Resolution 181… had no legal force. Resolution 242… ordered withdrawal from those lands seized by iron… by dust… by death.
In the scorched deserts of the Middle East a barefoot people walks, through the ruins of their houses, through window frames that no longer see the sky… Decades of exodus, of villages wiped out at dawn, of maps rewritten as if History were a toy.
From ’48 to ’67… rivers of blood, children torn from their breath, intifadas crushed under the weight of tanks. And the world watches from afar… a blind world, a mute world, a complicit world.
Yet the UN had spoken, carved it in stone: “Withdraw from those territories.” But no one listens when stones speak… only the bulldozers, only the buzzing drones that tear the night apart. Massacres through time, massacres in the sand, massacres when the sky turns blood-red. Gaza strangled, Jenin burning, Ramallah under siege… And History writes it all, like a tired judge, while an entire people bleeds endlessly.
181… an unfinished promise. 242… an order turned to dust. And in those numbers lie the lost faces, the hands digging through rubble, the eyes of children asking the darkness: “Why always us?”
Barbed wire instead of borders, ancient olive trees uprooted as if they were sins to erase. Every night another home falls, every day another life fades, and the Moon watches everything like a weary witness to an endless crime.
Massacres through time, massacres in the silence that hides uncomfortable truths… A people that resists, that never disappears, that guards its memory like embers beneath the burning sand. And in the wind returns, like an ancient plea, the denied right to live… to exist… to go back home.
Until justice walks again upon those dusty roads called Palestine…