Last night in London there was one of the loudest and most terrifying thunderstorms I can remember for a long time. It woke me with its deafening roar, punctuated by the bright lightening as though doomsday was here. I cowered under the bedclothes praying for calm, and thanking the Creator for the protection of a sturdy home and the likelihood that the storm would end soon. But my thoughts were in Gaza, for the people in their half destroyed homes facing state of the art missiles and bombing, for whom the thunder and the flashes of light are not passing, and for whom they mean death. The people who listen each moment for the knock of the warning missiles to give them sixty seconds notice that death is coming, death for themselves, death for their elderly, death for their children. And Israel says that the warning knock is so these human beings terrorised by the roar of missiles and the flashes of terrifying light can evacuate their homes. And if they flee in time with their babies in their swaddling clothes and their elderly limping, with their sick wheeled from hospitals that keep them alive, they will run out of their front doors into the glare of the footsoldiers and tanks of the ground invasion. They wont see this force of death on the ground because the electricity is cut in Gaza. Trapped between the dark evil death of one of the worlds largest military forces, and the sea behind them, in whose waters bob the Israeli gunships that wait to kill boys who play football on the beach.
Posted on: Fri, 18 Jul 2014 09:19:26 +0000