As they were digging, a whistling noise veered past us … A shell landed just meters away between us and the grave diggers. They ran without looking back. I saw the body, still halfway out of the grave, as if it, too, realized it would not be permitted to rest.

On the ground, we found the aid boxes in the open arranged in a line as Israeli soldiers watched us … They occasionally shot warning shots between our legs, not to scatter us, since we followed their every instruction, but to humiliate us.

Finding food is a daily battle. Since their mother’s death, meals have dwindled from three a day to barely one. Now it’s a meal every other day. At the time of writing, the family had only 2 kilos of flour left.

I'm writing these words on an empty stomach. I haven’t eaten anything for three days. Nothing comes into my mouth except bitter water. No flour, no rice, nothing.

I'm writing these words on an empty stomach. I haven’t eaten anything for three days. Nothing comes into my mouth except bitter water. No flour, no rice, nothing.

I called Mohammed again and again, and finally he picked up.“Ghaydaa, I’m terrified. There are shells, bullets, people dying,” he said.""

How one Palestinian mother in Gaza cooks, copes, and resists under siege.

Since Oct. 7th, Israel’s ethnic cleansing of the Palestinians has accelerated at a rapid pace. From the river to the sea, Israeli forces have been uprooting Palestinians from their homes, crowding them into smaller and smaller areas of Palestine or forcing them out of it altogether.

Abdulrahman's brother, Mohammed, was still unconscious when the ambulance brought him to al-Shifa Hospital … the right part of his face was so swollen with blood he couldn't open his right eye. The doctors warned he didn’t have much time left. 

I can still hear my father's voice saying, "Run. Don’t stop or look back,” he shouted. And so we ran as the bullets ripped through the silence. 

“From the tents of Al-Zawayda, amid rubble and destruction, I have a message to every soul aboard Madleen: you are now in our hearts. You are the righteous few.”

I didn't think that writing would become a form of resistance or that words would be the only screams we have left after our schools, homes and bread lines were transformed into baths of blood.

“Minutes later, the sound of warplanes pierced the silence, followed by rockets that tore through the calm like daggers plunged into the chest of the night. The ground shook beneath us … I realized then that the bombing was directly above us.”

My brother, Alam Eldeen—a journalist—received a call […] “Alam, my friend… the tanks are advancing directly toward the greenhouses behind your house.” […] Panic set in.

"She's not the same child anymore," her mother said. "She refuses to leave the tent for fear of the filth outside. She doesn't laugh. "She doesn't play."

Murshid Al-Shawamreh tells the story of his 18-month “administrative detention,” during which time he was abducted, tortured and starved while in Israeli prison.

This is the story of the rise, fall and rise again of Jewish anti-Zionism. 

This a short story about the life of Abdul Karim Tawfiq, from the Jabalia refugee camp in Gaza, during the genocide.

How Israel expelled us from our home in Khan Yunis, and how the Israeli military murdered Wael Safi.

This is the story of the day Israel tried to kill me.