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🔥 There is an international call to protest theIsraelioccupation’s plan to execute Palestinians by hanging. ✊ The protest will be held this Saturday, May 9th at 6pm local time EVERYWHERE (wherever you live). Wear red ribbons! 🎗️ Red Ribbons Now 🎗️ 🎗️Poem by @AmyraCull🎗️ 〰️ Red ribbons now, while they are still warm, Before the gallows are given their form. 〰️ Red ribbons now, for the mothers who wait, Who grieve and dismay, awaiting their fate. 〰️ Red ribbons now, let them flood every square, Soft strips of mercy for those in despair. 〰️ Red ribbons now, before rafters creak, Before the rope leaves its wound on a cheek. 〰️ Red ribbons now, for the sons still alive, For the breath in their chests, and will to survive. 〰️ Red ribbons now, let the whole world know, These ribbons are warnings before they are rope. 〰️ Red ribbons now, let every street cry, This court has no right to decide who must die. 〰️ Red ribbons now, as a plea against time. Before red ropes hang where hearts still reside.
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Witnessing Gaza - Journal 12
When Broken Bodies Become a Burden
It's been a month since I last wrote here. While swallowed by fever and fragility - I had gentle lights in quiet rooms, medicine, rest, clean sheets, water, and the profound luxury of peace.
Yet, all through those weeks of my own chronic suffering, I kept returning to one thought:
"Many people in Gaza who are sick like me, but they cannot pause to heal. They are trapped inside an ongoing genocide without access to the things I took for granted - rest, food, peace, or care."
So, I want to talk about the disabled, chronically ill, elderly, and injured.
Those whom this destruction traps twice over.
Imagine navigating your home in a wheelchair when the ceiling falls. Picture crawling through concrete dust because the elevators are rubble now, the ramps are shattered, and the stairs have become vertical cliffs.
Imagine being deaf while the warnings scream, or blind while the landscape transforms daily - familiar streets becoming canyons of debris, safe paths becoming graves. Imagine being neurodivergent with 2.5 years of no sensory relief.
Think of the dialysis patients. On a schedule, blood must be cleaned or the body poisons itself. But the machines need electricity, and reliable electricity is a memory. The generators need fuel you can't even work to afford. So you sit in the dark, toxins building, calculating how many days remain. Others stand in lines for insulin that evaporated months ago, for psychiatric medication that the pharmacies no longer bother naming, or for asthma inhalers while the air itself is weaponized.
I had cool water, quiet rooms, oxygen in my nose while the pneumonia ravaged my lungs. They should have these simple human dignities. We have allowed the occupation to steal the most simple human rights from Palestinians. What if your family had to bargain for medicine during a genocide?
Now they have nothing but collapse & caregivers who haven't slept in 2 years. They carried the disabled & elderly through evacuation orders that mean nothing because there is nowhere safe to go. They have dementia patients wandering into streets that no longer recognize them, cancer patients counting days in tents without pain management, elderly who are incontinent or unable to walk.
My heart weeps for them. Those whose bodies were already battlegrounds before the first bomb fell. Those who could not run when the soldiers came, who could not hear the warnings, and those who cognitively didn't understand the orders - so were killed for their innocence.
I lose sleep at night imagining the horror of those who were left in beds because their families faced the impossible calculus of emergency survival - who do you carry when you can only carry one?
I witness you & will not look away from those who cannot look away, cannot run, cannot hide. Your survival is a geography I am mapping with every word I have left. Your names may be lost to many - confused with another horror, another day, another death - but to me, you are not forgotten.
I can only say that I am sorry - sorry for what the world has done. Sorry for your pain and suffering, and I am profusely sorry that my thirty days of illness ended with medicine - while your suffering has never ended.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
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AmyraCull أميرة
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Witnessing Gaza - Journal 11
Faith Under Siege
There is a dimension of this genocide that is difficult to see from the outside because it lives within the quiet routines of faith.
For Palestinians in Gaza, faith is woven directly into daily life. It shapes how a person wakes, how they cleanse themselves, how they measure the hours, how communities gather, and how the dead are honored.
From the earliest days of this war, even the most ordinary acts of worship were disrupted.
Before prayer, Muslims perform wudu, the ritual washing of the hands, face, arms, and feet. The act is simple yet deeply meaningful, reflecting the Islamic teaching that cleanliness itself is part of faith.
When water disappeared across Gaza, the ability to perform this basic act of devotion collapsed.
Many Palestinians began performing tayammum, a form of ritual purification permitted when water cannot be used. In this practice, a person wipes their face and hands with clean earth or dust before prayer. Islamic law preserved this provision for moments of severe hardship, yet few imagined it would become a daily necessity.
Water inside Gaza has to be rationed for survival. Every drop measured. Drinking came first, leaving little or nothing for washing. Some Palestinians described washing with water for the first time in months or more.
Prayer itself also became fraught with danger.
The adhan, the call to prayer that echoes across neighborhoods five times each day, traditionally structures the rhythm of communal life. Under drones and constant bombardment, that same call carried risk. Any visible gathering could attract attention from the sky.
Many mosques were damaged or destroyed, removing the spaces that once anchored spiritual and communal life.
Families prayed inside tents, hospital corridors, and shattered homes, anything to keep the rhythm of worship inside a landscape of ruins.
The disruption extended into the sacred responsibilities surrounding death.
Islamic burial practices require care and dignity. The deceased is washed in a cleansing known as ghusl, then wrapped in a white burial shroud called a kafan. The community gathers for Salat al-Janazah, the funeral prayer that honors the dead.
During this genocide, these rites are repeatedly interrupted.
Gaza reached a point where burial shrouds ran out entirely, forcing families to wrap their loved ones in blankets or whatever cloth could be found. The ritual washing of bodies could not always be performed. Funeral prayers were sometimes hurried or carried out between strikes, while cemeteries over-filled.
The holy month of Ramadan also unfolded under conditions few could have imagined.
Ramadan traditionally brings community together. At sunset, families gather for iftar, breaking fast together, while mosques fill at night for taraweeh prayers.
In Gaza, Ramadan passes through displaced and destroyed neighborhoods. Many fast while already starving. They often break their fast with almost nothing, while the mosques stand damaged or gone.
Despite everything, faith continues to shape daily life.
Children recite verses of the Qur’an to strengthen their faith. Families still bury their loved ones facing Mecca and preserve dignity within the narrow space that war has left them.
For Palestine, faith is the thread holding life together when everything else has been stripped away.
Ritual purification, prayer, burial, and the sacred rhythms of Ramadan form the quiet architecture of life itself.
Interference with those rhythms reaches into the most intimate spaces of a community’s existence.
Despite all of this - Gaza is a beacon of strength and steadfast Islam. They are the reason many came to know the faith.
The least the world should do is return the gift of mercy!
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
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AmyraCull أميرة
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Witnessing Gaza - Journal 10
Evidence Without Action
There is a particular fracture that happens when you watch your own life become footage broadcast to the world in real time. It is not only destruction that wounds; it is the translation of destruction into language that feels detached from the people living inside it.
Before the war, screens were ordinary and woven into daily routine. They carried sports matches, wedding clips, school ceremonies, and travel reels from cities that felt impossibly distant. A phone functioned as a window outward, a reminder that the world was wider than the narrow strip of sky overhead. It represented possibility.
Then that window reversed direction and began reflecting their own devastation back at them.
In the first months, many still believed that visibility would carry moral weight. The assumption was almost instinctive - if the world could see it, it would respond - right? If the images were undeniable, decisive action would follow - or at least that is what we expect from humanity. There was confusion, certainly, but there was also a quiet faith in the idea that exposure generates intervention, that there must be a threshold beyond which suffering cannot be ignored.
Several people confided in me that they eventually stopped watching the news altogether. Not because the images were too graphic - they were already living those images - but because the commentary created a deeper rupture. They described an absence of humanity in the tone itself. Their neighborhoods were framed as “developments.” Their dead were discussed as “figures.” Their suffering was analyzed as strategy rather than acknowledged as loss.
One woman told me, “It sounds like they are talking about weather.”
A sentence that broke my heart.
Over time, some said they no longer cared what international courts or governing bodies declared because statements were issued, hearings were convened, and rulings were debated in carefully structured language while nothing around them materially shifted, and the widening gap between recognition and protection began to feel less like process and more like performance.
There was another layer beneath that disillusionment, and it was heavier. They observed that even attempts at doing good were obstructed or punished - aid restricted, advocacy challenged, voices marginalized or silenced. The message that filtered down was not that help was coming, but that even trying to help carried consequences. That realization altered something fundamental.
Gradually, they stopped watching the news because it intensified the sense that humanity existed in rhetoric but not in practice. They stopped anchoring hope to international statements because they did not translate into safety. The screen, which once felt like a bridge to global conscience, began to function as a mirror reflecting hierarchy - whose lives trigger urgency and whose are processed slowly, conditionally, politically.
Instead of waiting for external rescue, they rooted themselves. They leaned into their steadfastness and faith, they counted their neighbors, sacrificed for extended family, and improvised networks of mutual support. They shifted from expecting interruption to cultivating endurance. Hope narrowed, but it did not disappear. It relocated and adapted as they had always done.
The footage will should never be allowed to fade into archives, and the choices made in living rooms and shelters most certainly will will not. What will be remembered most was not who watched, who stayed, and who betrayed humanity.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
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AmyraCull أميرة
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Witnessing Gaza - Journal 9
Cohesion Among Collapse
I expected and feared that famine would be the thing that made them fall apart, but instead it brought them closer.
In tents & homes already holding too many people, more kept arriving - cousins, neighbors, someone’s aunt, children who simply followed a familiar face. Without a question being asked, a space would be cleared, blankets would be shifted, portions would be quietly divided smaller. It was never described as sacrifice because their hearts were in tune despite the collapse around them.
Care did not depend on relationship, closeness, or even familiarity. An older boy watched over younger children who were not his brothers, a young woman corrected children who were not hers, and they listened without hesitation. Elders were respected by default and treated with dignity as much as possible. Protection moved through their society as if everyone deserved it and everyone knew their place.
Faith lived in the behavior of the smallest child, their actions much louder than the words. People shared because keeping something only for yourself wasn’t natural to them, even when they had very little. Patience was not passive. It was a decision repeated throughout their lives. Grief did not isolate a person - it gathered others closely, as if sorrow itself created a social responsibility.
Even when they had very little, they still fed animals that had nothing - not only their own, but stray cats and birds that wandered near the homes. I watched food divided with the same quiet fairness, a small portion set aside without discussion. Hunger did not cancel their humanity. It only reduced the size of what could be given in generosity.
One day, after a small donation had reached a family, they rejoined our livestream to celebrate. On camera, they held up a small piece of manakeesh that they had managed to make from what they could find. The boy carrying it didn’t sit down to eat. He moved in and out of frame, tearing pieces with his hands and placing them into the palms of the other children beside him, then the adults just off-camera. He didn’t share with a sad look on his face. Instead, he had visible excitement, as if the real reward was being able to share at all.
More than once, women told me that when the genocide ended they would cook for me properly - maqluba, musakhan, qidra. They spoke about ingredients and the right order of preparation while living through hunger themselves. During livestreams they would ask what I had eaten that day and whether I was taking care of my health. Little did they know, I would mute my microphone before drinking water so they wouldn’t hear it.
What I first thought was just emergency cooperation revealed itself as something older than the genocide. They were not becoming close under a camera lense. They were continuing a closeness that had already been formed across years of siege, displacement, and even having their calories counted by the occupation.
The order I kept noticing did not come from rules or hierarchy. It came from a shared understanding that no one stands alone here, even if they survived alone.
From far away, suffering is often imagined as something that strips people down to instinct - survival replacing morality. But what I kept witnessing was the opposite. Their families and friends were always the first thing on their mind, and their prayers went to others before themselves.
I began to understand this type of resilience - a culture where community survives catastrophe without needing to be reinvented each time. The war did not teach them how to hold onto each other. It only proved how long they already had.
Buildings were damaged.
Routines were broken.
Their bonds were not.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
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AmyraCull أميرة
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Witnessing Gaza -Journal 8
Suspended Time
Time did not move normally in Gaza. By several months into the genocide, time itself had become unreliable. Conversations began, broke off, and resumed days later. Continuity felt optional. People remembered the moment a building fell, the sound just before the silence, the way the air folded inward. Dates blurred. Weeks collapsed. Time no longer passed. It pressed.
I was there because I owned a livestream. Not a newsroom. Not an institution. A feed. One of the few remaining ways Gaza could still speak outward. It ran constantly, until it could not. Electricity failed. Signal thinned. Bodies took precedence over bandwidth. The camera did not explain. It stayed.
Inside that distortion, discipline emerged.
Voices lowered around children. Tone was shaped before words. Medics spoke in plain sentences designed to function. Young people delayed their grief, placing it somewhere internal where it would not interfere with survival. Feeling remained, set aside carefully, like something fragile that would be needed later.
The discipline was tested in quieter ways.
Some days, what appeared was unbearable simply because it was ordinary. Loss moved through daily life without announcement. The dead were handled quickly. The living learned where not to look. What mattered most often passed just outside view, carried through without pause or comment.
At times, information stopped short. Names were withheld. Locations were protected. Details were softened or delayed. Not from uncertainty, but from judgement. Protecting people became a priority. Withholding became part of the work.
Language changed under the same pressure.
Messages shortened. Corrections arrived hours later, sometimes days. Numbers were revised quietly. Accuracy still mattered. A mother explained a shortage the way someone explains weather. Her voice carried no appeal. Information was offered because it was needed.
Ethical clarity held, under strain.
Anger existed. It surfaced in pauses, in breathing that took too long to steady. It did not overtake judgement. Claims stayed measured. Words were weighed against consequence. Boundaries held in conditions meant to erode them.
Absence ran through everything.
Images were never sent. Stories stopped mid-sentence. Long pauses marked what had been deliberately protected. These were not failures of documentation. They were acts of guardianship. Some moments were kept for those who survived them. Some grief was not offered as evidence.
From the outside, this restraint was misread.
Quiet was taken for resignation. Control was mistaken for numbness. The refusal to perform grief was read as acceptance. These interpretations relied on distance. They assumed survival should be visible and loud.
What became clear over time was regulation. Of time, of emotion, of language, of judgement. All of it held together inside a reality designed to unravel them. This was how continuity was preserved when continuity itself was under threat.
As activists and aid workers we learned these tools to protect their safety and instilled them as unspoken law in our communities. Surveillance technology, governments, and individuals with ill intent surrounded us on all sides.
Much of what sustained them was never visible. It moved through small decisions, careful silences, names not spoken aloud. What endured was not the record, but the refusal to be undone.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
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Ras ‘Ein al-Auya
This weekend, a historic Palestinian village was ethnically cleansed. I want to take a moment to honor the people of Ras ‘Ein al-‘Auja (رأس عين العوجا), and to recognize their legacy with the dignity it deserves.
Ras ‘Ein al-‘Auja was a Palestinian Bedouin herding community in the Jordan Valley, just north of Jericho, built around the springs of Ein al-Auja. Life there moved with the land - grazing routes, sheep and goats, seasons, droughts, and rains.
Many families in Ras ‘Ein al-‘Auja knew displacement long before these last months. Their lives were shaped by the Nakba. People who were driven out through violence spent generations rebuilding wherever survival was still possible. The Jordan Valley became one of the few places where herding communities could still try to live with space and dignity, so families rebuilt their lives there and made Ras ‘Ein al-‘Auja a community again.
In recent years, the pressure became suffocating. Settler outposts moved closer, intimidation became constant, grazing land was targeted, and daily safety was slowly stripped away until even basic routines felt dangerous.
By January 2026, families began leaving in waves, and the displacement unfolded publicly and in real time. People left because the cost of staying meant risking their lives.
Some of the last families to leave dismantled what they could, and even set their homes on fire, so settlers couldn’t take the final pieces of their lives.
Ras ‘Ein al-‘Auja deserves to be remembered clearly and spoken of with precision.
Their removal is not a mystery - it is a wound with a name, a method, and billions of witnesses.
Library link for historical documentation regarding the ethnic cleansing.AmyraCull أميرة
Witnessing Gaza - Journal 7
Refined Anger
When I spent real time talking to high school and college-age Palestinians, the conversations didn’t stay on the surface for long. We moved quickly past polite explanations - into what they actually thought about what was being done to them.
These were the first times their anger showed itself clearly, and it came through as focused, specific, sharpened by suffering, and most of all, justified. They were angry for a simple reason: the same patterns kept repeating. Homes erased, family lines broken, futures shut down, excuses made, and cameras coming and going. Governments kept sending weapons, and the news kept smoothing everything into “complicated tensions” so the world could keep looking away.
They had been forced to study their own oppression just to survive it, and they understood exactly how the story gets managed. Palestinian death becomes numbers, “context” becomes a stalling tactic, and language gets twisted until obvious violence becomes something the world can tolerate.
What stood out most was the history they carried in their voices. Their timeline wasn’t “since October,” it was generational, shaped by restraint, humiliation, surveillance, and siege long before this genocide began. They were grieving something they were never allowed to have in the first place. Their parents couldn’t hand down stories of freedom, and their grandparents never got to live to see liberation.
The question they kept circling back to was painful: “what are you doing to stop this?” They weren’t asking for people to simply share their words. They wanted action, interruption, and real pressure applied where it matters most, not more spectatorship dressed up as concern.
Many people tried - boycotts, protests, digital resistance, breaking through propaganda, refusing the script, refusing silence - and many were punished for it, because the machine is built to absorb outrage until outrage turns into exhaustion. The Gazans could see the effort, but they could still see the failure, not as something random, but as the outcome of a system designed to protect itself.
Even with all of that, these same young people still spoke about hope, faith, and resistance. Not as a form of denial, but as something practiced with discipline, because giving it up is exactly what the occupation wants. Their faith reinforced their steadfastness to their land, to their families, and to justice.
They held anger and hope at the same time, grief and clarity at the same time, with an anger grounded in evidence and a hope rooted in refusal.
If Gaza has made anything undeniable, it’s that oppression depends on distance - distance from truth, distance from consequences, distance from the people it destroys - and once that distance collapses, silence stops being neutral and turns into a choice.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
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AmyraCull أميرة
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Witnessing Gaza – Journal 6
Teenagers Too Soon
I started noticing the elementary school-aged children in the way they carried themselves. The uncomfortable quiet where questions should be. They didn’t move through the room like kids who expected protection - they moved like people who had already learned it wasn’t coming.
These are the years where a child is supposed to stretch outward into themselves. They’re meant to be learning what they like, what they believe, who their friends are, and how to make then fix mistakes.
They’re meant to be in school - not only to learn, but to have routine, friends, and proof that a future still exists - and in Gaza, even that normality was taken.
They moved with awareness almost like the adults around them. They watched how the parents spoke, how the younger kids reacted, and how the adults read a room. They stayed close to doorways, kept siblings within reach, tracked every sound outside, and carried a steadiness that shouldn’t exist in someone still growing.
Early on, they still had traces of being kids. A sudden laugh. A flash of sarcasm. The awkwardness of becoming someone under a lense. But over time, the brutal routine of terror did what routine always does: it trained them. Broke away their small and growing pieces and sharpened them into tools of survival.
A boy became the one counting what was left. A girl became the one calming her siblings when the sky fell. They learned how to keep fear out of their own faces, because fear spreads fast in crowded rooms. They learned what every sound might mean, what every pause might signal, and how to stay composed while their insides were in chaos.
That kind of responsibility leaves a private wound. They learn to swallow panic, hide grief, and keep their faces steady because everyone else is already cracking. Only later, in quiet, private counsel, would they admit what it costs to help hold a family together while they’re still growing themselves. Even then, they spoke with restraint - composed, controlled, and unbearably strong.
People call it resilience like it’s a compliment. But it’s a survival reflex that happens when childhood gets stripped down to one function: endure.
What was stolen from them wasn’t only safety. It was the right to be unfinished. To grow slowly and privately, without consequences that last forever. Their adolescence was taken from them, replaced by a constant pressure to be responsible, useful, calm, and strong.
Watching that fracture happen, live, changes the way you see teenagers everywhere else. These children become adults inside a genocide, without consent, and we can never give those years back.
During the genocide, they didn’t invent new strength; they leaned harder into what they were already taught. They were raised to thank Allah for everything - not because life was fair, but because gratitude keeps you grounded. Their faith meant believing they were still seen, heard, and held, even when the world looked away.
In this way, their culture armored them for the world’s cruelty.
They shouldn’t have to be this brave, wise, or strong before they were even fully teenagers.
The world owes them more than admiration - it owes them protection, dignity, and a future.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
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AmyraCull أميرة
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Witnessing Gaza – Journal 5
Innocence Interrupted
In the beginning, the children appeared quietly - leaning into the frame, tugging on sleeves, showing toys. Sweet, gentle children who just wanted to live. They showed me the corners of rooms that still felt like theirs. Some climbed into laps just out of view.
Over those first days and weeks, as the children got used to me, they began showing up on livestreams more freely - smiling, waving, climbing into view. Their joy lifted everything. They played, laughed, even bickered with siblings - just being kids again. These moments reminded us what we were fighting to protect. These moments, too often, vanished as quickly as they came.
The fear would always arrive. It moved across their faces like a shadow. Not confusion - recognition. A three-year-old once asked, “Why aren’t you stopping this?” And all I could say was, “I’m so sorry.” Because I knew my tax dollars were doing this. I knew the world was lying. But I couldn’t put that weight on a child. So I gave them what I could.
As the bombs became closer, they would run under beds, behind dressers, sometimes toward nothing. Sometimes they just looked at the sky, trying to understand why it hated them.
A girl once tucked her drawing under her leg when the bombing started, like even in panic, she didn’t want to lose what she’d made. What hadn’t been taken yet.
One night, we watched a mother hold her four children while the walls shook. They looked lost. That kind of fear changes a child forever. No one should have to become fluent in grief before they’ve even learned how to read. No one should look that small, holding that much terror, in a room with no exit.
Yet even in the darkest moments, they reached for joy - a natural kind of resistance. They had patience and wisdom decades beyond their years.
These children drew flowers while their sky collapsed.
I no longer see children in peacetime without thinking of the ones who never got one.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
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Repost from Libr8 News
Global Resistance Unites us All
Being an American with Native and Arab ancestry, I was born into oppression. My life has been shaped by land theft, displacement and wars that still continue in courts instead of battlefields. But now, across oceans and borders, I am touched to have found my global resistance networks in every part of the world. Regardless of what the empires may try to do - we are connected. We are not alone and we will not be broken. Our struggles are not isolated. They are connected, global, and rising in power. We’ve seen the cruelty of empire firsthand. In Gaza, they try to crush the people’s will with bombs, blockades, and lies. But still, they endure. They call it “self-defence” - but everyone knows it’s genocide. Yemen defends Gaza, only to have the world crash down on them, but they still remain defiant. The empire tries to weaken us all and turn us to slaves, yet the resistance survives. The empire may strike - but it cannot erase our humanity and our dignity. They captured Maduro in Venezuela. Not just a man, but a warning to every nation that dares to defy the United States. Latin America answered with fire - denouncing the violation of sovereignty and calling it what it is: imperial kidnapping. You can take our leaders, but not our liberation. In Africa, Israel’s push to legitimise colonial outposts like Somaliland exposes a familiar pattern - divide, exploit, conquer. But we see through it. They try to plant flags on everyone’s soil. But we all say: NO. No land is for sale - not Somalia, not Palestine, not Turtle Island. THIS IS MORE THAN PROTEST. THIS IS GLOBAL INTIFADA إنتفاضة. From Turtle Island to Palestine, the empire planted its seed in blood and fire - but its roots are rotting. Even within the heart of the beast, resistance grows. In the so-called United States, descendants of the enslaved, of the displaced, of the dispossessed - we remember. We resist. We are not waiting for permission to exist. We are organising, building, remembering. We are telling our own stories. Whether through arms or words, boycotts or barricades - we will fight back. Our solidarity and will to live is stronger than their desire to destroy and consume!
AmyraCull أميرة
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Witnessing Gaza - Journal 4
Men Inside of a Genocide
As the women spoke carefully in livestreams, the men remained at the edges. At first they watched quietly, attentively, and deliberately. It was obvious who they were: fathers, husbands, brothers - the men of Gaza.
They were not there for comfort, but to assess.
In the beginning, there was no aid. Before any discussion of resources, fundraising, or survival logistics, they wanted to know why I was here at all. They wanted to know who I was and what I wanted from them.
Within weeks, our conversations and accumulated understanding allowed us to open a discussion to secure them aid.
When aid eventually entered the conversation, the questions sharpened. They needed to know whether assistance was meant to keep their people alive or to move them out, whether fundraising was another form of removal dressed in humanitarian language, and whether survival was truly the goal or if disappearance was being made easier.
Beyond the aid, there was the question of removal. Displacement was treated as temporary, voluntary, and reversible, but history said otherwise.
Families were already scattered across borders, villages erased, tribes broken. The land was taken, the people were pushed elsewhere, yet they know where they belong and where their history remains.
When evacuation was framed as mercy, many Palestinians heard repetition of horror rather than rescue.
Pressure followed from every direction, and judgment was constant. Those who stayed were labeled reckless, while those who left were accused of abandoning the land. Humanitarian corridors were weaponized, warnings came from within, and families were forced to choose between survival and inheritance while outsiders debated from safety.
Throughout it all, Palestinians were policed relentlessly by people who would never carry the consequences.
Where the women were shielding and tempering their words, the men of Gaza exposed the raw truth, refusing to translate suffering into something consumable. They spoke plainly about hunger, humiliation, and the strain of failing to provide while refusing to collapse, explaining that dignity was not abstract but carried daily, under watch.
When the occupation did not allow chocolates or sweets to enter, they found ways to make their own. Sugar was stretched, recipes improvised, and moments of sweetness created by hand. They found ways to spoil their families despite the occupation needlessly restricting items. These were acts of defiance against deprivation, proof that joy could not be confiscated.
In quieter moments, their care showed itself in small, unguarded ways - patience where there could have been bitterness, softness where authority might have hardened, an attentiveness to others that made it unmistakable these men were shaped by responsibility rather than ego.
It became clear that masculinity here was not about dominance but restraint, endurance without spectacle, and remaining present when disappearing would have been easier.
Solidarity, in their terms, was exact: refusing to move people for outside comfort, sustaining life without erasing presence, knowing when evacuation saves a life and when it completes a crime, and understanding that survival and resistance are bound together.
They did not ask for pity but demanded precision. Because of this, to this day, I depend on Palestinians to report on Palestinians, trusting their clarity over outside narration and their judgment over imposed interpretation.
The men of Gaza showed me how a people endure a long night without losing their shape, how faith does not always look like optimism or hope, and how sometimes it looks like stubborn refusal. Dignity can be as simple as staying when every system insists you should go.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza per week.
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AmyraCull أميرة
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Witnessing Gaza - Journal 4
Men Inside a Genocide
As the women spoke carefully in livestreams, the men remained at the edges. At first they watched quietly, attentively, and deliberately. It was obvious who they were: fathers, husbands, brothers - the men of Gaza. What was not yet clear was how deeply woven they were into every role that sustained life inside Gaza.
They were not there for comfort, but to assess.
In the beginning, there was no aid. Before any discussion of resources, fundraising, or survival logistics, they wanted to know why I was here at all. They wanted to know who I was and what I wanted from them.
Within weeks, our conversations and accumulated understanding allowed us to open a discussion to secure them aid.
When aid eventually entered the conversation, the questions sharpened. They needed to know whether assistance was meant to keep their people alive or to move them out, whether fundraising was another form of removal dressed in humanitarian language, and whether survival was truly the goal or if disappearance was being made easier.
Beyond the aid, there was the question of removal. Displacement was treated as temporary, voluntary, and reversible, but history said otherwise.
Families were already scattered across borders, villages erased, tribes broken. The land was taken, the people were pushed elsewhere, yet they know where they belong and where their history remains.
When evacuation was framed as mercy, many Palestinians heard repetition of horror rather than rescue.
Pressure followed from every direction, and judgment was constant. Those who stayed were labeled reckless, while those who left were accused of abandoning the land. Humanitarian corridors were weaponized, warnings came from within, and families were forced to choose between survival and inheritance while outsiders debated from safety.
Throughout it all, Palestinians were policed relentlessly by people who would never carry the consequences.
Where the women were shielding and tempering their words, the men of Gaza exposed the raw truth, refusing to translate suffering into something consumable. They spoke plainly about hunger, humiliation, and the strain of failing to provide while refusing to collapse, explaining that dignity was not abstract but carried daily, under watch.
When the occupation did not allow chocolates or sweets to enter, they found ways to make their own. Sugar was stretched, recipes improvised, and moments of sweetness created by hand. They found ways to spoil their families despite the occupation needlessly restricting items. These were acts of defiance against deprivation, proof that joy could not be confiscated.
In quieter moments, their care showed itself in small, unguarded ways - patience where there could have been bitterness, softness where authority might have hardened, an attentiveness to others that made it unmistakable these men were shaped by responsibility rather than ego.
It became clear that masculinity here was not about dominance but restraint, endurance without spectacle, and remaining present when disappearing would have been easier.
Solidarity, in their terms, was exact: refusing to move people for outside comfort, sustaining life without erasing presence, knowing when evacuation saves a life and when it completes a crime, and understanding that survival and resistance are bound together.
They did not ask for pity but demanded precision. Because of this, to this day, I depend on Palestinians to report on Palestinians, trusting their clarity over outside narration and their judgment over imposed interpretation.
The men of Gaza showed me how a people endure a long night without losing their shape, how faith does not always look like optimism or hope, and how sometimes it looks like stubborn refusal. Dignity can be as simple as staying when every system insists you should go.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza per week.
🙏🙏🙏☝ AmyraCull أميرة • My Links/Info
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Tonight, our community is mourning a little boy in northern #Gaza that most of us never knew. A friend told us that a small boy was trapped in rainwater. Civil Defense teams tried to reach him, but the occupation made it impossible for rescue to arrive in time.
For over two years, reconstruction materials and aid have been blocked by the #occupation, which led to this and other disasters.
We pray he is at peace with Allah, and that mercy is granted to him and his family. We pray that Allah holds #Israel accountable for creating these conditions.
I wrote the poem below to help those of us who sat with this pain together.
For the Boy We Waited With Tonight we waited, side by side, with fragile hope we couldn’t hide. A child was trapped as rain came down, in heavy hours we gathered round. They said the teams were on their way, that maybe there was time to save. That part of the night was not secure, the way was dangerous, unsure. We let ourselves believe once more that being seen would change the score, that eyes on him would end delay, that help would reach him, that he’d stay. But roads were blocked. Access was slow. Minutes stretched and wouldn’t hold. A danger built from safety denied, held at the border, not let inside. The water rose. The hours passed. We stayed and hoped until the last. Then came the word we feared to hear: the boy was gone before help was near. We waited, and it was not in vain. It was our duty to hold this pain. May Allah grant him perfect peace and make this torment forever cease.
Amyra أميرة
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Libr8
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Silent Night - Unholy Night
This is my third Christmas with Palestinians. Each one has been more harrowing than the last. But this one has carried a deadly silence.
The first Christmas, I was shocked. Churches were bombed on Christmas Day. Ancient sanctuaries. Places of refuge. Places that had survived empires and centuries, reduced to rubble while the world exchanged greetings and wrapped gifts. I remember thinking: surely this will wake people up. Surely this is a line that cannot be crossed without consequence.
By the second Christmas, the bombing itself no longer shocked me. What shocked me was something far worse: the ease with which humanity discarded these people. The way suffering became background noise. The way Palestinians were stripped not only of safety, but of recognition. They were suffering in the land of Jesus himself, and yet even that symbolism could not pierce the indifference. The message was clear: there are lives the world will grieve, and lives it will explain away.
Now it is my third Christmas with Palestinians, and this one is perhaps the most disturbing of all.
There is a so-called “ceasefire”, but this word is being abused. This “ceasefire” has not stopped the violence, the killing, or the terror. What it has done is provide political cover. It has shielded the occupation from consequence while allowing its practices to continue under a softer name.
Just a couple weeks ago - two brothers, eight and ten years old, were shot for trying to gather firewood so their family could cook. Not for carrying weapons. Not for posing a threat. For crossing an arbitrary line that shifts daily, one that closes in on Palestinian life inch by inch, redrawn at will, enforced without warning.A line children are somehow expected to understand. A line policed with bullets.
Tonight, On Christmas, families in Gaza are forced to beg for sustenance while the world ignores their pleas for humanity.
How can anyone celebrate this holiday? I cannot celebrate any holiday. Not while this is called peace, restraint, or progress. Not while my friends still die in a deafening silence.
This is my third Christmas holding the hearts of Palestinians, and it is the first one where I feel something colder than shock, heavier than grief:
A sense that the cruelty is no longer shocking because it has been successfully normalized - a feeling that the world knows exactly what it is allowing.
@AmyraCull • Substack • X/Twitter
Witnessing Gaza - Journal 3
When I Met the Women
When my livestreams first began, this was not a traditional interview or news space. It was an intimate space suspended in an open void, without an anticipated audience, without precedent, and without safety. It was intimidating, even for me. Many Palestinians understandably did not step forward to speak.
Many of the first to speak were women.
They were gently spoken women. Women who chose their words carefully, who tested the edges of any space before trusting it. When they did open up, they spoke with fire - not chaos, not fury, but conviction sharpened by years of restraint.
What they did required courage - not the kind that is applauded, but the quiet kind demanded of those who already know the cost of being heard.
In the early months, women spoke simply about where they were from, what their parents taught them, and how resistance did not always look like shouting. Sometimes it sounded like learning a new way of speaking so children could pass checkpoints when fathers were imprisoned. They spoke of villages, of Jenin, of dialects learned quietly, of generations that had trained them to endure without witnesses.
What remained most striking was not despair - it was restraint.
Grief was not performed. It was contained within their community. It was carried in glances and hushed tones, the way it has been forced to be carried for generations. When it surfaced, it was placed carefully into words, without spectacle or demand. Some mothers said Palestinians had cried alone their entire lives. One said that feeling like they were not crying alone anymore mattered more than aid.
Their lives have been narrated by others, interpreted from a distance, and measured in ways that strip them of their own voice. What they carry is too often filtered through pity or erased by abstraction, treated as evidence rather than lived truth.
They are girls who know the pain of checkpoints, women who maintain sacred sisterhood, and mothers who know the true weight of water, the cost of bread, the pain of deafening drones. Yet, they carry it all with the discipline required to keep children calm while the world violates every rule it claims to uphold.
They were women who held themselves upright in a world that had worked for decades to bend them. Many became mothers who raised families under conditions meant to fracture memory, and still taught children how to speak gently, how to remember where they come from, how to stand without becoming cruel.
This journal does not speak for them. It exists to hold the door open just a little longer, so their voices are not lost as the world looks away.
@AmyraCull • Substack • X-Twitter •
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Witnessing Gaza – Journal 2
The Fine Details
With my trusted translator Walid beside me, I was already bracing myself before each call connected. There was a tightness in my chest I couldn’t name yet. A low, anticipatory dread. I understood the headlines and the scale. What I did not yet understand were the fine details - the quiet psychological pressure, the way trauma settles into the body long before it explodes into grief, how tension becomes the baseline, how suffering accumulates through sound, waiting, and the absence of rest.
From the very beginning, the Zanana - what they call the massive war-drone haunting their skies - was constant. I could hear a sharp mechanical hum cutting through every sentence. It caused a headache within minutes. They would mute their mics out of embarrassment, apologizing for something being done to them. I asked them, “please - open your mic. Let us suffer with you.” If this sound was carving itself into their nervous systems, then it should not be hidden from the world.
In those early days, they barely spoke of personal losses at all. They spoke instead about their families, friends, coworkers, & faith. They spoke about the cruelty being inflicted on their people as a whole, but resisted centering themselves. Their voices were careful, they used measured-sentences delivered through tight jaws, and held long pauses - the sound of people monitoring themselves in real time.
When they did speak about themselves - loss was shared, never individualized. Grief was carried collectively. I had never seen solidarity like this in my life. It extended even to the dead. Men carried bodies they had never known, and they did it with dignity and pride. They did it because in Palestine - no child belongs to only one family.
This was jarring to witness as someone raised in the West, where suffering is often isolated and privatized. Narratives flattened Palestinians into abstractions, stripped of tenderness and interior life. What I encountered instead were people who were humble, restrained, deeply proud, and fiercely protective of one another, even as everything around them collapsed.
The children understood that what was happening was not normal. They could see other children on their screens living ordinary lives. Their parents tried to shield them, to soften the edges, to preserve something resembling childhood. What can a parent truly protect a child from when bombs fall day and night, when gunfire echoes without pause, when the drone never stops, and when children are already being killed?
In two weeks, families were struggling for electricity, then for food, then for water. This was not months into catastrophe. This was still just the beginning.
Over time, it became impossible to separate the events from the people, or the violence from the way it settled into their voices, their sudden pauses, their shortness of breath.
I wish I had found a way to force the world to look more closely, before lies filled the silence and dehumanization became acceptable.
One image plays on repeat in my memories. A father sitting just off-camera, his hand resting on his child’s back while the child slept, his fingers moving in small, rhythmic circles as bombs sounded in the distance. No words. No performance. Just a quiet, deliberate act of care, repeated as if it might hold the world together for one more night.
Those details stayed with me. They are the part of Gaza that refuses to disappear, even when the world scrolls past. This is what God blessed me to witness, and the reason I cannot reduce this to numbers or headlines.
The fine details are where the truth was, and where my responsibility began.
@AmyraCull
This story is only beginning…
#Gaza #Palestine #Genocide
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