Republished from the Institute of Palestinian Studies Gaza blog series

Hind Shraydeh*

Your Holiness Pope Leo XIV,

With reverence and respect,

And in the peace of love that unites rather than divides,

I am Hind Shraydeh, a journalist writing to you from Occupied Palestine — the land where our Lord Jesus Christ was born, crucified, died, and has risen. I carry to you a cry for help, rising from the heart of Calvary, where an entire people continues to suffer.

For nearly two years, two million Palestinians in Gaza have been subjected to a systematic genocide by the Israeli occupation — a devastation targeting civilians and strangling all aspects of life. Over 60,000 people have been killed, with tens of thousands more wounded. Nothing has been spared: homes, churches, mosques, schools, universities, hospitals, and even cemeteries. Not even embryos stored in fertility clinics for in vitro fertilization survived — a declaration of death upon every potential Palestinian life.

What unfolds today is a deliberate famine, crafted by a policy steeped in blind hatred — a crime growing day by day, sparing no man, woman, child, or elder.

On the 660th day of this genocide, the people of Gaza endure on their land. The Israeli occupation army hunts Palestinians down, both Muslims and Christians alike. Over 4% of the Christian population in Gaza has been killed, even while seeking shelter within churches. The Israeli occupation seeks to erase the Christian presence, which refuses displacement and bears the cross of resilience in Gaza. It attempts to uproot it spiritually and physically, cutting Gaza off from the map.

It is a policy of ongoing ethnic cleansing meant to empty Gaza of its Palestinian presence. Yet, despite these malicious plans, the people of Gaza — including the Christian Church — have stood firm. Their faith is a daily resurrection, lived out through flesh in defiance of the darkness.

Those in Gaza who have survived missiles and bombs now suffer from hunger. Gaza’s people now walk like phantoms, their bones visible beneath their skin, searching for scraps of flour in the rubble of a destroyed city. One by one, they fall from thirst and hunger in a man-made famine, orchestrated by a colonial settler regime whose leaders, in front of cameras and before the eyes of the whole world, vowed to tighten the noose around Gaza.

Gaza is betrayed by everyone in whom it once placed its trust. Many have lost faith in everything they once believed in — in international law, in justice that never came, in salvation that seems far. Some told me: “Perhaps our prayers no longer reach the sky, blurred by the constant roar of drones and bombs.” Others cry out beyond the bounds of prayer, clutching their children’s remains between torn tents — a cry of agony, abandonment, and loneliness — like that of our Lord Jesus on the cross:

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

A dear friend, a lawyer by profession, told me how he was forced to burn his law books to keep warm during the harsh winter, after the fuel crisis, wood scarcity, and rising prices. He came to the bitter realization that the law would not save him or his children. He chose between his shattered bookshelf and his freezing children, the latter, survival, for one more day.

Even the sea — Gaza’s western haven — is off-limits. Israeli snipers and AI-powered drones monitor its shores, targeting any fisherman who dares to seek the Lord’s daily gift from the depths. Even that is denied to them.

History will one day record that a genocide unfolded in full view of a watching world — a world too afraid to condemn the killers or hold them accountable. Those aid trucks stood just a stone’s throw from Gaza’s gates, only to be locked away in fear of Israel’s anger. Those brave ships, like the “Conscience” and “Madeleine” flotillas, tried to break the siege but were intercepted and their crews detained, never reaching Gaza’s shores.

All that remains is hope. Hope alone sustains us Palestinians and keeps us clinging to life. It is with this hope that I write to you.

Your Holiness,

You know — from your past service in Peru — the meaning of physical hunger and the sound of growling stomachs. You have seen refugees and opened the churches to them as shelters and soup kitchens. You stood against oppression and political injustice when you demanded an apology from Alberto Fujimori and chose to stand with the people, the true source of legitimacy.

Despite all the pain, destruction, and hunger, our hearts remain anchored in hope — the hope of the Risen One. We call upon you now, with full faith and trust, to move beyond anonymous statements (that conceal the perpetrators of the crimes) and balcony prayers — to enact prophetic action in a time deaf to justice and peace. We implore you to live out Christ’s command:

“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat,
I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink,
I was a stranger and you invited me in,
I needed clothes and you clothed me,
I was sick and you looked after me,
I was in prison and you came to visit me.” — Matthew 25:35-36

We call upon you, following the teachings of Jesus Christ and in the spirit of His courageous acts, and as the head of the Church, to sail aboard the Flotilla of Justice, accompanied by a group of cardinals, clergy of various faiths, human rights defenders, and people of conscience, and break the siege on Gaza.

I cannot promise you safety. The occupying power will not allow aid to reach the Palestinians. But the equation is stark: to be or not to be. It demands extraordinary courage and prophetic action — the kind we hope for from you.

Come. Try. Use your international immunity and American citizenship — perhaps they will help lift the blockade and expose the crimes committed against past humanitarian fleets — and those being plotted today against the ship “Handala.”

Our Lord said on the Mount of Beatitudes:

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.”

In His name, and in the name of the Holy Family that passed through Gaza on their flight to Egypt, we call upon you to rescue the people of Gaza — to break this cruel siege. Come aboard a ship filled with food, medicine, baby formula, and prosthetic limbs.

Please, do not turn us away. Perhaps the breaking of your ship will become the beginning of a miracle, and your arrival the blessing that unleashes the convoys of mercy. Perhaps, with you, the miracle of the loaves and fishes may happen again — feeding the hungry in Gaza, and strengthening their legendary steadfastness.

About The Author: 

Hind Shraydeh is a Palestinian journalist from Jerusalem and a mother of three boys. She writes on labor issues, cultural and Christian affairs, the plight of political prisoners, and human rights in occupied Palestine. She holds a Master’s degree in International Studies and a Bachelor’s degree in Print Journalism and Political Science from Birzeit University.