To My Brother Dr. Ezzideen

As I read your words in The Times of Israel, I felt a tremor—not of disagreement, but of reckoning. You wrote from Gaza, to Israelis, in a moment when every word could be a death sentence. That alone is an act of courage. To speak across the line of fire, while still standing in its path, is not something our culture easily forgives. You know this. I know this. And yet you wrote.

Let me begin with respect. As a Moroccan, I share your language, your heritage, and the ache of watching our region devour itself. But I must also speak plainly. You called the IDF cruel. I understand why. When your home is rubble and your relatives are buried beneath it, cruelty is not a concept—it’s a lived reality.

But if the IDF were truly targeting civilians, there would be none left. That is not a defense of every strike, nor a dismissal of your grief. It is a call for perspective. Israel did not wake up on October 7th with a sudden urge to kill. It responded to a massacre—one that was not only carried out but celebrated in your streets. Beheadings. Burnings. Mass slaughter. These were not rumors. They were livestreamed.

And here is the bitter truth: Hamas was elected. It was supported. Its crimes were cheered. You may not have danced. But many did. And that celebration of death—of Jewish death—was not born in a vacuum. It was cultivated. In our schools. In our sermons. In the quiet corners of our culture where the word “Jew” has long been synonymous with betrayal, decadence, and the killing of prophets.

You and I both know this. We were raised with it. And yet you wrote for Jews. You shared your grief with them. You humanized yourself to those our culture has long dehumanized. That, too, is bravery. Whether consciously or not, you relinquished the reflex to hate. You challenged a legacy of inherited suspicion. And for that, I honor you.

But I also challenge you. Compassion must not come at the cost of clarity. If you are crushed by the IDF, say so. But also say who built the tunnels beneath your feet. Who stored rockets in your schools. Who turned your hospitals into bunkers. Say who betrayed you first.

You wrote with empathy. I write with fire. And somewhere between your compassion and my fury, maybe there’s a truth worth holding onto. Not for Israel. Not for Gaza. But for us—for those who still believe that words can be bridges, even when the world insists on walls.

Let this be a moment of reckoning. Not of blame, but of truth. You spoke. I responded. May our voices echo beyond the rubble.