I am a writer. I will place you there.
You wander inside an abandoned hospital. Just imagine yourself a ghost, an ethereal being. You have no body mass, just soul and consciousness.
You hear loud screams. Crying. And the babies hear each other. Too little to understand that the others cry, too. Too little to even have an expectancy to be picked up. Comforted. Fed.
They cry in pain. There's no sadness. Too little to experience so many emotions. Their bodies hurt for nutrients, for water, for their mother's milk, drying in their breast under one of the thousands of collapsed buildings.
So the little creatures cry and cry. They hear each other. That's the last thing they hear in this world: each other. And the loud sounds of the bombs from the Fourth Reich of The Terrorist State of Israel.
And no one comes for them. They cry and cry and cry, and little by little, it begins to subside; all that crying. One by one until only one baby cries. No one is coming. The IDF has condemned them to death. Their crime is being of Palestinian descent.
I don't believe there's a God of any kind in the universe, except all the ones my fellow human beings invented. Each is more murderous than the other. But they need them. I need them too.
With God in your heart, you imagine angels coming to take them home. An atheist like me imagines the hungry dogs arriving there. Before they were dead.
And a single thought soothes my soul: Marco Aurélio, they are too little to understand the screams of the ones being eaten alive.
My heart hurts for the Palestinians. And I have no faith in anything. That, for an atheist, is death itself.