لحظة ادراك

“An Army that Marches on Its Stomach”

Call it whatever you like… just don’t call it a war

These days, the myth-makers ruling Israel and the de facto rulers in Gaza are lighting candles for the centennial of their deadly game—celebrating six generations of annihilation and death. It's a frantic race to engineer the illusion of victory, fueled by people and stones. Most of the world says to them: you are chasing ghosts and delusions that exist only in your dreams, dreams heavy with myths long past their expiry date.

The leaders of the mythological government in Israel are ecstatic at the chaos in Gaza—tens of thousands of starving people stormed a center holding the latest shipment of humanitarian "chaos" courtesy of Donald Trump. Their message: this is what victory looks like, or at least what they want it to look like. It also marks the end of a regime we helped create. We made heroes out of those who cry "Victory!" at the edges of Gaza. Now, lines of starving people walk for miles on foot in search of mere survival.

The de facto rulers reply: “You shall not pass. We are the day after, even if it costs thousands more lives after the 54,000 we've already sacrificed.”

The public, drowning in blood and despair, cries: “Enough of this pointless death!”

The response comes swiftly and coldly:

“Why the shouting? Everything has been done to keep this chaos going. The blood-stock exchange is at its peak—now it's time to reap the profits.”

The stocks of “Witkoff,” “Bahbah,” and the entire circus of multinational intermediaries are all green—encouraging, reassuring, promising. Just days away from harvest.

The despairing cry out in anguish, gnawing their fingers, powerless except by God’s mercy.

“A box of curses and refusals might spare us immediate destruction,” they say.

It might be a “necessary evil” that justifies all prohibitions—or a few thousand shekels in incentives for participating in the festival of blood aboard Gideon’s reserve trucks.

For the rest of the oppressed, it is enough to listen to the orchestra of revenge and blood composed by the myth-makers and performed by global misfits. That’s all they get.

They say, “This is what we have brought upon ourselves. No one else is to blame.”

We bent our backs in a moment of heedlessness, and now these outcasts ride us like beasts of burden. They’re shaping our future.

We are oxen to a waterwheel that has long since run dry—it quenches no thirst and grows no crop.

The Americans and Israelis lack neither the knowledge nor the resources to manage humanitarian aid. They have full access to all operational data, and can easily hire international aid veterans.

But what we are seeing is no accident—it’s the very performance they intended to export to the world.

Why?

This region is now beyond the definitions of the UN.
From now on, it will fall under a clear classification: a joint U.S.-Israeli zone of influence, like Puerto Rico. Only American and Israeli laws apply.
The native population must get used to direct contact with their new overlords—no more intermediaries, no more connection to a past that couldn’t even get them a bottle of water without Israeli or American approval. Food distribution is just a prototype; education, healthcare, and more will follow.
The locals must deal with aid individually.
No solidarity. No special treatment for the weak, the poor, or the disabled. The survival equation is simple: only the strong endure.
Crowds, brawls, theft, chaos—all fair game.
This visual performance showcases the kind of people they are dealing with.
People who supposedly need reshaping, who are unfit to govern themselves.
The gathering of the desperate was orchestrated with no clear plan, no prior notice, no required documents, and no clarity on quantities or eligibility.
Surveillance cameras watch every corner of these death corridors, recording video, audio—even iris scans.
Why? Because the next phase will reward those who show the most audacity and aggression—those who take more than they can carry.
Starvation is working.
Those who smashed through today’s barriers to survive will be followed tomorrow by those still clinging to dignity—the most targeted group of all.
The severe hunger and tempting offers will make anyone salivate. No paperwork required.
When that moment arrives, it will mean that the last psychological defense has fallen.
This is a real-life drill, a metric for future policies—despite the massive risks involved.

The rulers in Gaza are watching closely. They know they have lost the battle of empty stomachs.

No one will listen to their rhetoric while people are starving. Despite all propaganda about noble goals, hunger wins.

The starving don’t care for grand national narratives anymore. These have become luxuries.

Let those deciding our fate from Doha and Istanbul, from their lavish hotels and astronomical budgets, try to live one day with us—searching for bread, water, and a shred of dignity, migrating from shelter to shelter for the tenth time.

The temple priests reply:

“Victory is near. Just a little more patience.”

But the tormented reply:

“The victory you speak of is a lie. Real victory doesn’t bring us here.”

Donald Trump, the master of business and showmanship, watches it all unfold through trusted reports.

The time has come, he believes, to bring a deal to light that will please the myth-makers.

The rulers in Gaza are desperate for any exit.

The image of starving crowds says it all. Chaos and lawlessness are unmistakable.

Adjustments are being made to the “Witkoff Plan,” now lost among countless versions.

Take it or leave it—yes or no, no middle ground.

The temple priests pore over it, pretending due diligence with their “partners in blood.”

Unofficial spokespersons rush to say:

“This is the Dreamer Plan, unrelated to any previous ones.”

But the response is blunt:

“The better offers you rejected before belonged to a different era. Everything has changed. If you don’t believe us, just look at the starving crowds.”

The masses, having lost everything, scream:

“Let there be a 60-day truce! At least death will pause, and we can catch our breath.”

The temple priests respond:

“It’s only temporary. Death will return in a week.”

The tormented reply:

“We’ve heard enough. Our contract with you is over. The pens have lifted. The ink has dried.”

“Hand over your weapons. Leave Gaza. You're irrelevant now.”

Let someone else take over—

The Arabs and their league, an international force, a local committee… anything but you. You are unfit. Unqualified. Done.