Amid the rubble of our homes, the roar of warplanes, and the silence of the world, names appear on the walls—like tattoos etched into the body of the earth.
The soldier Shimon Zuckerman, whose name was exposed in the documents revealed by (what is hidden is greater) on Al Jazeera, is not just another name here, but a mark of savagery disguised as a human being.
A name bound to deeds that cannot be erased—systematic destruction, the uprooting of life, and writings on the walls reeking of contempt and revenge.
Over a year ago, I used to sneak into my hometown, Khuza’a, defying death—breathing its dust, inhaling the scent of its trees before they were trampled, walking among its houses like one bidding farewell to the warmth of life.
I chose the paths least likely to kill, hiding in the shadows and among the debris, documenting what had befallen it.
The stone that became shards, the tree reduced to a broken branch, the bird they killed so it would sing no more.
Every picture I took was a testimony; every frame was a cry to anyone whose conscience still breathes.
What the photos and videos captured is not merely proof of physical destruction, but of the spread of barbarity—evident in the writings scrawled on the walls: obscene sexual phrases, insults, slogans glorifying killing, and messages justifying genocide against us.
In one corner they wrote in ink: “אוריה ♥ הרוע” — “Uriya loves evil!”; in another, “כל המתנחלים יענשו על זה” — “All settlers will be punished for this!”; and other phrases that justified violence in the name of “revenge,” reducing the honor of life to a mere occupation slogan.
These walls have become a mirror of a diseased soul that chose hatred as its language and ruin as its creed.
They did not stop at destroying stones—they destroyed memories; they did not only uproot trees—they erased the names of ancestors and the features of childhood.
Homes turned into rubble, accompanied by mocking laughter and scornful scribbles left on the walls as if to announce the death of the place’s humanity.
I do not write as a distant observer; I am one of this land’s people—a witness and a documenter—carrying the images and videos as a trust for history and conscience.
I will carry them to the world so it may see the truth of what happened: not merely material loss, but crimes dressed in uniform and stripped of morality.
We will not forget the killing, the displacement, the uprooting—and we will remind everyone who thinks history can be erased with a new coat of paint on a wall.
These testimonies are mirrors of pain and torn dignity—but they are also a promise: that we will pursue the truth, gather the evidence, and write the real story of the people of this land—not the tale told by the narrators of ruin.
We will present these images as evidence before every denier, every reader across the world.
Our blood will not be spilled in vain, and this history will not be folded into the drawers of oblivion.
Look, listen, and write about what our eyes have seen and our hands have recorded.
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