help.
History will not forget.
Even if the world pretends to.
Shared via a post on Facebook. Author not shared to avoid abuse from Zionists
Not Just a Granny 