When burning hospitals
become ash beneath the scroll of a screen,
we learn how silence
is weaponized.
The floors of Kamal Adwan
are charred with absence,
oxygen tanks left
like forgotten promises,
the cries of mothers
smothered by rubble
and the indifference of men
in air-conditioned rooms.
Genocide doesn’t need
a headline,
only apathy to thrive—
only a world too tired
to care where the phosphorus falls
or who it devours.
We have learned to speak
in muted tones,
to swallow outrage whole,
to call it complicated
when children die.
The world nods
as the ash settles,
as though the flames
were never lit.
What remains of Kamal Adwan
is not a hospital,
but a tombstone.
And what remains of us?
The smoke,
rising into silence.