The Death of Sovereignty – Gaza Will Never Fall
For decades, the world has watched as Palestine has been stripped of its land, its history rewritten, its people displaced, imprisoned, and massacred. Politicians gather in lavish halls, speaking the language of diplomacy, but their words are nothing more than an elaborate smokescreen for betrayal. They do not negotiate peace—they orchestrate the theft of a homeland.
The latest meeting between Donald Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu was not a discussion between world leaders. It was an execution order. A declaration that Palestine is no longer a cause, but a commodity to be traded, its people nothing more than an obstacle to be removed. This was not politics. This was the public burial of Palestinian sovereignty, a reminder that colonialism did not die—it simply evolved.
Trump, the embodiment of Western arrogance, hosted Netanyahu not as a foreign leader, but as a partner in crime. This was not an alliance—it was an empire solidifying its grip over stolen land. Israel, emboldened by decades of impunity, was being reassured yet again: it can bomb, displace, and slaughter, and the world will look away. The White House doors were not opened for peace—they were opened to reaffirm Israel’s position as the untouchable enforcer of oppression.
Netanyahu, ever the warmonger, turned to Trump and spoke with the confidence of a man who knows there will be no consequences. If this is what you’ve done in two weeks, what will you do in four years? It was not a question. It was a challenge. A promise that the worst was yet to come.
And then, with the cold detachment of a man signing off on genocide, Trump delivered the pronouncement: The people of Gaza were just unlucky to be born there.
As if occupation were an accident.
As if ethnic cleansing were a misfortune rather than a calculated crime.
As if the children buried beneath rubble had merely drawn the wrong number in a cruel lottery of fate.
And then came the ultimate betrayal. The final solution, packaged as policy. Relocation. A polite word for forced exile, for erasing a people from their land. Palestinians, stripped of their homes, would be scattered, exiled, banished. Jordan and Egypt, they said, would take them in. A new life, they claimed, one without suffering. But the suffering does not come from the land—it comes from the occupier.
Gaza—the unbreakable heart of Palestine—would be no more. Its streets, once filled with the laughter of children before they became the targets of drones, would be emptied. Its homes, already burned by airstrikes, would be erased. The world would be asked to forget.
And who would fund this modern-day Nakba?
Not just the U.S. Not just Israel. But Arab regimes themselves.
The same nations that drape themselves in the Palestinian flag for the cameras, that claim solidarity in speeches, would be the ones to sign the check for their displacement. Saudi Arabia will pay. The UAE will pay. Others, silent for now, will pay. They will not fund liberation—they will fund exile. They will not protect Gaza—they will erase it.
The wealth that should have been a shield for Palestine will be turned into a weapon against it. The oil money that should have fueled resistance will instead be used to fuel dispossession. Because to these regimes, Palestine is not a homeland—it is a problem they want to make disappear.
Then, as if colonialism had never ended, the final insult was delivered: America will take Gaza and rebuild it.
Rebuild it? Rebuild what? The homes that were bombed by Israeli fighter jets? The hospitals reduced to rubble by Western-backed airstrikes? The graves of children who never lived long enough to see freedom?
Gaza does not need America’s reconstruction. Gaza does not need foreign investors to develop it. Gaza needs freedom. Gaza needs an end to the blockade that has strangled its people for years. Gaza needs the right to exist, not to be rebranded as real estate for the highest bidder.
Trump, ever the colonial overlord, dismissed an Afghan journalist with a wave of his hand. I don’t understand you. Good luck in life. Live in peace.
Peace? What peace?
The peace of the grave?
The peace of exile?
The peace of silence after the last Palestinian is forced from their land?
They speak of peace, but their hands are soaked in blood. They say the word as they bomb homes, as they destroy generations, as they turn Palestine into a bargaining chip on the global stage. They repeat it like a prayer, hoping it will drown out the sound of their crimes.
But where is peace?
Is it in the miles of refugees forced to march into the unknown, their journey paid for with Arab wealth?
Is it in the children of Gaza, growing up in foreign lands, never knowing the streets where their grandparents once walked?
Is it in the maps being redrawn by men who have never stepped foot in Palestine, deciding with a pen stroke who has the right to exist?
This was not a peace summit. It was a war council. The world is not witnessing negotiations—it is witnessing the systematic dismantling of Palestine, orchestrated not just by Israel and the West, but by the very leaders who should be its defenders.
They believe they have won. They shake hands. They sign their deals. They buy silence with oil money. They erase history with contracts and signatures.
But Palestine is not a deal to be negotiated in the shadows of betrayal. It is not a land that can be sold to the highest bidder.
Palestine is the key still clutched in the hands of the grandmother who was forced from her home.
Palestine is the name whispered in the dark by a father who refuses to let his children forget where they come from.
Palestine is the unyielding spirit of Gaza, where every bomb dropped only deepens the resolve to resist.
They may believe they are writing the final chapter.
But Palestine is not a story that ends.
Palestine is the fire that will never be extinguished.