فرح

@NourGaza حبيباتي كبرانين ما شاء الله ♥️

وردات العيد 🌹🌹

The war may be over, but its consequences are still ongoing. 2 years of genocide have drained us of everything we had. We still need more funds to repair a place to live, provide food and water, and buy winter clothes whose prices have become expensive. gofund.me/5537d4254

Help Silwan find a safe and healthy place, away from disease and the cold winter ahead. gofund.me/c8a2dad0e

Tomorrow we're leaving Gaza City for the south, carrying nothing with us. This campaign is our last hope to survive and see the light again. Please support & share: gofund.me/5537d4254

@SometimesPooh Sending you hugs, Eman. I can't imagine.

I stopped writing because I kept wondering for so long if words could matter at all, if they could stitch even a thread across the distance, or if I was just talking to myself in the dark. I tried to bury myself in the daily rituals everyone else clings to; shopping, studying, scrolling; but each phone call drags me back. I hear the truth behind their lies. They tell me they are fine, but I can hear the bombs in the background, and it leaves me stuck between what they say and what I know. I don’t know what to do with that weight, and I don’t know what to do with myself.

While the bombs were falling, I tried to keep Silwan busy with coloring. As she colored Eiffel Tower, I told her it was a tall tower in France. She looked at me with innocent eyes and asked, ‘Can Israel bomb it too?’ In that moment, I wished she only saw colors, not war.

قبل يومين توفي الدكتور مصطفى شحادة استشاري النساء والولادة خلال ساعات عمله بالمستشفى الميداني، تعرض لجلطة قلبية حادة، مات من التعب. ما تتعرض له الطواقم الطبية في غزة محرقة حقيقية، ساعات عمل لا تنتهي، أعداد مهولة من المصابين، بدون وجبات طعام مشبعة.

بدي أحكيلكم حاجة حقيقيّة جدًا. كلنا الآن بنتمنى نرجع للمجاعة قبل شهرين، ونقضي الوقت ندوّر ع طحين بسعر رخيص، ولا نفكّر بالنزوح والبحث عن مكان. كلنا حرفيًا. حتى الصغار. الكل بتقابله بحكيلك يا ريت نرجع نجوع ولا ننزح، نبقى في بيوتنا ولا نطلع من جديد ونتبهدل. لأن الأكل ما إله قيمة الآن، وكل اللي أوهمونا فيه كان مجرّد فراغ ما بيجي ع بالنا ولا بنرغبه أمام تفكيرنا بالجاي. خلوا خياراتنا مختلفة ومتعددة، ونفاضل بين معاناة ومعاناة.. ببساطة، حتى أمنياتنا بحياة طبيعيّة اختفت.

أبحث عن فرصة عمل عن بُعد أنا معلّمة لغة إنجليزية بخبرة 12 سنة، متخصصة في تعليم الأطفال بأسلوب ممتع وتفاعلي. ✨ Looking for a remote job opportunity I’m an English teacher with 12 years of experience, specialized in teaching children with an engaging and interactive approach.

أبو عبيدة استشهد، بس في ناس فعلًا عندها مشكلة إنو يكون استشهد وبتناطح بكل حد بحكي عنه وبتتهم بنقل معلومات وتسريبها، ومصرة إنو لا. بتعرفوا ليش؟ لأنهم كل حكايتنا شايفينها مسلسل، البطل لازم يكمل للآخر عشان يقدروا يتفاعلوا مع القصة منيح بنفس الأدرينالين والمشاعر اللي بتغذيهم، بينما التفاصيل التانية هامشية إلهم. ما شفت أوقح من هيك عالم، ناس بتموت وتنزح وناس تانية بتناطح وبتجادل وتناقش على تفاهات لمجرد إشباع مشاعرها الحقيرة.

@NourGaza بعيد الشر عنكم يا نور.

يا حبايبي الواحد حاسس حاله إنه كبر أو يمكن قرّب يموت. كل هالدنيا مش مستاهلة شدّة هالأعصاب. ربنا يطلّعنا منها خفاف نضاف، ويرحمنا ويرحم ضعفنا يارب.

This is literally identical to horrific Nazi propaganda that claimed Jews were evil by nature & cause trouble wherever they go. It’s remarkable how little genocide propaganda changes. History will remember Emily’s disgusting incitement like it did other whitewashers of genocide.

I long to grieve an ordinary grief— the kind awakened by a tender melody, or an old memory brushing past. But my sorrow now is a beast— gnawing at me, a black hole with no end, devouring everything in its reach.

I have always believed that adaptation is a quiet, treacherous defeat, not the surrender of the body to hunger or of the flesh to cold, but the deeper betrayal, when the soul itself begins to bow before the monstrous, when the conscience grows accustomed to the obscene and no longer recoils. It is the death of the part of you that still has the courage to scream “No” to the world’s abominations. To adapt is to put out your own eyes so that you might no longer see the filth, to gag yourself so you might no longer choke on the stench of injustice. In the first months of the war, I clung to the madness of resistance. I told myself that my presence in Gaza was accidental, unnatural, a crack in the order of things. I believed I could remain apart, a witness untouched, the voice that refused to join the choir of silence. I would not kneel before this as “reality.” But then, ah, God the months dragged themselves into years, and reality became a beast with its jaws around my throat. Even the Almighty, if He dared to walk these streets, could not wrestle this beast to the ground. And so, I bent. Not in worship, but like a tree in a hurricane, bending so as not to snap. The people here have been kneaded into strange shapes by this war, pressed and crushed until they have learned to carry contradictions too grotesque to name. Today, in the market, I saw them. And I tell you, the sight was like a parable whispered by a madman. From the rubble, dreams had begun to sprout, not dreams as you know them, no, but pitiful, stubborn things, fragile as weeds growing through the cracks of a coffin. A boy with the solemnity of a priest arranging sandwiches as though he were laying the dead in their shrouds. Another, hunched over a pot of boiling coffee, staring at the steam as though it might speak to him of another life. And a third , God preserve us, churning ice cream, ice cream in this graveyard, as if mocking the very notion of hunger. The ingredients for these absurd miracles had only trickled into Gaza two days ago, like alms tossed to beggars from the window of a speeding carriage. And yet above it all, the great shadow hangs, another exile approaching, the certainty of yet another uprooting. Every conversation is an accounting of desperation: Where shall we run? By what road? What will we leave to be swallowed by the ruins? But even in that calculation, some mad, irrepressible instinct insists on life. Only meters from these stalls of fragile hope rise rows of tents, ragged and torn, their canvas bellies flapping in the foul wind. Inside, families lie in heaps, their possessions stripped to the bare bones of existence, a blanket, a pot, the clothes on their backs. The air there is a thick, unholy mixture of dust and sewage that clings to the skin like guilt. And the buyers in the market, sipping their coffee or biting into their bread, know well there is no comfort here. The destruction closes in like walls without doors. Yet still, there are those, young men, young women, who carve from this darkness little hollows of light, absurd little sanctuaries in which they pretend, if only for an hour, that they are alive. Is it courage? Is it madness? Or is it the final, pathetic rebellion of a human being, to insist on breathing even when the very air itself is poison? I do not know if adaptation is the victory of life or the slow treason of the soul. But I know this: here in Gaza, there is no border between life and death. We dwell in their intersection, where joy and grief are served in the same cup, where coffee is sipped beside the still-warm ruins of a home, where hope itself is a crime against the despair the heavens have decreed for us. And perhaps ,yes, perhaps, that crime is the only holiness we have left. #GazaGenocide

ارتفاع ملحوظ بالأسعار، وبعمولة السحب.. التجار يعودون لألاعيبهم واستغلال معاناة الناس، وفقًا لعدد الشاحنات التي تدخل يوميًا!

شو لزوم تصوّرلي طفلة أبوها استشهد ودوب قادرة تستوعب أو تفهم الفكرة؟ بس عشان تحكيلي ملامحها تغيّرت بسرعة مع اليُتم! ارحموا الناس والأطفال، ارحمونا.

هذه ليست مدينة، بل مقبرة. بيت عزاء مفتوح وممتد حتى الفناء. This is not a city it is a graveyard, an open funeral that spills its sorrow till the end of the universe.

@NourGaza كل سنة ولولو بألف خير ♥️ أنا كمان عندي لولو بس شوي اصغر. بتمنى يتلاقوا شي يوم عن قريب.

"من قلبي إلى قلبها... من قلب الإبادة" "From my heart to hers...In the heart of a genocide"

At some point of Israel’s starvation of Gaza, hunger stopped being just physical, and started to erode the mind. You would see people wandering aimlessly, not even asking for food anymore. Children stopped playing. Conversations became quieter, slower. People forgot certain tastes. The memory of sweetness faded. Cravings for anything sweet became so intense that mothers began sharing stories, and sometimes recordings, of their children begging for larger doses of liquid medicine, simply because it tasted slightly sweet. After months of deprivation, they just wanted to experience the taste of sugar again. Some residents, thinking outside the box, started selling ice cream made from children’s liquid antibiotics, since it contained sugar and a bit of flavour. Everyone knew what it was made of, and that it could be harmful. But people still bought it - including me - because it was the only sweet thing left in a landscape of tasteless survival food. No one was eating for pleasure anymore; we were eating to stay alive. When people talk about starvation, they often think only of empty stomachs. But starvation is not just a bodily affliction. It eats away at the human spirit. It robs people of memory, emotion and clarity. Days pass in a fog, filled with survival tasks: fetching water, searching for something to eat, waiting in endless lines, watching others faint beside you. Some children became unrecognisable; their limbs thin and movements weak, their faces pale and expressionless. Parents, especially mothers, carry unbearable guilt - not just for failing to feed their children, but for the mere act of bringing them into this world, and for beginning to lose themselves, forgetting how to provide comfort. But as we awoke this week to find crates of sugar, dates and cheese in our local markets, Gaza sounded different. The laughter of taxi drivers - known for their grumpy complaining in times of crisis - rang through the streets. A shift in the city’s mood was almost visible. People described it as a feast after prolonged fasting. “It feels like Eid,” one Palestinian journalist wrote on social media. “We had tea with sugar and cheese manakeesh.” Others shared photos and stories of drinking tea with sugar for the first time in months. The prices remain painfully high, because the amount of goods allowed in is still a fraction of what people need. Regardless, the mere sight of food and the scent of sugar in the markets - the possibility of choice, however limited - was enough to stir something long buried.  It was not normality. But it was enough to remind us that we are still human, after nearly two years of genocide and a siege that Israel said it was imposing on “human animals”. On my way to work on Thursday morning, street vendors were selling pressed dates by the piece. I bought one and held it in my hand until I reached my office building.  As I climbed the stairs, internally grumbling about having to ascend two more flights after my long walk in the scorching sun, I popped the date into my mouth - and immediately, the sugar hit.  I stopped in the middle of the stairs, closed my eyes, and sighed in relief for the first time in months: “Where have you been all these months, sweet taste? Oh, I’m willing to forget everything that has happened. I’m willing to climb the two floors. I think I can handle the current situation a bit longer now.” Apparently, dopamine does its job faster when it has been absent for too long. I finished the date, and a few moments later, came back to my senses after being briefly “sugar drunk”. Now I understand. This is what they are fighting us with: dopamine.  This is the energy they are rapidly draining from the bodies of an entire population. You cannot push a people determined to resist your attempts at forced expulsion unless you first strip them of life, hope and energy. Full article: middleeasteye.net/opinion/gaza-g…

لم أتخيّل يومًا أنني سأقف أمام حبة مانجا تُزيّن بسطة أحد البائعين من بعيد، رائحتها المميّزة تلفت كلّ من في الشارع، من مارّة وأطفالٍ نازحين. سألت البائع عن سعر الحبة، وضعها على الميزان، كانت تكلفتها تفوق (14 دولارًا)، وهي حبة صغيرة جدًا لن تكفي لشخص. وضعتُها، تأملت المشهد قليلًا، على الأقل رأيناها قبلَ أن يغيبَ موسمها. أستطيع شراءها بكلّ بساطة، لكن ماذا تبقى لكرامتي حين أشتريها ويستطيع هذا الواقع هزيمتي بإجباري على الشراء بسعرٍ خيالي؟ لعنت الواقع والحرب وكلّ السياسيين الذين تركونا فريسةً لهذا الجشع إلى جانب الموت المستمرّ، ومشيت. قُلت على الأقل شاهدتُها، لكن في داخلي كان القهر يتمدّد ويغرس سكاكينهُ في قلبي، هذا الشيء الذي كنّا نشتريه كأننا نشتري الماء، والآن يتداعى العالم على إذلالنا، بحرمان أطفالنا من أبسط الأشياء!