Author: Fr. Ibrahim Faltas OFM – Director of the schools of the Custody of the Holy Land
The rubble in Gaza is growing in volume and height. Thousands of buildings that are still standing have been damaged by air and ground attacks over the past three years, yet they continue to provide shelter for people who no longer even have a tent, do not know where to go, and cling to life while waiting for new and old hopes. For these poor people, a wall, a roof—even one on the verge of collapse—can mean a chance of survival.
A collapsed building that gave way following past attacks bore a beautiful and special name, though today it seems almost entirely unfitting for the drama of Gaza. It was called the “Palace of Joy.” Beneath the high and sprawling piles of rubble, about a hundred people are still trapped. More than twenty have already been rescued, and more than half of them are children.
A mother and her child died embracing each other. They lay on a dusty mattress that failed to cushion the weight of death, but allowed for one last, warm embrace—a tender hug of love that is no longer able to give life.
The image of the pieta buried in Gaza, the image of a mother embracing her child, makes me see Mary in it and try to understand Her heart torn apart by the pain of Her Son’s death. Similar yet different images: the Sorrowful and Suffering Mother, the Mother of the Redeemer, held the dead Christ in Her arms—the certainty of salvation for humanity.
The mother from Gaza, the mothers of all children dying in war, clasp their pain, which does not give birth to love, but instead keeps growing, plunging into a whirlpool of revenge.
Another collapse of humanity has once again turned the spotlight on Gaza. Let us not stop speaking, writing, asking for, and making peace, because peace is urgent, necessary, and essential for life. Let us not stop, because silence kills.
Let us begin once again to recognize the value of life, acknowledging the evil experienced by the innocent, the defenseless, the oppressed, the last—those who are at the very bottom. How many stories, how much pain lie beneath this rubble. This is not the first rubble to bury human lives, and it is hard to hope it will be the last, because for nearly a year, a false and hypocritical ceasefire has continued to bring death, suffering, and destruction.
People affected by the same pain are helping other despairing people dig through the rubble with their bare hands, hoping to bring to light those who are still alive.
A boy made his weak voice heard by his uncle who was calling out to him. He told him: “Uncle, I am alive. Come get me.” A faint, quiet voice, a flicker of hope—but so far, the dust and rubble yield only death.
Other dead remain beneath successive piles of debris, which continue to hide vast, forgotten numbers of victims of a tragedy that seems to have no end.
We are getting used to writing history with numbers from war reports. Behind those numbers are people, faces, lived histories, stolen and interrupted hopes. Children, as always the primary victims of violence, take first place on this sad list.
Let us speak of peace, let us ask for peace, let us not stop. This is what our conscience demands in order to restore truth and justice to the innocent.
