The Question

 They called it The Jewish Question—

as if a people could be reduced

to grammar.

As if existence required justification.

As if the answer could be

extermination.

And the world watched monsters rise

in uniforms and silence.

Auschwitz etched into the heart of history

with smoke and ash.

We said: Never again.

But here we are.

Again.

Now it is The Palestinian Question.

Again, a people are framed as a problem.

Again, borders choke breath,

walls rise like verdicts,

and children are counted in rubble.

Gaza echoes

not just with grief,

but with the sound of memory

twisting in the wind.

Concentration of bodies.

Extermination by siege.

Genocide, livestreamed.

The sun does not blink.

The satellites do not lie.

The bombs drop with signatures

paid in full.

International law,

scattered like leaflets that no one reads.

"Never again,"

filed under conditions apply.

And the great power—

the one that, with allies,

landed at Normandy

stormed the camps,

liberated ghosts,

wrote the rules—

stands now,

shoulder to shoulder

with the fire.

Not in ignorance.

Not in grief.

But in choice.

So I ask again:

Why should a people be a question?

Who made humans into riddles

to be solved by erasure?

We were not born to be answers.

We were born to live.

And to outlive

those who think otherwise.