Listen up, world — we’re knee-deep in the rubble of righteousness again. Gaza, the broken hourglass of international hypocrisy, has spilled another grain of blood. His name was Rifaat Radwan — a son, a paramedic, a man whose only weapon was a stethoscope — and Israel killed him. Boom. Another life, reduced to a headline. But oh, this one comes with a voice – his final words? “Forgive me, Mama.” If your heart didn’t drop, check your pulse — you might be the one who’s dead.
Rifaat didn’t die on a battlefield. No, sir. He wasn’t holding a weapon unless you count the bandages he used to press into bleeding flesh. But he recorded his own end amid the chaos no Hollywood director could script. His voice, trembling yet terrifyingly calm, asked his mother for forgiveness. For what? Showing up to save lives in one of the most dangerous pieces of real estate on this planet. That’s where we are now — where healing hands are tagged as targets.
Let’s set the record detonator: Rifaat was one of 15 paramedics Israel has taken out during this siege-turned-slaughter. Oh, we’re told these are “precision” strikes — the kind where ambulances blow up and hospitals crumble with surgical sarcasm. But hey, if the pilot wore a crisp uniform and the drone shot in high definition, it must be justified, right?
Wrong.
This isn’t a war on terror. It’s a PR war dressed in the bulletproof vest of “self-defense.” And the campaign strategy? Simple: every death becomes collateral damage in the grand casino of geopolitics — where Palestinians bet their lives and the house always wins.
But here’s the part the balance-sheet bureaucrats in Brussels and DC won’t tell you: Rifaat Radwan isn’t collateral. He’s the consequence.
He’s the consequence of a world that shrugs when a paramedic bleeds out and cheers when a power-broker signs a new arms deal. He’s the consequence of a media ecosystem that measures life in column inches — and by that metric, Gaza is a paragraph no one reads unless there’s fire and brimstone in the dateline.
Now, I can already hear the apologists revving their engines: “But Mr. 47, don’t you understand war is messy?” Oh, please. I’ve seen oil spills handled with more dignity than this so-called mess. When the dust settles, who gets the contracts to rebuild? Not the mothers wailing for their sons. Not the teenagers digging their fathers from beneath blown concrete. No. Corporate bandits with blueprints.
It’s efficient — the violence, the silence, the spin.
And here’s the chess move that they didn’t anticipate: every final word recorded becomes immortalized ammunition. Rifaat Radwan gave the world an unfiltered, unedited front-row seat to the absurdity of this conflict: a medic saying sorry for dying too soon.
Let me say it louder for the drone jockeys in the back — When medics become martyrs, your war has lost its damn moral compass.
So the next time you hear the sanitized speeches, the faux moral justifications, and the blood-drenched alibis wrapped in national security flags, remember Rifaat’s voice.
“Forgive me, Mama.”
Not for his courage. Not for his duty. But perhaps for believing, even in his last breath, that this world would care.
The game’s on, people. And if we don’t start calling time on this rigged charade, we’ll all end up casualties in the headlines — forgotten between the ads.
Rest in truth, Rifaat.
– Mr. 47
