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I sit in heartache on the couch in my living room, wondering… hopeless, helpless, broken, and sad. I look back on the small miracles in my life that proved there may be a God, but then I watch the news and wonder, well, where is God? Human history has had its wars and tribulations. Dynasties have risen, empires have fallen, wars were fought, innocents were killed. But to be sitting here, endlessly scrolling through the news of another massacre in my homeland, another assassination, another loss… Is this just another story for the history books? Is the death toll just another record broken in the history of modern warfare?
The occupation of Palestine continues, as it has for decades, like a wound that refuses to heal, only festering with each new atrocity. And now Lebanon bombed once again. The Zionists send their missiles, and the West stands by, complicit in its silence, while the Arab world—our supposed allies—chooses the same silence. Where is justice in this? Is this what we’ve come to, watching as history repeats itself on endless cycles of war, with no one willing to intervene?
As I sit on the couch in my living room, I wonder if maybe justice is just an illusion, a story we tell ourselves to make sense of the world. Maybe this is simply how things are—no good, no evil, no righteous or wicked. We humans decide what’s right and wrong. We draw the lines, write the rules, and when those lines are crossed, we label the act—decide whether it aligns with our beliefs or not. For one person, a war crime is an atrocity. For another, it’s an act of defense. Who, then, is right?
I look at the faces of the displaced, of children covered in dust and debris, their homes bombed, their futures uncertain. I wonder if justice could ever be enough. Could it bring back what was stolen? Could it heal generations of pain, of trauma etched into the very soil we come from? Is justice even possible in a world that measures suffering in numbers—numbers that, for some, are nothing more than data points in a long history of violence?
I reflect on the history of countless cultures, religions, and ethnicities that once thrived, now reduced to remnants—artifacts buried in the ground, forgotten cities swallowed by time. And I wonder, will this be our fate? Will we, too, become nothing more than echoes in history, while the powers that control our world today—the West and its allies—continue to stand a little longer, reigning over the graves of those they enslaved, oppressed, and killed for centuries?
Maybe greed doesn’t exist either. Maybe it’s just survival of the fittest, the smartest, the most cunning. Maybe the world is not so much good versus evil as it is power versus weakness. Those with power make the rules, decide who is righteous and who is not, who deserves a home and who must remain homeless.
It feels as though our suffering is reduced to footnotes in someone else’s history, as if the bombs that fall in Lebanon and the endless checkpoints in Palestine are nothing more than strategies in a geopolitical game, played by those who will never understand the true cost.
I wonder, then, if a God exists, and if that God created a world where there is no war, no injustice, no inequality, what would our purpose be? If there were no such thing as good or evil, righteous or wicked, greed or survival, what would we live for? And yet, here we are, trapped in this cycle of destruction and despair, where justice seems as distant as peace.
As I sit on the couch in my living room, I wonder what is left for us to believe in. Maybe justice was never real, only a construct we created to feel like there was a higher purpose. But if that’s the case, what is our purpose now?
Perhaps it’s to tell our stories, to scream into the void until the world hears us. Even if justice never arrives, the truth remains. We remain.
We write, we speak, we endure. And maybe that, in itself, is the only justice we’ll ever know.
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