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There is no internet. No signal. No sound. No world beyond this cage. I walked thirty minutes through ruins and dust. Not in search of escape, but for a fragment of signal, just enough to whisper, “We are still alive.” Not because anyone is listening, but because to die unheard

This morning, on my way to the clinic, though even calling it that feels absurd now, it is more graveyard than refuge; I saw a girl. She was sixteen, no older. She was thin, with the kind of tiredness around her eyes that children should never know. In her hands, she carried a

More than two thousand years ago, a man staggered beneath a wooden cross on a hill soaked with dust and blood. He was spat on. Stripped. Dragged to his execution by a world that demanded obedience, not justice. And that cross, that unholy burden, was not lifted with his death. It

Since yesterday morning, Jabalia has been receiving phone calls from the dead. They speak through Israeli contractors with broken Arabic and clean hands, their voices thin as paper, informing residents, gently, almost with courtesy, that their homes are scheduled for demolition.

Yesterday, the last warning came from Nasser Hospital: “In 24 hours, there will be no formula left for premature infants.” Not a metaphor. Not exaggeration. A clinical fact. And the response? Silence. Not one truck. Not one crate. Just the silence of steel-hearted men, satisfied

🚨Written Without Signal I write this with one dying hand raised to the sky, begging for a flicker of signal, as if God has been digitized, His mercy hidden in a satellite, unreachable by those He once made in His image. I type through an eSIM that is barely breathing, my phone

It is night again. That means the drones are back. The sound is not a sound anymore. It is a presence, like madness humming above your head. I am writing by the glow of my phone. My hands stink of antiseptic, salt, and something I do not name. There are no hospitals left in the

There is no medicine for hunger. There is no anesthesia for humiliation. These are conditions of the soul, not the body. And yet I, a doctor, am expected to heal in a land where even the soul is under siege. Here in Gaza, one learns that in war, the first thing to perish is not

Important message from Dr Ezzideen from Gaza. BABIES ARE FORCIBLY BEING STARVED TO DEATH. This is not a famine. It is a siege. It is not collapse. It is calculation. It is not neglect. It is intent. ISRAEL IS KILLING BABIES ON PURPOSE‼️

I found it yesterday. A piece of shrapnel, cold and brutal, weighing no less than two kilograms, lying beside the bed of a boy no older than nine. He slept, or perhaps only pretended. His breathing was shallow but steady, as though his soul had learned to hide from the world.

🚨🚨 The situation in Jabalia is extremely dire. I just spoke with my relatives who remain trapped there. They told me that relentless artillery shelling is raining down on residential homes, and the screams from nearby houses are chilling. No one can leave, the shelling is too

There is no medicine left here. Not for the body. Not for the soul. I have long spoken of the disintegration of Gaza’s hospitals: how we labor beneath roofs that leak shrapnel, beside beds where children lie half-alive. The World Health Organization calls it a collapse. Collapse

They have redrawn the map again. But not with ink. With fire. This morning, the voice came from the sky, a metal voice, sharp and sexless, without soul or breath. It said what it always says: Evacuate. Now. Leave your homes. Leave everything. Again. As if the people of Gaza

"Wir haben im Spital keine Kochsalzlösung mehr. Das elementarste Werkzeug der Medizin". Ich habe den folgenden Beitrag des jungen Arztes Ezzedin Shehab in Nord-Gaza übersetzt und lese ihn hier vor. youtube.com/watch?v=3nak0e…

When I returned to Gaza, I did not come as a witness to sorrow. I came as someone who longed to breathe. I imagined the visit as a brief stillness, a soft hour between departures. The kind of moment when the soul kneels without even knowing it is praying. I had just come back

Dr. Marwan Sultan is dead. A man. Not a soldier, not a politician, not a merchant of ambition. A healer. A quiet servant of life. He is gone. Not felled in the blindness of fate, but targeted. Not swallowed by time, but torn from it by men who speak of order with blood on their

They speak now of a ceasefire. A ceasefire. As if death could be paused. As if blood could be bargained with. As if the heavens would take notice of papers signed in rooms far from the stench of burned flesh. I wait. We all wait. Two million of us, sitting in the antechamber of

A story not for children, but about one. It was nearly midnight. In Gaza, night no longer brings peace. It does not descend like a blanket, but presses down like a weight. Heavy. Breathless. Suffocating. The silence it brings is not one of calm, but of abandonment. It stretches