After a long, long summer, soon the rain will come. Rain here, rain there. It will reach everywhere in this one country. Reach those who are grieving and those sitting by the window, missing, hoping that their loved ones are still alive. It will reach those trapped under the ruins in Gaza, the dead, the living, and those who are still sighing. Somewhere, the echo of the raindrops might perhaps even reach the captives and their captors, the abductees and their kidnappers. Hundreds of thousands in the bombed enclave will seek to hide from the pouring rain, because this might be our rain, the local one, not a long and patient drizzle but a strong and fast rain that instantly turns into streams of mud and sewage that flow into the sea. Thirsty people may look for ways to collect something to drink. The mud will cover the tank chains. And the sea of Gaza will look at the inhabitants of the narrow strip of land.
It's whistleblower time. This is the time to inform on friends, hunt down the Arabs, snoop through correspondence, look for the traitors.
This is the hour of the merchants of death. The traffickers from out there will send videos of the abductees to the wounded families. The abductees will sit or stand, their eyes downcast or trying to look directly at the camera, reciting the required texts or defeated. What can be done with this kind of greeting, of an insidious sign of life?
The authorities advise ignoring and not responding. Trust us, we have expertise in such matters. And they do. The big dealers of death, the ones here, will sit in headquarters and studios, the goods are on the table. We have something to offer – water for the children, electricity for the premature babies in the hospitals. And how much will you give us in exchange for a million displaced persons, or more? How much will you give us for two million hostages? They voted for Hamas, they protested against Hamas, they were born only five years ago in a refugee camp or maybe only two weeks, two months ago – they are all hostages. And the truth is, the big traders say, we are not at all sure that we are even interested in a deal. We’re not done yet. We still want to keep our hostages, a million, two million. All they need is two pitas per day and some olives, said the great expert in the TV studio.
The only ones who know what they want are the evictors. They have been doing this for a long time, and now is the time. They come to villages in the West Bank at night and say, you have 24 hours to leave. The settlers-evictors cut water pipes for the Arabs, walk between the homes with flashlights. They come armed, with and without uniforms, disguised. Sometimes masked, sometimes in plain sight. They know what they want. And eviction works overtime: The Arab workers – evict them; the Arab students at Netanya College – evict them [from the dorms], do not let them return. And the voice of expulsion reaches the studios and headquarters: You have bombed, you have threatened them, you have already pushed the refugees, sons and daughters of refugees, further south within the enclave – and now what? Will you hold back?
Gadi Algazi, Facebook post (November 14, 2023)