SUBMITTED BY Maria Hanna

In 1967 after the six-day war, Christian-Lebanese singer and cultural icon Fairuz  eleased an 8 minute song titled Zahrat al-Mada’en, “the flower of cites”. A prayer for the  city of Jerusalem, Fairuz sings “و أستشهد السلام في وطن السلام“ ,” peace was martyred in the land  of peace”. Almost 60 years later, I discovered this song and its video this year. I find that  despite being decades old, and speaking of Jerusalem, her sentiment still holds today  during the massacre in Gaza. 

With the advent of social media, we no longer depend on mainstream media for  information surrounding the truth of the conditions in Gaza. The mainstream media is  notorious for misrepresenting and downplaying the reality of the injustices they  cover. Social media has since offered an indispensable tool; control over the language  being used to relay information coming from Gaza. The mainstream media never allowed  Palestinians to be victims, and so now with their words they have become martyrs.  However, in the modern age, movies, games, and media overall have become incredibly  graphic. People generally have become more familiar and desensitized to images of  brutalized bodies. Gazans are forced to broadcast their deepest sufferings, the bodies of their loved ones, all in a language that is not their own on social media to be heard by the  world. Because there are so many videos of this massacre, because there are so many  victims, and because the violence has continued for months, I worry that people have  become desensitized, forgetting these are all real people, with lives as deep and complex  as their own. 

The language we use when representing these people and relaying their stories is  integral to avoiding this trap of apathy. The words chosen and context provided is integral  to reminding us that these are real people each with lives as complex and valuable as our  own, no matter how distant their worlds may seem to ours. Seeing the suffering, resistance, and the hope of the people of Gaza has permanently changed me; seeing their  lives as they experience it and present it, hearing their stories being told with the same  tenderness afforded to those we love. These stories will never leave me, so here I present  for you the things I’ve seen and heard these past few months as they are, both from here in  the west and in Gaza, both days old and decades old.  

In the year 2000 in Gaza, Faris Odeh, a young boy, wears a brightly patterned sweater, truly  a product of the times. Armed with nothing but a stone and the power of God, he faces off against a colossal tank. He was shot in the neck. But he is not the only one, there are other  photos of Palestinian children fending off tanks with sticks and stones; countless of  children facing off against IDF soldiers to protect themselves. This year, an artist paints the picture to remind us of the photo, the painting is titled “David and goliath”.  

Now in Gaza, from the first weeks of the bombing (before the true scale of the massacre would become clear) a shop owner, business destroyed, holds a mangled teddy-bear with  the question “what did the teddy bear do?”. 

Suddenly, everyone with a phone (and an ever-faltering internet connection) becomes a  journalist. Suddenly, we have 10 year old journalists. Photographers and educators and  anyone with a media presence becomes the press. Bisan, who teaches of history and  culture, visits the ruins of thousand-year-old buildings she taught about. Her videos now  begin with “hello, I am Bisan, and I am alive”.  

Now in Gaza, children build makeshift kites from tents. The children write their names on  their arms and chests, so that when their bodies are found, they can be identified.  

The scarf worn by farmers and villagers alike across the middle east, to keep the beating  sun off their scalps, suddenly a symbol of resistance. Now in the west, a common scarf  from the middle east, bars entry to an institution of arts and culture. The institution has a  ban against banners and flags.  

Now in the US, a soldier sets himself ablaze before the Israeli embassy, a final act of  protests; he refuses to contribute to genocide. 

Now in Gaza, a greyed man, beloved grandfather, holds the body of his precious  granddaughter Reem. A final goodbye, he says: she is the soul of my soul.  

Now, Humanitarian aid drops from the sky, into the ocean, where it is unreachable. Into  crowds killing people who have survived bombing and bombardment, only to be murdered  by the world’s generosity. 

Now, the image of a tray, messy with rice strewn about and toppled over teacups. A  splatter rages across the screen from the left, a rain of blood, the family didn’t get to finish  their meal.  

Now, a man stands on a pile of rubble holding an infant above his head. A sleeping child so  sweet and small, precious brown curls frame his doll-like face. The man turns to show the  rest of the crowd, and the camera catches the back of the child’s head. The baby was not  asleep. 

Now, 6-year-old Hind waits in the aid car for days alone, surrounded by the bodies of her  family and the aid workers that came to rescue her. Trapped, baby hind did not survive. 

Now, we find the image of a collapsed building, a large concrete slab spraypainted with the  words “Jood is under the rubble”. 

This month, Tamer Abumousa defends his master’s thesis in a tent in Rafah, the  universities are gone. Countless couples, engaged and happy, marry in refugee camps. Because parents want to insure their adult children have someone to rely on if they  don’t survive. Because if not now, then when? If not now, will we ever? Later may be too  late. 

A man holds a plastic bag, standing just outside the hospital already past capacity. He  rushes in all directions, not knowing where to go. His bag holds the limbs of his son. 

Hospitals, already understaffed and overworked, so scarce of resource, are bombed or  raided. 

From the first couple weeks, a church in Gaza is bombed and mourners gather to bury the  victims, Christians and Muslims alike. Not long after two women, a mother and daughter,  shot dead trying to reach another church for safety.  

Hospitals, churches, schools, and mosques, all in ruins. There is no sanctuary in the holy land. 

I write this while listening to the fireworks of the Victoria Day weekend. I remember the  time my mom smiled and casually told me that this is what the bombs sounded like back  home in Iraq. I sit here tonight, and I can’t help but think about how I, in this moment, get to  enjoy fireworks, and today people in Gaza don’t even get to enjoy silence.   No matter what politics or ideologies you follow, it is imperative to empathize with  those who are suffering. At the hands of power struggles, it is innocent civilians, old and  young, no different than us, that fall victim. With shadow banning and endless scrolling on  social media it may become easy for us to scroll away and begin to ignore. These stories  and their images are not easy to bear, but these are people’s lives; if you have nothing else  to do to help them, at the very least do not forget them. These people are losing their  homes and families and all sense of safety or normalcy, listen to their stories, do not forget  them. They do not deserve your apathy. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about the  countless martyrs and survivors in Gaza; I can only hope peace is restored in the land of peace.