You are here, writing in the darkness,

beneath the roar of warplanes,

the thunder of bombs, and the crackle of fire.

You wonder if those out these can even fathom

what it looks like -or how it feels- to witness,

moment by moment, day by day the unraveling of

everything you hold dear.

Your heart, your family, your friends, the people

you love and care about - collapsing, lost, afraid and hungry.

Their days are steeped in tragedy, their moments

filled with suffering, as they yearn desperately for even

a fleeting sense of peace and rest.

You stand there, helpless, confused, unable to be of use,

unable to offer even the faintest glimmer of hope.

Love alone is not enough. Hope is scarce.

The mind feels trapped, the heart shattered.

Promises ring hollow, dreams of a true life seem impossibly

out of reach. And with each failed or deceptive attempt to end the genocide,

rage and hatred build within you - directed not only at those

perpetuating the violence, but also at the futility of it all.

It feels like some grotesque theatre, where lives are cheap,

and every effort to save them seems futile.

You despise the so- called negotiations, those empty

gestures that delude the suffering into believing

their humanity matters to the negotiators.

But in truth, these people do not care.

They seek victories for themselves

- not for humanity, not for the innocent.

and yet, there is a fragile comfort,

a glimmer of belonging, in witnessing a small

corner of this world - and an extraordinary group

of people - sacrificing and striving with all their

might to transform this bitter reality,

this bloody existence. They fight to save what is good in humanity

from the grip of the wicked.

You hold onto the belief that for goodness to triumph,

the righteous must stand together and fight

until the very end.

To the free souls: thank you.

If they kill me, know this -

I hate them, but I love you.