Affichage des articles dont le libellé est Gaza genocide. Afficher tous les articles
Affichage des articles dont le libellé est Gaza genocide. Afficher tous les articles

06/06/2025

HAARETZ
Armed Gaza Militia Rivaling Hamas Hands Out Aid in Israeli-controlled Zone

Analysis of satellite images and videos shows the Abu Shabab militia operating near Rafah along Gaza's main north-south route. Its armed members man checkpoints and distribute aid amid allegations that Netanyahu's government is arming ISIS-affiliated militias


Satellite images and videos posted online in recent weeks show that a new armed Palestinian militia has expanded its presence in southern Gaza, operating inside an area under the direct control of the Israel Defense Forces.Last month, Haaretz revealed the activities of a group calling itself the "Anti-Terror Service," operating in eastern Rafah. The group is reportedly led by Yasser Abu Shabab, a Rafah resident from a Bedouin family, known locally for his involvement in criminal activity and the looting of humanitarian aid late last year.
Sources in Gaza claim the group consists of roughly 100 armed men who operate with the tacit approval of the IDF. When asked for comment last week, an IDF spokesperson declined to respond to these claims.
The Abu Shabab militia operates east of destroyed Rafah, between the Morag and Philadelphi routes.Credit: Photo: Planet Labs PBC
In recent weeks, Abu Shabab launched two Facebook pages where he publishes anti-Hamas and anti-Palestinian Authority messages while promoting his militia's efforts to provide security and distribute aid to civilians.
Videos shared on these pages show his fighters wearing new uniforms, helmets, and vests emblazoned with insignias that include the Palestinian flag. Abu Shabab also shared the original Haaretz report about his group.
Some videos show the militia stopping and inspecting convoys from the Red Cross and the UN, guarding the Salah al-Din road, Gaza's main north-south route, and conducting armed formation drills.
In mid-April, four militia members were killed by an explosive device planted by Hamas. Although Hamas initially claimed the attack targeted an undercover Israeli unit, it later emerged that the casualties were members of Abu Shabab's group.
Yasser Abu Shabab next to a truck carrying hundreds of sacks of flour distributed to local residents, in a video he posted on his Facebook account this week
In a video posted this week, Abu Shabab claimed the four were killed while clearing homes in Rafah in preparation for the return of displaced residents. The video also described the deceased as former security officers or Palestinian Authority employees.
On Tuesday, Abu Shabab released another video showing his forces setting up a tent camp and unloading food from a truck. The accompanying message stated that "the popular forces have returned to eastern Rafah under the umbrella of Palestinian legitimacy, led by commander Yasser Abu Shabab."
Displaced Palestinians were invited to join the camp to receive food, shelter, and protection. Phone numbers were provided for coordination. The video also showed the distribution of hundreds of sacks of flour and food packages.
One of the senior members of the Abu Shabab militia, holding a shortened M16 rifle, alongside Red Cross personnel east of Rafah, two weeks ago.
Haaretz identified the tent camp's location in satellite imagery from Planet Labs, showing 16 tents under construction in a zone long controlled directly by the IDF – between the east-west Morag and Philadelphi routes, about five kilometers northeast of the Kerem Shalom crossing.
Previous efforts by Palestinian journalists and online activists to geolocate Abu Shabab's militia videos confirmed that they were also filmed in this same area (marked in red on the attached map).
UN maps from late 2023 designated the zone as "hazardous" due to frequent looting of aid convoys. In a past interview with The Washington Post, Abu Shabab admitted to looting some of the aid in order to feed local families.
The IDF declined to comment on the militia's activity in Gaza and referred Haaretz to the Shin Bet, which also refused to respond.
On Wednesday, Israeli lawmaker Avigdor Lieberman, a former defense minister, claimed that Israel has supplied weapons to ISIS-affiliated Gazan criminal gangs.
In an interview with Kan Bet radio, Lieberman said, "Israel gave assault rifles and small arms to crime families in Gaza on Netanyahu's orders. I doubt it went through the Security Cabinet. No one can guarantee these weapons won't eventually be turned against Israel."
Since the start of the war, there have been several reports suggesting that Netanyahu and senior IDF officials have considered transferring local governance in Gaza to large clans or families as a counterweight to Hamas.
In response to Lieberman's allegations, Netanyahu's office said: "Israel is working to defeat Hamas through various means, as recommended by all heads of the security establishment."

The two pages of Yaser Abu Shabab, who describes himself as ‘Commander-in-Chief of the Popular Forces’, created on Facebook/Meta with a small dose of artificial intelligence.
The private one : 

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61575907420429
The official one:
https://www.facebook.com/Popularforces2024

29/05/2025

GIDEON LEVY
Germany’s Enslavement to Its Past Kept It Silent on Gaza for Far Too Long

Gideon Levy, Haaretz, 29/5/2025

Germany has betrayed the memory of the Holocaust and its lessons. A country that saw its highest task as not to forget has forgotten. A country that told itself that it would never remain silent is silent. A country that once said "Never Again," and now: "again," with arms, with funding, with silence. There is no country that should be better than Germany at "discerning nauseating processes." Every German knows much more about them than Yair Golan. Here in Israel they are in full swing, yet Germany has not yet recognized them for what they are. It was only recently that it woke up too late and to too little effect.


When Germany sees the Flag March in Jerusalem, it must see Kristallnacht. If it does not see the similarities, it is betraying the memory of the Holocaust. When it looks at Gaza, it must see the concentration camps and ghettos that it built. When it sees hungry Gazans, it must see the wretched survivors of the camps. When it hears the fascist talk of Israeli ministers and other public figures about killing and population transfer, about there being "no innocents" and about killing babies, it must hear the chilling voices from its past, who said the same in German.

It has no right to be silent. It must carry the flag of European resistance to what is happening in the Strip. Yet it continues to lag behind the rest of Europe, however uncomfortably, not only because of its past but also because of its indirect responsibility for the Nakba, which probably would not have happened without the Holocaust. Germany also owes a partial moral debt to the Palestinian people.

The Israeli occupation would not have happened without support from the United States and Germany. Throughout this period, Germany was considered Israel’s second-best friend. It was inclusive and unconditional. Now Germany will pay for its long years of severe self-censorship, during which it was forbidden to criticize Israel, the sacred sacrifice.

Any and all criticism of Israel was labeled antisemitism. The just struggle for Palestinian rights was criminalized. A country where a major media empire still requires its journalists to vow never to cast doubt on Israel’s right to exist as a condition for employment cannot claim to honor freedom of expression. And if Israel’s current policies endanger its existence, shouldn’t they be entitled to criticize it?

In Germany it is difficult, if not impossible, to criticize Israel, whatever it does. This is not friendship, this is enslavement to a past and it must end in the face of what is happening in Gaza. The "special relationship" cannot include a seal of approval for war crimes. Germany has no right to ignore the International Criminal Court, which was established in response to its crimes, by debating when to extend an invitation to an Israeli prime minister who is wanted for war crimes. It has no right to repeat the cliches of the past and place flowers in Yad Vashem, a 90-minute drive from Khan Yunis.


Inas Abu Maamar, 36, leans over the body of her niece Saly, 5. She was killed along with nine family members when an Israeli rocket struck their home in Khan Yunis. This image by Mohammed Salem for Reuters was awarded first prize in the 2024 World Press Photo competition.

Germany now faces its toughest moral test since the Holocaust. A few weeks after Vladimir Putin invaded Ukraine, Germany was the one to lead the sanctions drive against Russia. Twenty months after the invasion of Gaza, Germany has still not taken any steps against Israel, apart from paying the same lip service as other European countries.

Germany must change, not despite its past but because of it. It is not enough that Chancellor Friedrich Merz says it is no longer possible to justify bombing Gaza. He must take measures to help stop it. It is not enough that Foreign Minister Johann Wadephul says that Germany will not allow itself to be "put in a position where we have to show forced solidarity."

It is time for Germany to express solidarity with the victim, to free itself from the shackles of the past that alienate it from the lessons of the Holocaust. Germany cannot continue to sit idly by and make do with tepid condemnations. Given how terrible the situation is in Gaza, this is silence; Germany’s disgraceful silence.

14/01/2025

JONATHAN POLLAK
“I saw that the floor was covered with blood. I felt fear run like electricity through my body. I knew exactly what was about to come”
Testimonies from the Zionist gulag

Rape. Starvation. Fatal beatings. Mistreatment. Something fundamental has changed in Israeli prisons. None of my Palestinian friends who have recently been released are the same people they used to be

Jonathan Pollak, Haaretz  , 9/1/2025
Translated by Shofty Shmaha, Tlaxcala

Tlaxcala's Note: Haaretz finally translated this article from Hebrew into English, allaying our fears that they wouldn't. You can read their version here 

Jonathan Pollak (1982) was one of the founders of the Israeli group Anarchists Against the Wall in 2003. Wounded and imprisoned on several occasions, he contributes to the daily Haaretz. In particular, he refused to appear before a civilian court, demanding to be tried by a military tribunal, like a common Palestinian, which he was obviously refused.

 

Jonathan Pollak facing an Israeli soldier during a protest against the closure of the main road in the Palestinian village of Beit Dajan, near Nablus, occupied West Bank, Friday, March 9, 2012. (Anne Paq/Activestills)



Jonathan Pollak at the Jerusalem Magistrate's Court, arrested as part of an unprecedented legal campaign by the Zionist organization Ad Kan, January 15, 2020. (Yonatan Sindel/Flash90)



Activists hold up posters in support of Jonathan Pollak during the weekly demonstration in the Palestinian town of Beita, in the occupied West Bank, February 3, 2023. (Wahaj Banimoufleh)


Jonathan Pollak alongside his lawyer Riham Nasra at the Petah Tikva court during his trial for throwing stones during a demonstration against the Jewish settler outpost of Eviatar in Beita, occupied West Bank, September 28, 2023. (Oren Ziv)

When I returned to the territories [occupied since 1967] after a long detention following a demonstration in the village of Beita, the West Bank was very different from what I knew. Here too, Israel has lost its nerve. Murders of civilians, attacks by settlers acting with the army, mass arrests. Fear and terror around every corner. And this silence, a crushing silence. Even before my release, it was clear that something fundamental had changed. A few days after October 7, Ibrahim Alwadi, a friend from the village of Qusra, was killed along with his son Ahmad. They were shot as they accompanied four Palestinians who had been shot the day before - three by settlers who had invaded the village, the fourth by soldiers who were accompanying them.

After my release, I realized that something very bad was happening in the prisons. Over the past year, as I regained my freedom, thousands of Palestinians - including many friends and acquaintances - were arrested en masse by Israel. As they began to be released, their testimonies painted a systematic picture of torture. Fatal beatings are a recurring motif in every account. It happens in prisoner counts, during cell searches, at every movement from one place to another. The situation is so serious that some inmates ask their lawyers to hold hearings without their presence, because the path from the cell to the room where the camera is installed is a path of pain and humiliation.

I hesitated for a long time about how to share the testimonies I heard from my friends who had returned from detention. After all, I'm not revealing any new details here. Everything, down to the smallest detail, already fills volume upon volume in the reports of human rights organizations. But for me, these are not the stories of faraway people. These are people I have known and who have survived hell. None of them is the same person they once were. I seek to tell what I’ve heard from my friends, an experience shared by countless others, even while changing their names and obscuring identifiable details. After all, the fear of reprisals recurred in every conversation.

Blows and blood

I visited Malek a few days after his release. A yellow gate and guard tower blocked the path that once led to the village from the main road. Most of the other roads passing through the neighboring villages were all blocked. Only one winding road, near the Byzantine church that Israel blew up in 2002, remained open. For years, this village had been like a second home to me, and this is the first time I’ve been back there since my release. 

Malek was detained for 18 days. He was interrogated three times, and during all the interrogations, he was asked trivial questions. He was therefore convinced that he would be transferred to administrative detention - that is, without trial and without evidence, without being charged with anything, under a veneer of secret suspicion and with no time limit. This is indeed the fate of most Palestinian detainees now. 

After the first interrogation, he was taken to the Garden of Torment. During the day, the guards would remove mattresses and blankets from the cells and return them in the evening when they were barely dry, and sometimes still wet. Malek describes the cold of winter nights in Jerusalem as arrows penetrating flesh to the bones. He tells how they beat him and the other inmates at every opportunity. At every count, every search, every movement from one place to another, everything was an opportunity to hit and humiliate.

“Once, during the morning count,” he told me, ”we were all on our knees, our faces turned towards the beds. One of the guards grabbed me from behind, handcuffed my hands and feet, and said in Hebrew, 'Come on, move'. He lifted me up by the handcuffs, behind my back, and led me bent over across the courtyard next to the cells. To get out, there's a sort of small room you must go through, between two doors with a small window”. I know exactly which little room he’s talking about, I’ve passed through it dozens of times. It's a security passage where, at a given moment, only one of the doors can be opened. “So we got there,” Malek continues, “and they slammed me against the door, my face against the window. I looked inside and saw that the floor was covered in clotted blood. I felt fear run through my body like electricity. I knew exactly what was going to happen. They opened the door, one came in and stood by the window at the back, blocked it, and the other threw me inside onto the floor. They kicked me. I tried to protect my head, but my hands were handcuffed, so I didn’t really have any way of doing that. They were murderous blows. I really thought they might kill me. I don’t know how long it lasted. At some point, I remembered that the night before, someone had said to me, “When they hit you, scream at the top of your lungs. What do you care? It can’t get any worse, and maybe someone will hear and come.” So I started shouting really loud, and indeed, someone did come. I don't understand Hebrew, but there was some shouting between him and them. Then they left and he took me away. I had blood coming out of my mouth and nose”.

Khaled, one of my closest friends, also suffered from the violence of the guards. When he was released from prison after eight months’ administrative detention, his son didn’t recognize him from afar. He ran the distance between Ofer prison and his home in Beitunia. Later, he said that he hadn’t been told that the administrative detention was over, and he was afraid that there had been a mistake and that they would soon arrest him again. This had already happened to someone who was with him in the cell. In the photo his son sent me a few minutes after their meeting, he looks like a human shadow. All over his body - his shoulders, arms, back, face, legs - were signs of violence. When I came to visit him, he stood up to kiss me, but when I took him in my arms, he groaned in pain. A few days later, examinations showed edema around the spine and a rib that had healed.
In the Megiddo prison

Every action is an opportunity to hit and humiliate

Another testimony I heard from Nizar, who was already in administrative detention before October 7, and has since been transferred to several prisons, including Megiddo. One evening, the guards entered the cell next door and he could hear the blows and cries of pain from his cell. After a while, the guards picked up an inmate and threw him alone into the isolation cell. During the night and the following day, he moaned in pain and never stopped shouting “my belly” and calling for help. No one came. This continued the following night. Towards morning, the cries stopped. The next day, when a nurse came to take a look around the ward, they understood from the tumult and the screams of the guards that the inmate was dead. To this day, Nizar doesn't know who it was. It was forbidden to speak between cells, and he doesn't know what day it was. 

After his release, he realized that during the time he was detained, this detainee had not been the only one to die in Megiddo. Tawfik, who was released in winter from Gilboa prison, told me that during a check of the area by prison officers, one of the inmates complained that he wasn’t allowed out into the yard. In response, one of the officers said to him: “You want the yard? Say thank you for not being in the Hamas tunnels in Gaza”. Then, for two weeks, every day during the noon count, they took them out into the yard and ordered them to lie on the cold ground for two hours. Even in the rain. While they lay there, the guards walked around the yard with dogs. Sometimes the dogs would pass between them, and sometimes they’d actually step on the inmates lying down; they’d walk all over them.

According to Tawfik, every time an inmate met a lawyer, it came at a price. “I knew every time that the way back, between the visiting room and the ward, would add at least three more volleys of blows. But I never refused to go. You were in a five-star prison. You don’t understand what it’s like to be 12 people in a cell where even six are cramped. It’s like living in a closed circle. I didn’t mind at all what they were going to do to me. Just seeing someone else talking to you like a human being, maybe seeing something in the corridor on the way, that was worth everything to me”.

Munther Amira   - the only one here to appear under his real name - was released from prison by surprise before the end of his period of administrative detention. Even today, no one knows why. Unlike many others who have been warned and fear reprisals, Amira told the cameras about the catastrophe in the prisons, calling them cemeteries for the living. He told me that one night, a Kt’ar unit burst into their cell at Ofer prison, accompanied by two dogs. They ordered the inmates to strip down to their underwear and lie on the floor, then ordered the dogs to sniff their bodies and faces. Then they ordered the prisoners to get dressed, led them to the showers and rinsed them with cold water while clothed. On another occasion, he tried to call a nurse for help after an inmate attempted suicide. The punishment for calling for help was another raid by the Kt’ar unit. This time, they ordered the inmates to lie on top of each other and beat them with truncheons. At one point, one of the guards spread their legs and hit them in the testicles with a truncheon. 

 Hunger and disease

Munther lost 33 kilos during his detention. I don't know how many kilos Khaled lost, having always been a slim man, but in the photo sent to me, I saw a human skeleton. In the living room of his house, the light from the lamp then revealed two deep depressions where his cheeks used to be. His eyes were surrounded by a red outline, that of someone who hadn't slept in weeks. On his skinny arms hung loose skin that looked as if it had been artificially attached, like plastic wrap. Blood tests on both showed severe deficiencies. Everyone I spoke to, regardless of the prison they passed through, repeated almost exactly the same menu, which is sometimes updated, or rather reduced. The last version I heard, from Ofer prison, was: for breakfast, one and a half boxes of cheese for a cell of 12 people, three slices of bread per person, 2 or 3 vegetables, usually a cucumber or a tomato, for the whole cell. Once every four days, 250 grams of jam for the whole cell. For lunch, one disposable plastic cup with rice per person, two spoonfuls of lentils, a few vegetables, three slices of bread. At dinner, two spoonfuls (coffee, not soup spoons) of hummus and tahini per person, a few vegetables, three slices of bread per person. Sometimes another cup of rice, sometimes a falafel ball (just one!) or an egg, which is usually a bit spoiled, sometimes with red dots, sometimes blue. And that’s it. Nazar told me: “It’s not just the quantity. Even what's already been brought in isn’t edible. The rice is barely cooked, almost everything is spoiled. And you know, there are even real children there, the ones who have never been in prison. We've tried to take care of them, to give them our rotten food. But if you give a little of your food away, it's like committing suicide. In the prison there is now a famine (maja'a مَجَاعَة), and it's not a natural disaster, it’s the policy of the prison service.”

Recently, hunger has even increased. Because of the cramped conditions, the prison service is finding ways to make the cells even tighter. Public areas, canteens - every place has become an extra cell. The number of prisoners in the cells, which were already overcrowded before, has increased still further. There are sections where 50 extra prisoners have been added, but the amount of food has remained the same. Not surprisingly, prisoners are losing a third or more of their body weight in just a few months.

Food is not the only thing lacking in prison, and inmates are in fact not allowed to own anything other than a single set of clothes. A shirt, a pair of underwear, a pair of socks, a pair of pants, a sweatshirt. That's it. For the duration of their detention. I remember once, when Munther's lawyer Riham Nasra visited him, he came into the visiting room barefoot. It was winter and freezing cold in Ofer. When she asked him why, he simply said: “There aren't any”. A quarter of all Palestinian prisoners suffer from scabies, according to a statement by the prison service itself in court. Nizar was released when his skin was healing. The lesions on his skin no longer bled, but scabs still covered large parts of his body. “The smell in the cell was something you can't even describe. Like decomposition, we were there and we were decomposing, our skin, our flesh. We’re not human beings there, we’re decomposing flesh,” he says. “Now, how could we not be? Most of the time there's no water at all, often only an hour a day, and sometimes we had no hot water for days. There were whole weeks when I didn't have a shower. It took me over a month to get soap. And there we are, in the same clothes, because nobody has a change of clothes, and they’re full of blood and pus and there’s a stench, not of dirt, but of death. Our clothes were soaked with our decomposing bodies”.

Tawfik recounted that “there was only running water for an hour a day. Not just for showers, but in general, even for toilets. So, during that hour, 12 people in the cell had to do everything that required water, including natural needs. Obviously, this was unbearable. And also, because most of the food was spoiled, we all had digestive problems almost all the time. You can't imagine how bad our cell stank”.

In such conditions, the health of the prisoners obviously deteriorates. Such rapid weight loss, for example, forces the body to consume its own muscle tissue. When Munther was released, he told his wife Sana, who is a nurse, that he was so dirty that his sweat had dyed his clothes orange. She looked at him and asked, “What about the urine?” He replied, “Yes, I peed blood too.” “You idiot,” she yelled at him, ”that wasn't dirt, that was your body rejecting the muscles it had eaten”.

Blood tests on almost everyone I knew showed that they suffered from malnutrition and severe deficiencies of iron, essential minerals and vitamins. But even medical care is a luxury. We don't know what goes on in the prison infirmaries, but for the prisoners, they don’t exist. Regular treatment has simply ceased. From time to time, a nurse makes a tour of the cells, but no treatment is administered, and the “examination” amounts to a conversation through the cell door. The medical response, at best, is paracetamol and, more often, something along the lines of “drink some water”. Needless to say, there's not enough water in the cells, as there's no running water most of the time. Sometimes a week or more goes by without even the nurse visiting the block.

And if there’s little talk of rape, there’s no need to mention sexual humiliation - videos of prisoners being led around completely naked by the prison service have been posted on social networks. These acts could not have been documented other than by the guards themselves, who sought to brag about their actions. The use of the search as an opportunity for sexual assault, often by hitting the groin with the hand or metal detector, is an almost constant experience, regularly described by prisoners who have been in different prisons.

I didn’t hear about assaults on women first hand, obviously. What I have heard, and not once, is the lack of hygienic material during menstruation and its use to humiliate. After the first beating on the day of her arrest, Mounira was taken to Sharon prison. On entering the prison, everyone goes through a body search, but a strip search is not the norm and requires reasonable cause to suspect that the inmate is hiding a prohibited object. A strip search also requires the approval of the officer in charge. During the search, no officer was there for Mounira, and certainly no organized procedure to verify reasonable suspicion. Mounira was pushed by two female guards into a small search room, where they forced her to remove all her clothes, including her underwear and bra, and get down on her knees. After leaving her alone for a few minutes, one of the guards came back, hit her and left. In the end, her clothes were returned to her, and she was allowed to get dressed. The next day was the first day of her period. She was given a sanitary pad and had to make do with it for the whole of her period. And it was the same for all of them. By the time she was released, she was suffering from an infection and severe inflammation of the urinary tract.

Epilogue

Sde Teiman was the most terrible place of detention, and this is supposedly why they closed it down. Indeed, it’s hard to think of the descriptions of horror and atrocity that came out of this torture camp without thinking of the place as one of the circles of hell. But it was not without reason that the state agreed to transfer those held there to other locations - principally Nitzan and Ofer. Sde Teiman or not, Israel is holding thousands of people in torture camps, and at least 68 of them have lost their lives. Since the beginning of December alone, the deaths of four more detainees have been reported. One of them, Mahmad Walid Ali, 45, from the Nour Shams camp near Tulkarm, died just one week after his arrest. Torture in all its forms - hunger, humiliation, sexual assault, promiscuity, beatings and death - does not happen by chance. Together, they constitute Israeli policy. This is the reality.



 



01/01/2025

TESTIMONIAL
A Gazan woman’s diary: “We died all kinds of deaths”

Nour Z Jarada has lived in Gaza all her life. For  the French daily “Libération”, this psychologist from Médecins du Monde France writes about her daily life in the war-torn Palestinian enclave. Episode six: the anguish of winter and a hint of hope.

by Nour Z Jarada, Gazan psychologist for Médecins du Monde France, Libération  , 12/31/2024
Translated by Fausto Giudice, Tlaxcala

December is drawing to a close and we’re facing a second winter of war. I could never have imagined going through another winter like this one. Winter used to be my favorite season. When asked what my favorite time of year was, I always answered winter. Always. I loved its rain, its coolness, its comfort. I wished it was always winter. But things are different now. I can no longer afford the luxury of loving winter. I no longer have a warm home, winter clothes, blankets or even heating. I no longer have our streets, our gatherings, or our warm cups of tea shared with loved ones. From now on, none of us here can afford the luxury of loving winter.
I remember crying my eyes out at the first rain of the year. The sadness of another winter while we’re still at war was unbearable. My heart broke for us, for the families in the tents. That night, I saw flooded tents on the news and thanked God for the fragile roof over my head. Yet my heart broke for our children and families who spent the night in the icy water, waiting for dawn or simply for the rain to stop. As those dark hours stretched on, a child’s cries rang out from a nearby tent. They pierced the silence, filled with sorrow and pain. I didn’t know if the child was cold or hungry, but I couldn’t sleep. All nights are terrifying in wartime: they are merciless, cruel and endless. As we all know, we dread the long hours between now and morning and pray for the night’s horrors to come to an end.


Displaced people’s tents after heavy rain in Deir al-Balah, Gaza Strip, December 30. (Madji Fathi/NurPhoto. AFP)

Resilience

Today, after more than a year and two months of war in Gaza, I’m a different person. Unfortunately, I’m not sure whether this change is a good or a bad thing. On the one hand, grief weighs heavily on my heart, a wound so deep that not even time can erase it. This injustice opens the door to a myriad of questions racing through my mind: Why? How is it that the geographical space in which we were born, to which we belong, our race, our color, our religion, are all factors that determine our destiny? Our suffering, our trauma? How can these elements, which we have not chosen, control the course of our lives? How can we heal from such merciless traumas? How can I go on living without my loved ones? These questions haunt me, all the more so when I imagine the end of the war.

Yet I’ve also discovered a resilience I never imagined I possessed. I endured fear, displacement, loss, grief, tears and unimaginable sorrow. I’ve faced it all patiently, even when I had no choice. Through it all, it was my unshakeable faith that carried me through, a conviction that there is a reason for everything, even if only God knows it. We believe in God. Every trial we go through carries with it a wisdom we can’t grasp with our minds. We turn our hearts over to God, even when the trial seems humanly beyond our capacity. This faith has driven me to persevere, to keep working, to fight and to support those around me.

Security nowhere to be found

In this war, adversity knows no bounds: the famine in northern Gaza during the year was unthinkable. People were forced to eat tree leaves, desperately searching for the slightest remnant of flour. The “flour massacre” even made international headlines, with people eating blood-stained bread. Countries sent aid by sea, our people drowned trying to reach it. Is it really possible that Gaza, once celebrated for its hospitality and generous cuisine, is now a land of starvation? Yet this is the reality we face. We have died all kinds of deaths. And today, famine has caught up with us in southern and central Gaza, areas supposedly “safe” for displaced civilians. But safety remains elusive.

Food is becoming increasingly scarce, and prices are rising so much that they are becoming unaffordable for most of us. Flour, once a staple, is now hard to come by. Those who manage to obtain small quantities often find it infested with worms or insects, but we sift it before cooking and eating it because we have no alternatives.

I’ve even joked bitterly with colleagues that I’d rather die in an air strike than starve to death: it would be quicker and less painful. What greater injustice can there be than to live in a world where we think about a way to die, about the least unbearable way to leave this life?

Maybe I’ll never write again

Since the beginning of December, there have been a few glimmers of hope; rumors of a potential ceasefire. But nobody dares to be optimistic anymore. That’s another change. Just a few months ago, I was one of those hopeful people. Every time I heard rumors of a ceasefire, I rushed to pack my suitcase, ready to go home. But each time, my heart was broken. Today, I’ve learned not to hope. In psychology, this is called learned helplessness: when repeated failures or hardships leave a person in a state of helplessness, unable to believe that things will change.

Yet I still dream of the end of the war. I dream of returning to my home in northern Gaza, of seeing my grandmother again. She’s over 70 and a resilient, gentle and very religious woman. I haven’t seen her since October 7th. My heart longs to hold her close to me. I can’t imagine how she has endured terror, hunger and grief. Sometimes we talk on the phone, but it’s too painful. We both cry and the calls end with more fear and longing.

At this moment, I imagine myself writing to you next time from the north of Gaza. Maybe a little piece of the hopeful Nour is still there in me. Or maybe I’ll never write again. No one knows what the future is made of. But what I do know is that oppression always ends one day. As the poet Aboul-Qacem Echebbi  wrote: “If it happens to the people, one day, to want to live, fate will have to answer.” And as God promises in the Qur’an: “Next to difficulty is, surely, ease!” Despite all we endure, we cling to our strength and resilience. Every day, we put aside our grief to take on our roles and reach out to those around us. Helping those the world has forgotten gives meaning and purpose to our lives.

Such a simple desire

Last month, a moment seared itself into my memory. A young man visiting our clinic lost his entire family and his right leg in the war. The only survivor, he now lives alone in a flimsy tent. Despite this unimaginable loss, he represents a source of hope for others. During psychosocial sessions, he learned breathing exercises and coping techniques. We’ve noticed that he’s now teaching these exercises to other patients in the clinic’s waiting room, and sharing how he’s coping with his grief. His strength inspires me.

At times, my colleagues and I allow ourselves to dream of returning to our devastated city. We talk about the first things we would do when that day comes. First and foremost, we want to honor the memory of our dear colleague, Dr Maisara, by digging his body out of the rubble of his house after more than a year and giving him a dignified burial. Then we’ll seek shelter; perhaps in tents and work together to rebuild our lives and the clinic, to continue serving our people. As for me, I’ll see my grandmother again. It’s such a simple but profound desire that gives me the strength to continue enduring the hardships.

Honestly, after all this, if I had the choice, I’d choose to be a Ghazawiya, to be a Palestinian, from this land I love again and again, today and forever.





08/12/2024

And still we write وما زلنا نكتب
Recent work by Palestinian poets & actions you can take to stop genocide now

It has been more than a year of this genocidal siege on Gaza, with Israeli forces now expanding their attacks on people, homes, and hospitals to the West Bank and Lebanon. The loss, the suffering, and the violence are unrelenting. At every turn, we hear of entire family lines erased from the civil registry; that Gaza’s rubble could take ten or fifteen years to clear; that it could require three and a half centuries to rebuild; that every school and university has been destroyed.

And then there’s the incalculable loss of adults, children, and babies: gone.  Sometimes, in the face of all this, it feels as though nothing can be said. And yet Palestinians in Gaza continue to write, even in the most difficult of circumstances. And they continue to imagine a different world.  Here, we bring together Palestinian writers in and from Gaza to imagine a future. Recollections of this past year, reflections on where they are now, and thoughts about where they might be tomorrow all come together in this small chapbook.
 

We begin with a moment of silence. In his poem “Amjad,” translated by Wiam El-Tamami, Nasser Rabah writes about trying to find someone to listen to his grief about losing his closest friend: “Who will listen to me tell the story of Amjad? / Who will give me their heart—and a moment of silence?” After our shared silence, Nasser tells us about where he now writes, in his bombed-out home. “Only two rooms on the ground floor remain: this is where my entire family lives now. In a corner of one of the rooms, I curl up and write.”
 

The poet Batool Abu Akleen echoes what many have said about how they must go on writing, despite everything. She has been displaced, and she describes writing among the tents: “You’re sitting and everyone around you is just sitting and watching what you’re doing. It doesn’t feel good at all, but I’m doing it, because poetry is what keeps me alive. It’s what protects me from going insane.”
 

In her poem “A Miracle,” Asmaa Dwaima imagines not a future so much as a wonderment: “A miracle that allows us to start over. / The hand of God wipes away a year, / And takes us one year back. / A miracle: / That’s all I want.”

In this collection, we also remember the many journalists who were targeted and killed by Israeli forces. Poet Heba Al-Agha commemorates two of them in her poem “For Ismail Al-Ghoul and Rami Al-Rifi.” The pair were killed on July 31, 2024 while, according to Reporters Without Borders, they were in an isolated white car in the middle of an empty street, both wearing press vests.  
We include one work by a writer who is not from Gaza: Palestinian poet Samer Abu Hawwash.

The final poem in this collection is his “We Will Lose This War,” translated by Huda Fakhreddine, because it speaks so urgently to both loss and futurity. As he writes, “When our killers look into mirrors, / they will not see their faces, / but ours, many of us, in the mist. / They will finally realize that they have become nothing / but memories of ghosts in the great abyss. / They will never understand how they annihilated us / then annihilated us,/ then annihilated us, / and yet could not erase from their mirrors / our shining image.”
 

These poems and reflections do not exist separately from their authors, nor from the place and time in which they were com- posed. They are not here for passive reading. And so, at the end of this collection, we leave you with suggested actions.

As poet Rasha Abdulhadi has written:

Wherever you are, whatever sand you can throw on the gears of genocide, do it now.”


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29/10/2024

Refusing Complicity in Israel's Literary Institutions
A letter by writers, translators, publishers, and other book workers

Monday, October 28, 2024:

We, as writers, publishers, literary festival workers, and other book workers, publish this letter as we face the most profound moral, political and cultural crisis of the 21st century. The overwhelming injustice faced by the Palestinians cannot be denied. The current war has entered our homes and pierced our hearts. 

The emergency is here: Israel has made Gaza unlivable. It is not possible to know exactly how many Palestinians Israel has killed since October, because Israel has destroyed all infrastructure, including the ability to count and bury the dead. We do know that Israel has killed, at the very least, 43,362 Palestinians in Gaza since October and that this is the biggest war on children this century. 

This is a genocide, as leading expert scholars and institutions have been saying for months. Israeli officials speak plainly of their motivations to eliminate the population of Gaza, to make Palestinian statehood impossible, and to seize Palestinian land. This follows 75 years of displacement, ethnic cleansing and apartheid. 

Culture has played an integral role in normalizing these injustices. Israeli cultural institutions, often working directly with the state, have been crucial in obfuscating, disguising and artwashing the dispossession and oppression of millions of Palestinians for decades.

We have a role to play. We cannot in good conscience engage with Israeli institutions without interrogating their relationship to apartheid and displacement. This was the position taken by countless authors against South Africa; it was their contribution to the struggle against apartheid there.

Therefore: we will not work with Israeli cultural institutions that are complicit or have remained silent observers of the overwhelming oppression of Palestinians. We will not cooperate with Israeli institutions including publishers, festivals, literary agencies and publications that:

  • Are complicit in violating Palestinian rights, including through discriminatory policies and practices or by whitewashing and justifying Israel's occupation, apartheid or genocide, or 
  • Have never publicly recognized the inalienable rights of the Palestinian people as enshrined in international law. 
To work with these institutions is to harm Palestinians, and so we call on our fellow writers, translators, illustrators and book workers to join us in this pledge. We call on our publishers, editors and agents to join us in taking a stand, in recognising our own involvement, our own moral responsibility and to stop engaging with the Israeli state and with complicit Israeli institutions.


28/10/2024

MILENA RAMPOLDI
We need a pedagogy of resistance

Milena Rampoldi, 28-10-2024

Pedagogy is one of the fundamental sciences when it comes to changing the world, which we do not like the way it looks right now. Pedagogy thus has the task of anticipating the socio-political utopia that we would like to see in the near future. Pedagogy should sow the desire in our minds and in the minds of our children to bring these ethical ideals forward in time, to stop dreaming about them and to experience them first hand. Any change in people and in society begins with the education of children and of society as a whole in the sense of lifelong learning.


‘Autonomous education builds different worlds where many true worlds with truths fit’, mural by a collective led by Gustavo Chávez Pavón, Zapatista primary school in Oventic, Chiapas, Mexico.
‘Autonomous education builds different worlds where many true worlds with truths fit’, mural by a collective led by Gustavo Chávez Pavón, Zapatista primary school in Oventic, Chiapas, Mexico.
The pedagogy of human rights is also often mentioned. Children should be sensitised from an early age to grow into people who neither discriminate nor exploit others. They should develop into people who show empathy, oppose violence and war, and work actively and dynamically for a better world in the spirit of peace and justice. They should grow up to be tolerant and cooperative people who support the weak, oppose all violence in their environment, denounce racism and discrimination, advocate for a just starting point and think in a tolerant and open way.
But for people who have been subjected to extreme oppression or genocide, human rights education is not enough. In an environment of total dehumanisation, where the killing and suffocation of every human life dream is brutal, no pedagogy for human rights can take root, because that would mean that people have not been deprived of their humanity, but that is the case. Because the narrative of genocide requires the dehumanisation of the enemy. I can only kill if I know that there are no humans in front of me. Only then can I pull the trigger and only then can I kill children en masse. And that was the case in the Nazi regime. And it is being repeated today in Gaza. The victims are children who have been dehumanised in advance so that they can be killed coldly and without any ethical consideration.
What we urgently need in an environment of dehumanisation is not a pedagogy of human rights, but an education in resistance. And the goal of this resistance, which is the result of the pedagogy of resistance, is the renewed recognition of the humanity of the dehumanised, along with overcoming their role as victims and their reification.
What Theodor Adorno says, albeit with some ethnocentric restrictions, applies to all of humanity. In his essay from 1966, the Jewish philosopher expressed the following view on the ‘never again’ of the concentration camp of Auschwitz and the killing of fellow citizens who were gassed because they belonged to a Jewish and thus inferior Semitic ‘race’:
“The first demand of education is that Auschwitz not happen again. It precedes all others to such an extent that I believe I neither have to nor should justify it. I cannot understand why it has been given so little attention to date. Justifying it would be monstrous in view of the monstrosity that occurred […] …. Any debate about educational ideals is futile and irrelevant compared to this one: that Auschwitz must never be repeated. It was barbarism that all education is directed against.”
And this paradigm of the pedagogy of resistance is precisely the common thread running through the book by the Colombian history professor Renán Vega Cantor, entitled “Education after Gaza”, which I have just translated from Spanish into English and German.
Resistance in such an enclave, which symbolises the quintessential example of Zionist, imperialist oppression of the Other, is not only a universal right, but a universal obligation that must come from both within as well as from without. Educators from all over the world are called upon to name Israeli human rights violations and denounce the brutality of this genocide. Because neither Auschwitz nor Gaza must be repeated. Resistance to the killing machine of the Zionist state, which completely reverses Jewish ethics and religious thought, can only be guaranteed by this reversal: the children of Gaza are not victims, but fighters.
The Palestinian-Brazilian poet Yasser Jamil Fayad has summed up this concept in a few brief but eloquent words:
“Running/ Dancing/ Crying/ Kissing/ Loving/ Suffering/ Helping/ Screaming/ There are countless verbs in life/ I am only Palestinian/ My verb is fighting!’
This is the pedagogy of resistance that we need worldwide. This is a paradigm of pedagogical thinking that will take its place in schools all over the world.
The No is a universal No to the dehumanisation of any human being, of the Jews of yesteryear and the Palestinians of today.

02/10/2024

RENÁN VEGA CANTOR
Education after Gaza



The title of this text paraphrases Education After Auschwitz, the title of a radio lecture given by the German philosopher Theodor Adorno in 1966 and later published in printed form, the first lines of which read as follows: “Demanding that Auschwitz never happen again is the first requirement of all education. It precedes all others so much that I don't think I should or can justify it. I can't understand why we didn't care so much about it until today. Justifying it would be somewhat monstrous in the face of the monstrosity of what happened. […] Discussing ideals in the field of education leads to nothing in the face of this demand: never again Auschwitz. This was the type of barbarism against which all education stands.”

Today we are faced with repetition the genocidal barbarism by Israel against the Palestinian people.   In this essay, Colombian historian Renán Vega Cantor outlines what critical educators driven by a humanist ethic could and should be doing.

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