The Democrats have never been the left. Never. I don't know why people still think that. Never forget that both the DNC and the RNC are private corporations and they don't believe in democracy only profits. The Democrats helped get Alito and Thomas seated on SCOTUS. They also had 50 years to codify Roe and they didn't. No universal healthcare. Clinton gutted the social safety nets. He signed NAFTA which decimated blue collar regions nationwide and he repealed the Glass-Stegal act, which led to the housing market crash. And Obama bailed out the corrupt bankers and gave some of them jobs in his administration. So no, the Democrats are definitely not the "left" by any stretch of the imagination.
Choosing between the lesser of two evils? The question is, which one is the lesser of two evils? Over 350M population and all all you guys can come with up these Genocidal clowns? What wrong with you America ๐บ๐ธ?
Embarassing. This is LaLaLandia. Trump can lead a country, Harris can't, and the elephant in the room is the Jewish Century, Kushner-Trump, Emoff-Harris, tools, fools.
Isn't it fun to see Hassan play this game. IF VOTING counts, come on. Jewish Ukraine Israel Larry Fink and BlackStone and Jesus, does he think Trump will be cool on Israel?
This COUNTRY is a fucking war economy, dude. Socialism or barbarism. So, 40 percent of the world is sanctioned, under fucking republicans and democrats, all run out of the bat and bar mitzvah situation room.
Just fucking get real with these conversations. Get radicals on, get anarchists one, get out of this fucking Murder Incorporated Echo chamber.
Part 3 Thereโs a song I want you to hear. Itโs called A'touna Et-Tufoole โ โGive Us a Chance.โ Iโve loved it since I was small, like so many other children here. Itโs a favorite for us โ in Palestine, Syria, Lebanon โ all the places where children have grown up under skies filled with war. Itโs a song we sing to the world, asking them to hear us, asking them to see us, asking them to understand that all we want is a chance to live, to play, to feel safe.
The song is simple, really, but every time I sing it, it feels like my heart is reaching out. The words say, I am a child with something to say, please listen to me. I am a child who wants to play โ why donโt you let me? My doors are waiting, my friends are praying, small hearts are begging โ give us a chance.
When I sing these words, itโs like Iโm speaking for every child here in Gaza, for every friend Iโve lost, for every family that has been broken apart. We are begging, give us a chance. Just a chance to be children, to play, to laugh, to feel like tomorrow isnโt something to be afraid of.
I want you to listen to this song because maybe, if you hear it, youโll understand what weโre feeling. Maybe youโll hear our voices, crying out from behind the rubble, through the pain, over the sound of the bombs. Maybe then youโll see us as we are โ not just faces on a screen, not just numbers or statistics, but real children, children with hopes, with dreams, with small hearts that are tired of begging.
Please, from the bottom of my heart, listen to this song. Hear our plea, not as words from a distant place, but as the voice of a child asking you for the simplest thing โ the chance to live. Give us a chance. Give us peace. โAtouna Es-Salam.
Listen to Aโtouna Et-Tufoole - Give Us a Chance - The Voice Kids on YouTube
Thank you for reading my story. I hope it reaches your heart. We are not just statistics or news flashes. We are children with dreams, with lives, with loved ones who have been taken from us. And all we ask is that you truly see us, that you remember our names, and that you demand justice and mercy on our behalf.
Thereโs another truth we face here every day โ the fact that children like us are not just being killed by bombs. Iโve heard the doctors talk about it, the American doctors who came here and saw it for themselves. Theyโve written to President Biden, pleading with him, sharing what they saw with their own eyes. Theyโve testified that children as young as toddlers are being deliberately targeted by Israeli snipers. They see us, children, shot with high-velocity sniper bullets, bullets that hit exactly on the forehead, the side of the head, or right over the heart. And these snipers are known for their skill; they donโt miss by accident. When you see so many children hit with this kind of precision, itโs clear โ they are aiming to kill us.
And yet, even with all of this, I hear President Biden talk about โempathy.โ But I know his empathy is selective. It doesnโt include us. Not once has he spoken the names of those weโve lost. Not once has he demanded justice for our suffering. They wonโt even say our names, not even the name of our sister, our angel โ six-year-old Hind Rajab. The whole world cried for her, but not the people who are doing this to us. Not the leaders who send these weapons. They wonโt even give us the respect of saying her name or asking for justice. To them, we are nameless, faceless. They call it โcollateral damageโ and move on.
Iโm just one of many. There are so many others, children like me, people who have lost their limbs, their families, their futures. And yet, we keep trying to show the world whatโs happening here. People in Gaza have been desperately showing you, begging for you to see us, for you to understand that this is not a tragedy of our choosing. Itโs not a natural disaster; itโs genocide. And itโs happening right in front of you.
I donโt understand how you can look at us and still decide who to vote for, still argue over who will be the next leader to decide what happens to us. I hear about these people โ leaders who debate over who can โmanageโ the situation better, who can bring โstabilityโ to the region. But what theyโre really saying is who will decide how many bombs to drop, who will choose how many more children will end up like me โ buried in rubble, pulled out to face a life of pain, fear, and loss.
It feels like Iโm screaming into a void. Sometimes I think the world sees us as just images on a screen, like weโre actors in some distant movie. But weโre real. This is real. I donโt have a leg anymore, and the pain never stops. I see children, younger than me, who have lost even more โ their families, their homes, their limbs. And weโre left here, watching as you all decide who will be the next to take away what little we have left.
If you could live here for even one day, feel the hunger, the thirst, the terror of never knowing if youโll make it through the night, maybe then youโd understand. Maybe then youโd stop choosing our next executioner and start choosing justice. Weโre not asking for sympathy; weโre asking for survival, for a chance to live like you do โ with safety, with family, with hope.
Weโve shown you the truth. Weโve shared our stories, our faces, our suffering. All we ask is that you stop looking away, that you stop pretending this is normal, that you stop deciding which leader will determine our fate as if we donโt matter. Weโre here. Weโre waiting for you to see us, really see us, and stop this before thereโs nothing left of us to save.
I wrote this fictional piece from the viewpoint of a 13 year old Palestinian girl from Gaza today as she watches us choose her next executioner. I hope it helps to open hearts in a heartless world.
Part 1
Dear Americans,
When they pulled me out of the rubble, I was barely awake. I could still hear the sounds of the bomb โ that terrible, deafening blast that took away my family, my home, my leg. The bomb had an American flag on it, they told me later, with a star that some people say stands for hope. But for us, that star has brought only terror. It was hope that killed everything I knew.
I was trapped under the remains of what used to be my house. My fatherโs arm was still wrapped around me, though he was gone. My mother was somewhere under the debris too, but I never saw her again. I didnโt know it then, but the bomb that shattered my family, that turned my world into rubble, was dropped by an American F-35 fighter jet. I had seen those jets before, and I knew all too well what they could do. They fly overhead, their sound like a predator stalking its prey, and when they strike, everything changes in an instant.
The F-35 is one of the most advanced jets in the world, designed to carry bombs that can turn entire neighborhoods to dust. They told me that this plane was sent here by Israel, but it was made in America โ created by workers at places like Lockheed Martin, Boeing, and General Dynamics. I think about those workers. I wonder if they know what their hands have created, if they realize that the bombs they build are what shattered my family, destroyed my home, and took away my leg. Do they know that each piece they put together becomes part of a weapon that flies over our heads, dropping 2,000-pound bombs on children like me? Or do they think of it as just a job, something to pay the bills, something that has nothing to do with the faces of children who lie buried beneath the rubble?
My father was a good man. I loved him more than anything. He had never held a gun in his life โ he was a nurse at Al Shifa Hospital, one of the only places where people could go for care in all this chaos. I remember him coming home from long shifts, exhausted but smiling, with stories of the lives he had saved. He taught me to be kind, to help others, to believe that there was still good in the world. But that world didnโt return his kindness. They took him from me, from us, and locked him away.
One day, soldiers rounded up all the men and older boys in our neighborhood. My father didnโt run. He didnโt fight. He walked forward, hands raised, trusting that his innocence would protect him. But they took him anyway, dragging him off to Sde Teiman, a place weโd heard of only in whispers. Itโs the prison they send you to disappear, where people are tortured, where unspeakable things happen to break you. They kept him there for months, tortured him until he was just a shell of the man I loved. When he was finally released, I could barely recognize him. He didnโt talk about what happened, but I saw it in his eyes โ the way he flinched, the way his hands shook, the way he tried to smile for me but couldnโt.
They had to take my leg to save my life. There was no other way, they said. But there wasnโt enough medicine, no anesthesia. I had to bite down on a piece of cloth while they cut it off, and I screamed until I thought my voice would disappear. When I closed my eyes, I could see my motherโs face, her voice telling me to be strong. But how can anyone be strong when the world decides youโre not meant to live?
It didnโt end there, though. The infection kept coming back, over and over, and there was no way to stop it. There were hardly any antibiotics โ nothing but pain and a fever that wouldnโt leave me. I had to go through more surgeries, more times lying there, helpless, watching the world go dark. Each time, they cut a little more away, hoping it would save me. But in this place, where the water isnโt even clean enough to drink, how can we heal? Thereโs hardly any water for bathing, and when it rains, sewage floods through the encampments, the so-called โsafe zonesโ they put us in.
And now, I have only one family member left. My little brother, Nabil, whoโs five. Somehow, he made it out alive, almost untouched. Itโs like a miracle, they say, that he was pulled from the rubble with barely a scratch, just covered in dust, his big eyes staring out in shock. He doesnโt talk much anymore. Sometimes he just stares into space, clutching onto me as if heโs afraid Iโll disappear too. I donโt even know where the rest of our family is โ if theyโre alive, if theyโre somewhere far away, displaced like so many others, or if theyโre gone too. I have no way to find them, no way to even reach out.
Strangers have been kind to us, feeding us from the little they have. People here have nothing, yet somehow, they still find a way to share whatโs left. I see them slipping a piece of bread into my brotherโs hand or bringing us blankets at night. Itโs the only warmth we have left โ the kindness of those who have lost just as much, who know that if we donโt look after each other, there will be nothing left.
When you build a society that needs wars to survive a vote for peace makes you an enemy.
๐ฏ
The Democrats have never been the left. Never. I don't know why people still think that. Never forget that both the DNC and the RNC are private corporations and they don't believe in democracy only profits. The Democrats helped get Alito and Thomas seated on SCOTUS. They also had 50 years to codify Roe and they didn't. No universal healthcare. Clinton gutted the social safety nets. He signed NAFTA which decimated blue collar regions nationwide and he repealed the Glass-Stegal act, which led to the housing market crash. And Obama bailed out the corrupt bankers and gave some of them jobs in his administration. So no, the Democrats are definitely not the "left" by any stretch of the imagination.
Yes!!
๐
Absolutely not wil trumplestein do anything!
very important and timely interview
a vote for Jill Stein is the strategic vote. Yes she is not going to win, but it will spark the beginning of the end of the 2-party system.
And let us remember that Israeli generals have publicly stated that Oct 7 was a false flag event please!
Thank you Rachel for having this guy on.
Yes!! Jill Stein!
Choosing between the lesser of two evils? The question is, which one is the lesser of two evils? Over 350M population and all all you guys can come with up these Genocidal clowns? What wrong with you America ๐บ๐ธ?
Embarassing. This is LaLaLandia. Trump can lead a country, Harris can't, and the elephant in the room is the Jewish Century, Kushner-Trump, Emoff-Harris, tools, fools.
Isn't it fun to see Hassan play this game. IF VOTING counts, come on. Jewish Ukraine Israel Larry Fink and BlackStone and Jesus, does he think Trump will be cool on Israel?
This COUNTRY is a fucking war economy, dude. Socialism or barbarism. So, 40 percent of the world is sanctioned, under fucking republicans and democrats, all run out of the bat and bar mitzvah situation room.
Just fucking get real with these conversations. Get radicals on, get anarchists one, get out of this fucking Murder Incorporated Echo chamber.
Now Fucking RFK Jr.?
This is like a Flintstones show.
Cop City USA, Global COP.
https://paulokirk.substack.com/p/cop-mother-fucking-cities-thanks
Part 3 Thereโs a song I want you to hear. Itโs called A'touna Et-Tufoole โ โGive Us a Chance.โ Iโve loved it since I was small, like so many other children here. Itโs a favorite for us โ in Palestine, Syria, Lebanon โ all the places where children have grown up under skies filled with war. Itโs a song we sing to the world, asking them to hear us, asking them to see us, asking them to understand that all we want is a chance to live, to play, to feel safe.
The song is simple, really, but every time I sing it, it feels like my heart is reaching out. The words say, I am a child with something to say, please listen to me. I am a child who wants to play โ why donโt you let me? My doors are waiting, my friends are praying, small hearts are begging โ give us a chance.
When I sing these words, itโs like Iโm speaking for every child here in Gaza, for every friend Iโve lost, for every family that has been broken apart. We are begging, give us a chance. Just a chance to be children, to play, to laugh, to feel like tomorrow isnโt something to be afraid of.
I want you to listen to this song because maybe, if you hear it, youโll understand what weโre feeling. Maybe youโll hear our voices, crying out from behind the rubble, through the pain, over the sound of the bombs. Maybe then youโll see us as we are โ not just faces on a screen, not just numbers or statistics, but real children, children with hopes, with dreams, with small hearts that are tired of begging.
Please, from the bottom of my heart, listen to this song. Hear our plea, not as words from a distant place, but as the voice of a child asking you for the simplest thing โ the chance to live. Give us a chance. Give us peace. โAtouna Es-Salam.
Listen to Aโtouna Et-Tufoole - Give Us a Chance - The Voice Kids on YouTube
https://youtu.be/Kc1yfZngUms?feature=shared
Thank you for reading my story. I hope it reaches your heart. We are not just statistics or news flashes. We are children with dreams, with lives, with loved ones who have been taken from us. And all we ask is that you truly see us, that you remember our names, and that you demand justice and mercy on our behalf.
Part 2
Thereโs another truth we face here every day โ the fact that children like us are not just being killed by bombs. Iโve heard the doctors talk about it, the American doctors who came here and saw it for themselves. Theyโve written to President Biden, pleading with him, sharing what they saw with their own eyes. Theyโve testified that children as young as toddlers are being deliberately targeted by Israeli snipers. They see us, children, shot with high-velocity sniper bullets, bullets that hit exactly on the forehead, the side of the head, or right over the heart. And these snipers are known for their skill; they donโt miss by accident. When you see so many children hit with this kind of precision, itโs clear โ they are aiming to kill us.
And yet, even with all of this, I hear President Biden talk about โempathy.โ But I know his empathy is selective. It doesnโt include us. Not once has he spoken the names of those weโve lost. Not once has he demanded justice for our suffering. They wonโt even say our names, not even the name of our sister, our angel โ six-year-old Hind Rajab. The whole world cried for her, but not the people who are doing this to us. Not the leaders who send these weapons. They wonโt even give us the respect of saying her name or asking for justice. To them, we are nameless, faceless. They call it โcollateral damageโ and move on.
Iโm just one of many. There are so many others, children like me, people who have lost their limbs, their families, their futures. And yet, we keep trying to show the world whatโs happening here. People in Gaza have been desperately showing you, begging for you to see us, for you to understand that this is not a tragedy of our choosing. Itโs not a natural disaster; itโs genocide. And itโs happening right in front of you.
I donโt understand how you can look at us and still decide who to vote for, still argue over who will be the next leader to decide what happens to us. I hear about these people โ leaders who debate over who can โmanageโ the situation better, who can bring โstabilityโ to the region. But what theyโre really saying is who will decide how many bombs to drop, who will choose how many more children will end up like me โ buried in rubble, pulled out to face a life of pain, fear, and loss.
It feels like Iโm screaming into a void. Sometimes I think the world sees us as just images on a screen, like weโre actors in some distant movie. But weโre real. This is real. I donโt have a leg anymore, and the pain never stops. I see children, younger than me, who have lost even more โ their families, their homes, their limbs. And weโre left here, watching as you all decide who will be the next to take away what little we have left.
If you could live here for even one day, feel the hunger, the thirst, the terror of never knowing if youโll make it through the night, maybe then youโd understand. Maybe then youโd stop choosing our next executioner and start choosing justice. Weโre not asking for sympathy; weโre asking for survival, for a chance to live like you do โ with safety, with family, with hope.
Weโve shown you the truth. Weโve shared our stories, our faces, our suffering. All we ask is that you stop looking away, that you stop pretending this is normal, that you stop deciding which leader will determine our fate as if we donโt matter. Weโre here. Weโre waiting for you to see us, really see us, and stop this before thereโs nothing left of us to save.
I wrote this fictional piece from the viewpoint of a 13 year old Palestinian girl from Gaza today as she watches us choose her next executioner. I hope it helps to open hearts in a heartless world.
Part 1
Dear Americans,
When they pulled me out of the rubble, I was barely awake. I could still hear the sounds of the bomb โ that terrible, deafening blast that took away my family, my home, my leg. The bomb had an American flag on it, they told me later, with a star that some people say stands for hope. But for us, that star has brought only terror. It was hope that killed everything I knew.
I was trapped under the remains of what used to be my house. My fatherโs arm was still wrapped around me, though he was gone. My mother was somewhere under the debris too, but I never saw her again. I didnโt know it then, but the bomb that shattered my family, that turned my world into rubble, was dropped by an American F-35 fighter jet. I had seen those jets before, and I knew all too well what they could do. They fly overhead, their sound like a predator stalking its prey, and when they strike, everything changes in an instant.
The F-35 is one of the most advanced jets in the world, designed to carry bombs that can turn entire neighborhoods to dust. They told me that this plane was sent here by Israel, but it was made in America โ created by workers at places like Lockheed Martin, Boeing, and General Dynamics. I think about those workers. I wonder if they know what their hands have created, if they realize that the bombs they build are what shattered my family, destroyed my home, and took away my leg. Do they know that each piece they put together becomes part of a weapon that flies over our heads, dropping 2,000-pound bombs on children like me? Or do they think of it as just a job, something to pay the bills, something that has nothing to do with the faces of children who lie buried beneath the rubble?
My father was a good man. I loved him more than anything. He had never held a gun in his life โ he was a nurse at Al Shifa Hospital, one of the only places where people could go for care in all this chaos. I remember him coming home from long shifts, exhausted but smiling, with stories of the lives he had saved. He taught me to be kind, to help others, to believe that there was still good in the world. But that world didnโt return his kindness. They took him from me, from us, and locked him away.
One day, soldiers rounded up all the men and older boys in our neighborhood. My father didnโt run. He didnโt fight. He walked forward, hands raised, trusting that his innocence would protect him. But they took him anyway, dragging him off to Sde Teiman, a place weโd heard of only in whispers. Itโs the prison they send you to disappear, where people are tortured, where unspeakable things happen to break you. They kept him there for months, tortured him until he was just a shell of the man I loved. When he was finally released, I could barely recognize him. He didnโt talk about what happened, but I saw it in his eyes โ the way he flinched, the way his hands shook, the way he tried to smile for me but couldnโt.
They had to take my leg to save my life. There was no other way, they said. But there wasnโt enough medicine, no anesthesia. I had to bite down on a piece of cloth while they cut it off, and I screamed until I thought my voice would disappear. When I closed my eyes, I could see my motherโs face, her voice telling me to be strong. But how can anyone be strong when the world decides youโre not meant to live?
It didnโt end there, though. The infection kept coming back, over and over, and there was no way to stop it. There were hardly any antibiotics โ nothing but pain and a fever that wouldnโt leave me. I had to go through more surgeries, more times lying there, helpless, watching the world go dark. Each time, they cut a little more away, hoping it would save me. But in this place, where the water isnโt even clean enough to drink, how can we heal? Thereโs hardly any water for bathing, and when it rains, sewage floods through the encampments, the so-called โsafe zonesโ they put us in.
And now, I have only one family member left. My little brother, Nabil, whoโs five. Somehow, he made it out alive, almost untouched. Itโs like a miracle, they say, that he was pulled from the rubble with barely a scratch, just covered in dust, his big eyes staring out in shock. He doesnโt talk much anymore. Sometimes he just stares into space, clutching onto me as if heโs afraid Iโll disappear too. I donโt even know where the rest of our family is โ if theyโre alive, if theyโre somewhere far away, displaced like so many others, or if theyโre gone too. I have no way to find them, no way to even reach out.
Strangers have been kind to us, feeding us from the little they have. People here have nothing, yet somehow, they still find a way to share whatโs left. I see them slipping a piece of bread into my brotherโs hand or bringing us blankets at night. Itโs the only warmth we have left โ the kindness of those who have lost just as much, who know that if we donโt look after each other, there will be nothing left.
And to hell with RFK jr. Too!
He's lying.