TruthArchive.ai - Tweets Saved By @ezzingaza

@ezzingaza - Dr. Ezzideen

Two days ago, the flow stopped, the Mekorot line, they call it. A name, like so many in our century, that now means absence. One pipe, carrying 70% of Gaza City’s water, and more than 90% to central districts like Al-Maghazi, was shut. At first, the explanation was familiar: a “technical malfunction.” That comfortable lie, fit for press conferences and polite nods. Later, the truth emerged, quietly. A decision. A lever pulled in some distant office. A deliberate act. In Al-Maghazi, my relatives held on for nine days. Nine days without water. No bomb fell on their roof. No sirens. But thirst, unyielding, mechanical, exact—drove them from their home. In our quarter, we once relied on water trucks. They came from the desalination plants, Gaza’s last fragile veins. Two nights ago, a bomb tore through the largest of them. Since then, the trucks have vanished. Three days. No water. Now, we ration. We turn the taps and hear nothing. We pass buckets from house to house, sharing the silence of pipes. Trucks bring murky, non-potable water, enough to remind us of what we’ve lost, but not to cleanse or nourish. It is not a crisis. That word is too sudden, too brief. It is a siege. Two million people, sealed behind fences and drones. No power. No fuel. No water. This is not a malfunction of machinery, but of conscience. Cutting water to civilians is a war crime. But here, the crime unfolds not in secret basements or battlefields, but in daylight, in headlines, in silence. The 20th century promised us we had learned. That we had seen enough. That “never again” meant never again. But the century turned. The world grew quieter. And still, here we are. No water. No outrage. Only the sound of taps that do not run. * In this photo Children stood waiting in our neighborhood today, only to be told the water truck isn’t coming. Not today. Not again. #GazaGenocide‌

@ezzingaza - Dr. Ezzideen

During Ramadan, a charity kitchen gave out three thousand meals a day. Rice, meat- nothing extravagant, but enough to keep people moving, if only barely. The line was always long: barefoot children, hollow-eyed mothers. Then the food dwindled. First the meat. Then the rice. Then the silence. Today, there was nothing. The door stayed shut. A small boy stood closest, holding his container like something holy. His voice barely rose above the dust: “No rice today?” A man in a stained vest shook his head. No words. Just the gesture, final, like a curtain closing on a funeral no one attended. There were no tears left. No surprise. Hunger had become the atmosphere. The children drifted away. Some wandered aimlessly, still clutching their pots. Others returned to ruined homes, tents, hollow rooms with no glass in the windows. The sun burned. Nothing had changed. Their mothers waited, not with hope, but with the resignation of those who’ve made peace with cruelty. A mother doesn’t scream when there’s no food. She listens for her child’s empty return and prepares to say something kind with nothing in her hands. That night, the children slept, or something like it. The body shuts down what it can spare. Dreams were rare. The starving do not imagine. In the photo taken later, their faces showed nothing. Not because they felt nothing, but because feeling had long turned inward, into bone, into soul. And in that emptiness, something vast appeared: That children can starve under an open sky, and no one will come. That hunger is not the only absence. That you can cry out until even God becomes an echo. They would wake again. Wait again. And the days would go on, not because it made sense, but because no one remained to say otherwise. #GazaGenocide‌

@ezzingaza - Dr. Ezzideen

This evening, an Israeli army officer called a resident of a displacement camp in Deir al-Balah, central Gaza, instructing him to evacuate in preparation for an airstrike. Panic spread among the camp’s residents as they hastily fled, gathering at a safe distance to await the inevitable destruction. Moments later, a missile struck the camp, reducing tents and belongings to rubble. As some residents cautiously moved to return, the officer called again, warning them to stay away because the camp would soon be targeted with another explosive device. Now it’s midnight, and the people of the camp are still waiting outside in the cold, where the temperature hovers at 8°C. Only after the next strike will they try to rebuild their modest shelters and return to whatever remains of their fragile refuge. Meanwhile, on the same evening, the Israeli army sent a detained civilian to Al-Awda Hospital in northern Gaza, delivering a written warning that read, “You must evacuate immediately,” without offering any safe route for escape. Patients and hospital staff are now left in limbo, unsure whether to remain or to risk fleeing as they await either clarification or a strike that could level the hospital and claim every life inside. Such is life in Gaza: an existence trapped in a perpetual cycle of dread and anticipation, dreading what may come next, and waiting for the unknown. Here, a future can be erased in an instant, at the whim of even the youngest soldier in the Israeli army. #GazaGenocide #SaveNorthGaza