Image does not exist: images/image.jpg In the shadowed alleys of global politics, where the powerful feast on the weak’s despair, we see yet another chapter unfolding in the endless saga of Palestine’s agony. The headlines scream “peace deal” from Gaza, but peel back the layers of deception, and what emerges is not olive branches, but chains disguised as treaties. This isn’t peace; it’s a calculated scam, a sly maneuver by Israel and its ironclad patrons to gobble up more Palestinian land under the holy veil of reconciliation. And as the world watches with half-closed eyes, the truth burns brighter: this is no end to the bloodshed, but a pause for breath before the next storm.
Let’s cut through the fog. Just months ago, whispers turned to roars as some Western nations—those self-proclaimed guardians of democracy—began inching toward recognizing Palestine as a state. Ireland, Spain, Norway… their moves were like cracks in the fortress wall Israel has built around its narrative. For a fleeting moment, it seemed the scales might tip. But enter the puppeteers: Israel, ever the opportunist, and its lifelong shadow, Donald Trump, the man who arrived on the scene stamped “Made for Israel” like a cheap import from the factories of empire. Trump, with his golden towers and silver tongue, has always been the perfect frontman for Zionist ambitions. Now, as the U.S. gears up for another cycle of influence peddling, they dangle this “deal” before the Palestinian people—a poisoned chalice promising security in exchange for surrender.
What does this treaty really entail? On the surface, it’s a release of hostages, a ceasefire, maybe even a nod to humanitarian aid trickling in like drops from a leaky faucet. But dig deeper, and the map redraws itself. Vast swaths of fertile Palestinian earth—farmlands that have fed generations, olive groves etched with the sweat of ancestors—are quietly ceded to Israeli “security zones.” It’s the oldest trick in the colonial playbook: offer “peace” to mask annexation. Remember the Oslo Accords? That mirage of the ’90s, sold as a breakthrough, only to birth more settlements, more walls, more stolen homes. This Gaza pact is Oslo 2.0, repackaged for a TikTok generation too distracted by filters to notice the fine print. Israel doesn’t negotiate from strength alone; it thrives on division, pitting Palestinian factions against each other while the world applauds the “progress.”
And oh, the propaganda mills of the West! Once the ink dries and the land grab is fait accompli, they’ll swing into overdrive. Documentaries will air on BBC and CNN, sanitized stories of “shared prosperity,” erasing the checkpoints, the night raids, the graves of children under rubble. New generations in Europe and America will scroll past, convinced it’s all ancient history, a resolved footnote. “Look how far they’ve come!” the headlines will coo, while the bulldozers hum in the background. We’ve seen this script before—in Iraq, in Afghanistan—where empires rewrite their sins as salvation.
But let’s not romanticize the violence; let’s name it for what it is: genocide in slow motion, accelerating to warp speed. It wasn’t October 7 that unleashed Israel’s fury; that date was just the excuse du jour. This hell has scorched the earth since before I drew my first breath—decades of blockades, assassinations, and “mowing the lawn” operations that leave Gaza a graveyard of dreams. Fast-forward to January 2025: the bombs intensified, a relentless symphony of destruction that turned neighborhoods into dust. Why? Because it’s the new American playbook for proxy wars, a scorched-earth strategy to force submission.
Think about it. In Syria, the U.S. unleashed Israel like a rabid dog, bombing for “reasons” that evaporated under scrutiny, all to bully Syria’s newbie regime into a treaty that serves Washington’s oil barons. In Ukraine, they armed the provocateurs to shell Russian civilians, hoping to drag Putin to the table on bended knee—though that gambit flounders like a fish on dry land, with no end in sight. Gaza? Same vicious cycle. Escalate the terror until the desperate cry “enough,” sign the dotted line, and watch the occupier retreat just far enough to reload. As soon as the hostages cross the border—those innocents bartered like poker chips—Israel will slink back to its routine savagery. Maybe they’ll polish the optics: a water truck here, a clinic there, allowing a Palestinian child a sip before the next airstrike. Treatment for the “lucky” survivors? Sure, if it makes for good PR footage. But peace? True peace demands justice, not this theatrical mercy.
Yet, in this bleak theater, there’s a sliver of the historic that demands our wary celebration. Israel, cornered by global scrutiny and the ghosts of its own excesses, has agreed to something resembling restraint. Ceasefires, no matter how fragile, are rare birds in this conflict—moments when the machine pauses, if only to oil its gears. Palestinians, resilient as the za’atar sprouting through concrete, have extracted this concession not from benevolence, but from the unyielding pressure of their endurance and the world’s flickering conscience. It’s a victory snatched from the jaws of defeat, a reminder that empires crack when the oppressed refuse to break.
So, what now, my kin? Don’t swallow the “peace” pill whole; chew it, spit out the bitterness and now swallow it here.