Never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime.
Ernest Hemingway
O the butchers of my children!
I am writing this letter on an exploded mortar shell
The shell that you dropped from your war machines
You dropped them on the roof of the hospital
The roof of the hospital where they were born!
They were born two days ago on one fine morning,
How beautiful they looked with the little curly hairs,
The soft touch of their little hands on my chee—
Now I just have one disfigured, part of a baby hand!
I don’t know if it’s my son’s!
I am writing my letter not just to show my hatred
Do not misunderstand me, I hate you with all my might
This letter is from all the fathers of Gaza
Too much blood is shed and too much is what we have lost
You have killed
My brothers
My father
My sisters
My wife
My mother
Now you are killing my children.
For countless decades, you butchers of my children,
You have been killing.
How much more do you want?
How much more blood lust is left in you?
Have you forgotten your history?
Your share of the history of sufferings?
The holocaust
The ghettos
The concentration camps
Once oppressed is dancing blood-hungrily.
Once oppressed now becomes a tyrant.
O Israel, you are a criminal.
O Israel, you are the murderers of my children.
O Israel, stop this mindless killing.
© Indranil Mukherjee
Poetic Stories 
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