Letter From Hell. מכתב מהגיהנום / Letter From a Doctor in Gaza to the Israeli Public

*Letter from Hell*

To Dr. Ezzedine
Your followers and many followers around the world, I am sharing another version we prepared with English subtitles.

Dr. Ezzedine’s letter is intended for the audience in Israel, so we kept the accessible language in Hebrew and the translation language in English.

Dr. Ezzideen
https://x.com/ezzingaza
https://linktr.ee/ezzideenshehab
https://www.facebook.com/ezzideen.shehab.9

This is for you.
*Letter from Hell*
*Auto-translated from Hebrew by Grok
Original:

*מכתב מהגיהנום*
עבור ד"ר עיזא'דין
עוקביו ועוקבי הרבים בעולם אני מעלה גרסה נוספת שהכנו עם כתוביות באנגלית.

המכתב של דוקטור עיזא'דין הוא עבור הקהל בישראל לכן השארנו את השפה המונגשת עברית ושפת התרגום אנגלית.

@ezzingaza

זה בשבילך.

*מכתב מהגיהנום*

Source:
https://x.com/YoelH5/status/1958217346763354497
=============

A Letter from Hell

(Part 1)

I write this not as a doctor, nor a son, nor a man.

I write this as one who has descended into the bowels of hell and returned, not with prophecy, but with silence in his throat and blood under his nails.
What you are about to read is not a message. It is a confession. A cry. A record of our descent.
And God help me, perhaps a final prayer.

We are trapped in a spiral, a great, grinding wheel of misery that turns not by accident, but by the hands of men.
It is not fate that starves us. It is not Heaven that bombs us.
It is the logic of the powerful, the rituals of violence, the cold arithmetic of geopolitics that has made our streets into slaughterhouses.

Each morning, I wake with the same thought: Has the battery died?
Not mine. I have long been emptied. But the one in my phone.
I need it alive long enough to charge again at the hospital, to remain tethered to something, anything, that suggests we still belong to the living.

There is no water.
There is no breakfast.
There is no “routine.”
There is only a salt-stained bucket of seawater where a sink once stood.
I wash my face, not to cleanse, but to remember that I am still flesh and not yet dust.

I do not eat.
We eat once a day, if we can.
We save what scraps remain for one midday communion: rice, lentils, silence.

I arrive at the hospital, and the doctor greets me with an inventory of absence:
No more orthopedic implants.
No promethazine.
No certainty.
No hope.

The floors are red.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically.
They are red.

And this is what I ask myself: Is our blood even red?
Are we made of the same clay, the same sorrow, the same divine breath that once stirred the lungs of Adam?

If so, then why do we die like vermin?
Why does the world avert its eyes while we rot in full view?

Why does one hostage’s hunger move the soul of nations, while the skeletal bodies of two million children evoke nothing but polite disbelief?

I have lost fifteen kilograms. My bones have names now. My cheeks are hollowed caverns.
The children, God, the children are unrecognizable. They are no longer children. They are shadows with eyes.

And still I said: release the hostages. Every last one. Without conditions.
Because no life should be bartered like coin.

But now I ask you. No, I demand of you. Who will fight for us?

Who will demand our release from this monstrous tribunal of fire and famine?

We did not vote for war.
We did not ignite this blaze.
We are fuel. Nothing more.
We are the tinder that keeps the headlines burning.

I tried to escape. I begged. I bribed. I wept like a child.
But I failed. And now all that remains is this: stay alive, one more day, in a place designed to extinguish life itself.

#GazaGenocide

=============
Peoples World War
https://peoplesworldwar.com