Liberation requires action, and it goes without saying that solidarity extends beyond just bearing witness, writes Ayman Khwaja. [GETTY]
It’s 6am. A breaking news notification on my phone floods the dark bedroom with a sharp, white light. Before me, is a girl on a stretcher, emerging from the darkness of rubble as frenzied hands rush her toward an ambulance. “Are you taking me to the cemetery?” she asks. “No, my dear,” responds a rescue worker. “You are alive and as beautiful as the moon.”
It’s 8am. A little girl passes me in a store, her tiny hand clasped in her mother’s. Before my eyes, she is five-year-old Hind Rajab, her tiny hand clasped desperately to a phone. Shoppers standing idle transform into the lifeless bodies of Hind’s six relatives, murdered by Israeli snipers in the very same car. The aisle becomes the street in Tel al-Hawa, right by Faris petrol station, where Hind waits to be rescued. The shopping cart, the Israeli tank – moving sinisterly toward the car. I quietly count the shrill beeps of every item scanned at the checkout – 353, 354, 355. Three-hundred and fifty-five: the number of bullets Israeli snipers shot at the car Hind was trapped in. The little girl pleads with her mother for something she wants from the top shelf. I hear Hind: “Come take me. You will come take me? I’m so scared. Please come”.
It’s 10am. I scan a bookshelf and before me appears writer and poet, Dr Refaat Alareer. I wonder where under the rubble lies the lover of words, the speaker of truth, the beacon of light. I wonder if he sees the kites we made.
It’s 1pm. Sixth formers come tumbling out onto the street from the local high school. Among them, I see 19-year-old engineering student, Shaban al-Dalou. A fire brigade whizzes by and before me, Shaban – hooked up to an IV in a hospital bed – is engulfed in flames. No fire brigade arrives to save him.
It’s 4pm. In my final prostration for Maghrib prayer, as my forehead meets the ground, I see a little boy in a blue jumper, lying face down in a cemetery. “What are you doing?” journalist Saleh Aljafarawi asks him. “I want to sleep in my mother’s arms,” the boy responds, prostrating over her grave.
It’s 6pm. I am in the waiting room of the medical clinic with my mother. The door opens and before me emerges orthopaedic surgeon Dr Adnan Al Bursh. “I am now walking through the operating rooms of al-Shifa hospital,” he says. “There is no electricity, no water, and no other facilities available to us…Steadfast, despite the pain,” he utters, fighting back tears. “Steadfast.”
In the waiting room, a man doubles over in pain. A friend takes his arm. I see the fellow prisoner who helped Dr Al Bursh to a cell, where he breathed his last after being tortured and sexually abused to death by Israeli Occupation Forces.
It’s 8pm. I am in the living room of my flat and through the wall, I hear my neighbour play with his daughter. “You can’t reach it!” he teases, holding something above her. She is jumping and squealing with delight. Before me, is three-year-old Reem and her doting grandfather, Khaled. “Soul of my soul,” he says. “Soul of my soul.”
It’s 10pm. Gaza is going to sleep. Before me are social media feeds filled with final messages: “If we are killed in the night, do not forget us”.
It’s midnight. I close my eyes. I dream I am looking through a steel fence. For as far as the eye can see, are white shrouds in an open field. I am not supposed to be here; it is not yet time for burial. But before I can turn away, I see a soul sit up from a shrouded body. It stands and begins to walk, and suddenly, it spots me looking through the fence. I turn away and begin to walk quickly. The soul follows. Before I know it, I am running. But it is of no use, for the soul is now larger than life and towers over me. It lifts me off my feet and we are flying toward the heavens now. There is no more ground.
I wake with a start. It’s 6am. I close my eyes again, but I can still see. Can you? If 13 months of live-streamed genocide hasn’t cleared our vision, then what will?
Today is the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People. In 1977, the UN General Assembly called for this annual observance on 29 November. It marks the day in 1947 when the same UN assembly adopted the ‘resolution’ that effectively mandated the obliteration of Palestine.
For many of us – though perhaps still not enough – there is no singular day of solidarity with the Palestinian people; it is every day, in every single moment.
The visionary and literary giant, June Jordan, referred to Palestine as a “litmus test for morality”. Thirty years later, no truer words have been uttered. For there is no preservation of humanity without the liberation of Palestine.
Liberation requires action, and it goes without saying that solidarity extends beyond just bearing witness. We have seen this in the remarkable work of Palestine Action – shutting down weapons and munitions manufacturers. We have seen it in the success of the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions (BDS) movement – with multi-billion-pound conglomerates reporting record losses.
We also see it in our creative and intellectual contemporaries, like Amanda Seales, whose one-woman show What Would the Ancestors Say? centres the importance of recognising the fundamental union of Black liberation movements with Palestine solidarity. It is a show she wrote, produced, developed and financed entirely independently after the Zionist lobby ensured the closure of her previous tour.
It has been heartening also to see the national marches expand from familiar faces to a strong, inclusive and diverse cohort of voices calling for the liberation of Palestine. As the crowd swells, I see people gather and ask each other: “have you seen Bisan’s latest video?” “Are you following Quds News Network?” “Have you tried Gaza Cola?”
Solidarity is a beautiful thing. But there is still colossal work to be done. The genocide of Palestinians rages, the occupation persists, and Palestinian land continues to be decimated and then usurped by Israeli forces. In fact, from October 2023 to August 2024, Israel has stolen more land in the occupied West Bank than the past 20 years combined. Israeli settler violence has led to the murder of 120 Palestinians in the same 10 months.
Our eyes do not deceive us. But our hearts and hands do. We cannot all be Aysenur Ezgi Eygi, who gave her heart, hands and soul to stop the illegal expansion of settlements in the occupied West Bank. We can, however, embolden and support those doing the work. Currently, the PAL Law Commission is the only legal organisation actively stopping settlers traveling to Palestine to steal land. Their ‘Stop Land Theft in Palestine’ campaign documents one year of relentless forensic research and litigation, resulting in the prevention of more than 400 US and Canadian settlers traveling to Palestine to steal land. Protecting Palestinian land is protecting Palestinian life, and on the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People, I can think of no more urgent cause to get behind.
Aysenur Ezgi believed deeply that it is a duty, incumbent upon us all – for the preservation of humanity as it exists – to stand in solidarity with Palestine. After we bear witness, we must mobilise into active, intentional work. Donate, boycott, post, share, march, write, lobby, pledge your services and resources to Palestinian-owned organisations.
If you are haunted by Gaza in every waking moment, it is for good reason. We must confront the world we have created. For too long, Palestine and Palestinians have been forced to bear their extinction in the shadows so that we – the culpable and complicit – could be comfortable turning a blind eye.
If you are haunted by Gaza, you are of the few still in possession of their humanity. Take what little of it remains and in every hour of your day, build the time to centre Palestine. There can be no other reason for why we are alive in this moment. The reality remains: it is not us who will save Palestine and Palestinians; it is them, yet again, saving us from ourselves.
Ayman Khwaja has more than a decade of media experience across print, digital and broadcast platforms. She currently works as a Communications Director for a media group.
Follow her on Twitter: @aymankhwaja
Have questions or comments? Email us at: editorial-english@alaraby.co.uk
Opinions expressed here are the author’s own, and do not necessarily reflect those of their employer, or of The New Arab and its editorial board or staff.
