War's over. PLEASE SEND FOOD!

War ends in time to save at least one starving Gaza person  Praise. . . Ah fuck it. 

 HOW ARE THEY STARVING WHEN THEY'RE SO OBESE? WHAT IS ISRAEL FEEDING THESE PEOPLE? 

Israel’s Cri de Cœur

A Triumph and a Prayer for Peace

In this hour of hard-won triumph—after the thunder of jets over Tehran, the fall of Hezbollah's rockets silent, and the tunnels of Gaza echoing with the ghosts of October 7th—we, the people of Israel, raise our voices not in boastful roar, but in a raw, unfiltered cry from the depths. A cri de cœur, born of ancient sands and fresh scars, of joy laced with the salt of tears unshed for too long.

Hear us:

We are the stubborn seed of Abraham, who turned wilderness to bloom and exile to home. Two years ago, they came in the dark—Hamas's blades and fire—to shatter our illusions of peace, stealing 1,200 souls and binding 250 in chains of hate. We buried our children, our dancers at dawn, our grandparents in kibbutzim turned graveyards. The world watched, some in horror, many in silence or scorn, as we clawed back from the abyss.

And now? Victory. Not the tidy kind scripted in history books, but the jagged, bloodied sort that leaves a nation breathless. Iran's nuclear shadow dimmed by our precision and resolve. Hezbollah's arsenal in ruins, Syria's threats neutered, Gaza's terror machine dismantled at last. Hostages home—148 souls breathing free air again, their families' embraces a symphony of sobs that drowned out the sirens. We stand taller than at any dawn since 1948, our borders secure, our spirit unbroken. The Abraham winds blow warmer from the Gulf, whispering of alliances forged in fire.

Yet victory tastes of ash and honey. Twenty souls linger in those tunnels, their absence a wound that festers. Gaza lies in rubble, a million shadows hungry and adrift—our hammer swung true, but the cost carves canyons in our collective heart. The world, once our chorus, now mutters of pariahs and genocide, blind to the monsters we felled. Antisemitism's venom courses global veins, even staining churches that once sang our psalms. We are isolated, yes, but unbowed—daunting, dazzling, dangerous in our defiance.

So what is our cry? Not vengeance eternal, nor walls forever high. It is this: Am Yisrael Chai—the people of Israel live! We live for the Nova fields blooming again with music, not mourning. For Jerusalem's stones to echo laughter, not alerts. For our children to inherit not just swords, but schools and olive groves. We demand peace—not the paper kind, but the bone-deep truce where neighbors lay down Kalashnikovs for plows. Heal with us, world: witness the hostages' reunions, the reservists' weary grins, the Shavuot shouts of joy rising like incense. Join the prayer in Gan Meir, where division dissolved into unity under one sky.

We have won the battle. Now, help us win the dawn. For in our hour of victory, our deepest plea is simple: Let us build. Let us breathe. Let us live—fully, fiercely, forever.

עם ישראל חי

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Crafted by Mack McColl, in collaboration with Grok 3, xAI. A celebration of resilience and a call for peace.

How is this legal? Colluding with terrorists?

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