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Ainsi commence le fascisme. Il ne dit jamais son nom, il rampe, il flotte, quand il montre le bout de son nez, on dit : C'est lui ? Vous croyez ? Il ne faut rien exagérer ! Et puis un jour on le prend dans la gueule et il est trop tard pour l'expulser. (Françoise Giroud)

@ezzingaza .

This child is one of more than 70,000 children left behind by the war in Gaza. Orphans, deprived of the most basic meanings of life. Some of them, like him, do not yet understand what it means to grow up without a father. But one day, they will. And when that moment comes, they will ask a question no child should ever have to ask: “What did I do to deserve this?” We may never be able to replace what they have lost, no matter what we do. But we do what we can, so that when that moment comes, they do not feel that the world has abandoned them. And maybe, just maybe, they will remember that once, someone reached out a hand. And your support is part of that hand. It makes a real difference. #WoundedGaza

I came back today. I thought I had known despair before, but what I saw today is beyond despair. It is not grief, nor horror, nor pain. It is something colder, a stillness where even God seems to have withdrawn His hand. The sky was impossibly blue. The kind of blue that mocks you, that makes you wonder whether beauty itself is a crime. I walked through streets that no longer exist, streets that were my childhood. They are now a wilderness of stone, wire, and dust. A man stood on a heap, a neighbor, I think. He pointed and said, “It’s here.” I asked him how far. He looked down. And I understood: my house was beneath his feet. I lifted my phone, as if the machine could recognize what I could not. The screen glowed; there was nothing to see. The earth had swallowed the distances. Even the smell of home was gone. It was as if the thread connecting me to life itself had been cut. I dug with my hands. The dust burned. My palms bled. My mother had told me: “Search for anything we can save.” And so I obeyed her like a son obeys the last voice that still believes there is meaning in obedience. From a house that once cost my father one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, a lifetime of labor, of hope, of decency, I found two things: a knife, and a pillow. Two relics of civilization. One for necessity, one for illusion. That is what remains of man. I sat in the ruins, the blue of my shirt turned gray with ash, and I thought: this is the end not of a city, but of meaning itself. I thought of my parents, their hands, their faith in honest work. How will they bear this? How will any man bear seeing his father’s roof turned into dust by a stranger’s hands, hands that will never know the names of those they destroyed? But what tears me apart more than ruin is silence. No one speaks to us. No one tells us where to go, who will rebuild, or who is responsible. The politicians talk of victories, the generals of strategy, the world of peace and progress. But none of them live here among the ashes. None of them stand where I stand, sifting through their own dead. And those who claim to represent us, where are they? Where is the money they collected in our name, the promises they made before the cameras, the slogans they wrote while we buried our children? Who among them will come to this ruin and say: Forgive us, we failed you? Not one. They sit in offices with clean shirts, counting our corpses as figures on paper. They say “reconstruction,” “aid,” “negotiations,” as though the vocabulary of power could fill the emptiness of a mother’s bed. I tell you the truth: there is no crime greater than indifference. The murderer at least acknowledges the victim. But those who look away, they kill the soul itself. I brushed the dust from my shirt, though I knew it was useless. I wanted to see if there was still color left in the world. There wasn’t. The blue had become the color of mourning. I looked at my hands. They were shaking, not from fear, but from the unbearable realization that we have become expendable to the world. Our suffering is entertainment, our death a policy, our endurance a statistic. I wept then, openly, shamelessly. I, who once believed in the dignity of suffering, now see that dignity itself has been annihilated. There is nothing noble in being forgotten. If you are reading this, do not admire the style or the language. Lower your head, and weep. Because this dust, this silence, this cry, is what remains of us.

Dr. Mohammad Abu Rukba, once a revered professor at Al-Azhar University, guided countless students through their PhDs and master’s research. He even had an office on one of Gaza’s most prestigious streets. A few days ago, he shared this photo with a short explanation, though the sorrow in his eyes tells much more. He explained that his only source of income now is selling bread, not as a baker, but by standing in long lines with his children to buy bread for $1, then reselling it for $1.50. He repeats this process multiple times each day just to make ends meet. * The situation we find ourselves in is beyond catastrophe. We, the people of Gaza, once proud bearers of dignity, of education, of knowledge and culture. But in the blink of an eye, war stripped away everything we had, everything we built, everything we were. A year has passed, and yet we are still trying to understand how it all disappeared, how life could change so swiftly, so completely. #SaveGazaCivilians #SaveNorthernGaza

Look at the face of your child. There, in the curvature of a cheek, in the light that pools in their eyes, is the most sacred thing this cursed world has ever known: innocence- unspoiled, unarmed, unsuspecting. And now, let your mind descend, as mine has, into the abyss that is Gaza. Imagine a child with that same divine light in their eyes, but that light flickers beneath the shadow of famine, disease, and fire from above. I speak now not only as a man, but as a doctor. I have studied anatomy, the workings of the lungs, the trembling pulse of a febrile child. But nothing in those books could have prepared me for the living autopsy that is Gaza. These children do not die in silence, they perish in slow, deliberate agony, as though the universe itself were conducting an experiment in cruelty. They are born already wasting away. Their ribs push through their skin like the bars of a cage. Some weigh no more than a cat. Others grow pustules, rashes, blisters that no textbook has named, as though the diseases themselves were ashamed to be written down. Their immune systems -if we dare call them that - collapse under the weight of infections too trivial for most of the world to notice. Meningitis spreads unchecked. Septicemia dances through their bloodstreams. Tumors rise like monuments to our collective indifference. And still they smile. They reach out. They laugh. This, I cannot understand. Their laughter is not joy, it is defiance. It is the last rebellion of the human spirit before it is extinguished. And what of their mothers? Women with empty breasts, who rock starving infants in arms that no longer believe in salvation. What does a mother feel when her body betrays her child, when even milk, that most ancient offering, turns to nothing? I have seen medical wards filled with children who belong to a different century, skeletal frames, sunken eyes, diseases that civilized nations buried generations ago. But Gaza is where time rots. Where progress retreats. Where history loops like a noose. And yet the world debates. It argues. It calculates. It measures suffering in metrics, in reports, in resolutions that gather dust. While the children waste away. What good is medicine in a place where there is no clean water? What is ethics in a world where some children receive MRIs, and others receive shrapnel? They are not symbols. They are not causes. They are not “collateral.” They are children, each with a soul as complex and trembling as yours. And they are being annihilated, not merely by bombs, but by our consent, our silence, our distractions, our clever rationalizations. I once believed in man. I believed we were capable of redemption. But now, I have looked into the eyes of dying children and seen the abyss stare back. Gaza is not a wound on the map. It is a wound on the soul of humanity. And we, we are letting it fester. #GazaGenocide

As many of you are aware, nearly all major hospitals in northern Gaza are now closed, under siege, or have ceased operations, with numerous medical professionals forced to leave under extreme pressure. Due to severe shortages in hygienic supplies and critical overcrowding, dermatological and infectious diseases are spreading at an alarming rate. Given that I am unable to access these hospitals despite my willingness, I am utilizing this platform to provide medical support to the people of Gaza. For any medical inquiries or advice, please feel free to send me a direct message or reply to this post. Whenever circumstances allow, I will personally visit patients in northern Gaza; otherwise, I will provide assistance and guidance through virtual consultations. If you know anyone in Gaza who may need this help, please share this information directly with them, and feel free to share widely to reach those in need. #SaveNorthernGaza #GazaGenocide

He entered without hesitation, yet with a heaviness that seemed to press the air before him. An old man, though not so old perhaps as sorrow had made him appear. His hair was gray, but it was not the gray of age; it was the gray of something burned and left to ash. His eyes were dry. Too dry. He sat before me and said, almost gently: “I have not slept for a year and three months.” I confess that my first instinct was doubt. There is a point at which the human organism rebels. Even the condemned sleep before execution. Even prisoners, after interrogation, collapse. The body insists. But he spoke without agitation, without pride, without complaint. He described it as one might describe a routine. “One hour,” he said. “From nine to ten. Then I wake.” “And after that?” “I remain.” He did not say, I remain awake. Only, I remain. As though wakefulness were his new condition of existence. It was morning. His voice did not tremble. His hands did not shake. There was in him a terrible composure, the composure of someone who has already crossed the threshold beyond which fear no longer has meaning. His wife sat beside him. She watched him as one watches a fragile object that has already shattered once. “Since when?” I asked. He turned his head toward her, not because he could not answer, but because he would not pronounce it. She did. “Since our eldest son was killed. A year and three months ago.” There are moments when explanation becomes obscene. I felt it then. What name can medicine give to such a condition? Insomnia? A disorder of the nerves? An imbalance of chemicals? No. This was not the failure of the body. This was the refusal of the soul. It seemed to me that if he were to sleep, truly sleep, he would betray something. As if his son, lying in the earth, remained wakeful in the father’s consciousness. As if the father stood guard over a memory that must not be abandoned, even for a single night. We speak so easily of acceptance. We advise patience. We recommend tinctures and routines. But what if grief is not meant to be quieted? What if wakefulness is his final act of fidelity? He did not ask whether he would recover. He did not ask whether he was ill. He asked only whether there was something I could give him. I looked at him and understood, with a clarity that unsettled me, that there are sufferings which do not seek cure. They seek witness. When he left, he thanked me. I remained seated long after the door closed. For the first time, I wondered whether sleep itself is a kind of innocence, and whether some men, having seen too much, are no longer permitted that mercy. #WoundedGaza

En Israël un juge a confirmé qu’un jeune palestinien, mineur, a été assassiné en prison : il a tout simplement été affamé. Condamné par ses tortionnaires à mourir de faim. Pas littéralement. Mourir. Au sens propre. De famine. Le même juge a ensuite classé l’affaire. C’est la réalité de l’état d’Israël. Demain, avec la proposition de loi Yadan, soutenue par le gouvernement, le dire et le qualifier pour ce que c’est serait criminalisé. Cette proposition de loi doit être mise à la poubelle, ce qui est sa seule vraie destination. Ce samedi : rendez vous dans les manifestations qui auront lieu partout en France pour exiger l’arrêt de l’extermination du peuple palestinien, l’arrêt immédiat des guerres d’agression des États-Unis et d’israël.

Fausses informations, diffusions de mots de passes et de mon adresse personnelle... Le Monde révèle une ingérence numérique contre Sébastien Delogu et moi-même, alors que nous sommes tous deux candidats aux municipales. @FraPiquemal

Hier soir, je présidai un débat sur les ingérences étrangères à l’approche des échéances électorales. Ma collègue @GabrielleCthl a rappelé qu’à Roubaix, Marseille et Toulouse, des candidats insoumis ont été victimes d’une opération de déstabilisation sur les réseaux sociaux lors des municipales. Des faux sites et comptes pourraient être liés lobby pro-israélien ELNET. (Le Monde) Toute la lumière doit être faite sur cette affaire : nos élections ne sont pas un terrain de jeu pour des agents de gouvernements étrangers ou pour quelque agence d’influence que ce soit.

Au Blanc-Mesnil, l'ancien maire d'extrême droite avait dit de la journaliste Nassira El Moaddem qu'il allait la tuer après une enquête. Quand les citoyens de sa ville fêtent sa défaite, Charles Consigny le défend en traitant les habitants de racailles ! La classe médiatique refuse de comprendre que les gens dans les quartiers populaires en ont marre d’être maltraités et humiliés par des maires qui les méprisent.

Rien à ajouter.

@ClaireMeilleray @teleteubaise +1🐢

@teleteubaise #FollowBackInsoumis

@teleteubaise +1

24 mars 2026. Un bateau du convoi « Nuestra América » accoste à La Havane avec 14 tonnes d’aide. L’opération vise explicitement à contourner le blocus énergétique imposé à Cuba par les Etats-Unis. 🪡 Fil en 9 points. ↓

Ce que vous appelez arabes sont les palestiniens que l’Etat colonial israélien n’a pas réussi à expulser en 1948, vous connaissez manifestement mal votre propre histoire, ils ont été sous statut militaire jusqu’aux années 70 et ils n’ont été naturalisés que pour des raisons démographiques, ils constituent plus de 20% de la pop israélienne, il fallait les diluer plutôt que de les laisser s’organiser en une force politique indépendantiste. Cette population est victime du régime d’apartheid imposé par Israël ce sont des citoyens de seconde zone. Quant au droit au retour des palestiniens il s’impose, ces palestiniens ont été expulsés pour créer artificiellement l’État que vous rejoignez, sur un pays, la Palestine, qui existait déjà et qui continuera d’exister en résistance à ce colonialisme qu’est le sionisme.

Bad respect for dr. Rahma’s defiance, integrity, and moral compass.

Encore quelques semaines de guerre en Iran au service d’🇮🇱 et Trump sera sur la liste des terroristes MOST WANTED les + recherchés des 🇺🇸 pour avoir servi une puissance étrangère contre les intérêts des 🇺🇸. Sa chute dans les sondages est vertigineuse.

#MairesHués La plus grande violence, c’est la misère sociale dans nos villes. C’est de voir des gamins avoir des problèmes respiratoires à cause de l’humidité dans des logements insalubres à 1 200 € le loyer. C’est des enfants en situation de handicap qui n’ont même pas d’AESH, de médecin scolaire, car l’argent va dans de la vidéosurveillance à 30.000€ pièce. C’est voir des travailleurs hésiter entre s’acheter un sandwich ou mettre de l’essence à 2,50 € pour aller travailler. C’est cette jeunesse à qui l’on fait la misère dans les quartiers, à qui l’on enlève tout avenir, toutes possibilités de loisir, et qu’on encercle de flics qui, la nuit tombée, les tabassent et les humilient. C’est ça, la vraie violence : celle que les maires battus ont contribué à infliger aux classes populaires de ces villes, pour attirer une population extérieur plus aisée, qui n’a pas assez pour acheter à Paris. Des mandats entiers de discriminations, de politiques locales racistes et de violence sociale. Gloire à ceux qui les ont hués et qui leur ont rappelé que tout se paie tôt ou tard. Manquerait plus qu’ils ovationnent ceux qui les ont violentés socialement !

🚨BREAKING: 16 American human rights activists have just been detained by Border Patrol in Miami… They were returning from Cuba after delivering humanitarian aid with Nuestra América Convoy. And were detained upon returning… even though this aid mission was approved by Marco Rubio. Now, they need lawyers. Immediately. If you are a lawyer, or know someone who can help… DM me ASAP!