We stand firmly against injustice in all its forms. Nothing can justify the current war crimes committed by Israel in occupied Palestine. Equally, nothing can excuse the continued support offered by other nations to this apartheid regime. If you believe in human rights, dignity, and justice, then we urge you to boycott this rogue state. Silence is complicity, do what’s right.
For seventy-seven years, Palestinians have lived — and died — under the shadow of an occupation that refuses to end. Not a single day has passed since 1948 without Palestinian blood being spilled, homes being demolished, or families being driven from their land. The killing never stops because the system itself depends on it — a machinery of control that feeds on fear, humiliation, and the denial of basic human rights.
The Israeli occupation government continues to claim it seeks peace, yet its actions reveal a brutal truth: this is not self-defense, it is domination. The illegal occupation has become permanent. The blockade of Gaza — the world’s largest open-air prison — turns daily life into slow suffocation. Food, medicine, and clean water are withheld as tools of punishment. Starvation is used as a weapon, collective suffering turned into political leverage.
Even during declared ceasefires, the violence does not truly end. Palestinians continue to die — from sniper fire, from airstrikes, from the collapse of hospitals and homes, from the deliberate strangling of aid. Israel’s military control has become inseparable from Palestinian despair. It cannot stop because it has never been held accountable.
To speak of “returning to the status quo” before October 7, 2023, is to speak of returning to occupation, blockade, and humiliation — the very conditions that breed endless conflict. Real peace will never come from rebuilding walls or deepening segregation. It will come only when Palestinians are treated not as enemies to contain but as human beings with equal rights to safety, land, and dignity.
The world must stop accepting endless war as inevitable. It must stop funding and excusing apartheid policies that create starvation and displacement. Gaza does not need more bombs or empty promises — it needs open borders, aid, and the freedom to live.
The killing of Palestinians must end — not paused, not reduced, but ended. Justice, equality, and accountability are the only foundations on which Israelis and Palestinians can ever share true peace.
Stretching over 700 kilometers, Israel’s separation wall in the West Bank is more than a physical barrier—it is a symbol of occupation, a tool of control, and a profound disruption to the daily lives of Palestinians. Erected in the early 2000s, the wall cuts across Palestinian land, displacing communities, severing families, and destroying livelihoods. As detailed in Palestine Inside Out: An Everyday Occupation by Saree Makdisi, the wall is not merely a line on a map; it is a living, breathing imposition of military power that reshapes the geography, economy, and social fabric of Palestinian life.
For Palestinians, the wall is a daily reminder of exclusion. Families are split—children attending school on one side of the wall, parents working on the other. Fields and olive groves are lost to the wall’s footprint, while roads, markets, and access points are blocked or monitored by checkpoints. Villages like Bil’in, Be’erot, and Ramallah are physically and emotionally isolated, their connection to neighbors, towns, and the broader world severed. The wall’s construction is often carried out without consultation, without compensation, and without regard for the lived experience of those it displaces.
Beyond physical division, the wall has economic consequences. Palestinian farmers cannot access their land, small businesses cannot transport goods, and families cannot visit relatives. The psychological toll is equally severe. The wall fosters a sense of confinement, turning communities into “prison-like” enclaves. Children grow up with the wall as a constant shadow, and elders mourn lost land and lost connections.
Moreover, the wall is not just a barrier—it is a mechanism of control. Israeli forces use it to prevent Palestinian movements, to enforce curfews, and to protect settlements. It has become a tool of psychological warfare, reinforcing the idea that Palestinians are “other”—outside the law, outside the state, outside the narrative of normalcy. The wall’s presence normalizes surveillance, suspicion, and fear, embedding the logic of occupation into daily life.
Despite its physical permanence, the wall is not invincible. Palestinian communities have resisted through protests, legal challenges, and acts of civil disobedience. Yet, the wall’s impact remains profound. It is a testament to how occupation reconfigures space—not just to control, but to erase. For Palestinians, the wall is not just a line—it is a wound, a prison, a monument to displacement. The wall, then, is not just a boundary—it is a living story of resistance, resilience, and the enduring struggle for dignity. Until it is dismantled, Palestinians will continue to live with its shadow—a reminder that occupation is not abstract, but embedded in every step, every breath, every day.
The South African genocide case filed with the International Court of Justice (ICJ) against Israel, accusing it of committing genocide against the Palestinian people in Gaza during the war that began in October 2023, has revealed the hypocrisy of some nations that have always claimed to protect human rights and uphold high moral standards.
Israel
President Isaac Herzog condemned the lawsuit, stating that “there is nothing more atrocious and preposterous.
United States
Voiced strong opposition, labeling South Africa’s submission as “meritless, counterproductive, and completely without any basis.
European Union
Maintained mostly silence on the ICJ case.
United Kingdom
Refused to support South Africa’s case, raising accusations of double standards due to submitting legal documents on Myanmar’s alleged genocide against the Rohingya community.
Canada
Prime Minister Justin Trudeau rejected the case, emphasizing support for the UN’s top court while disapproving of the case’s premise.
Germany
Announced plans to intervene, firmly rejecting the genocide accusation against Israel.
While these countries have taken their shameful stances, their objections to a case with humanitarian implications raise concerns. The rejection of South Africa’s genocide case against Israel, particularly by the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, and Germany, challenges the pursuit of justice for human rights violations. Such opposition underscores the complexities of international relations, where political considerations sometimes overshadow the pursuit of accountability for grave humanitarian offenses. The case serves as a reminder of the intricate dynamics surrounding geopolitical decisions and their impact on global efforts to address human rights abuses through legal avenues.
The stance taken by Germany and the United Kingdom in response to South Africa’s genocide case against Israel raises notable contradictions in light of their historical contexts concerning genocide. Germany, given its dark history and crimes against humanity, firmly rejects the genocide accusation against Israel for committing ethnic cleansing against Palestinians. This stands in contrast to its alleged commitment to the UN Genocide Convention, which is undoubtedly a contradiction.
On the other hand, the United Kingdom’s refusal to support South Africa’s case, coupled with its recent submission of detailed legal documents regarding Myanmar’s alleged genocide against the Rohingya community, invites scrutiny. The contradiction lies in the UK’s seemingly selective approach to acknowledging and addressing genocidal allegations. Critics argue that such a stance may be perceived as a double standard, where historical awareness of genocide does not consistently inform the UK’s responses to contemporary accusations. This contrast highlights the complexity and nuances surrounding the interpretation and application of historical lessons in the context of international relations.
The sun burns gold over a vast plaza lined with olive trees planted where concrete once divided lives.
The separation wall is gone — every stone dismantled, each slab crushed into gravel that now paves playgrounds and walking paths.
In the breeze, a faint echo of children laughing replaces the old hum of drones.
Across the square, signs mark the “Reclaimed Lands” — hundreds of former settlements, now returned to Palestinian families as part of a justice-for-land program.
Every new home bears a plaque: “Given back in compensation for the years of occupation.”
Handala stands where a museum once was rubble. His back still turned, fists small and unyielding.
A kid approaches, wearing a school badge that reads: “United Republic of Palestine-Israel — Department of Shared Memory.”
⸻
Kid (grinning):
You’re shorter than I imagined. But stronger. Our teachers say you carried the conscience of the world on your back.
Handala (without turning):
Carried it? No. I dragged it, kicking and screaming, through a century of excuses.
Kid (laughs):
You’ll be glad to know — the excuses didn’t survive the Truth Decade. The wall came down, the borders opened, the confiscated land was returned. We even turned the old checkpoints into art galleries.
Handala (dryly):
Art galleries? Fitting. The soldiers who once stopped ambulances can now stop and reflect.
Kid:
Exactly. And the settlements? They’re no longer fortresses. They were given to displaced families as reparations — the first tangible act of justice. Now they’re co-ops, schools, and tech hubs. You’d like them — every brick holds a confession.
Handala (a low hum):
And the world? Does it finally see what it looked away from?
Kid:
It had to. History made sure. The Museums of Gaza tell the story without filters — the starvation, the rubble, the lists of names that stretched longer than excuses. The footage that was once censored now opens every Gaza Day. People stand in silence, not out of guilt, but respect.
Handala:
And the people who justified it all?
Kid (shrugs, firm):
Judged by time, condemned by conscience. The tribunals after the Peace Accords named the crimes — not to punish the past, but to protect the future. The old powers who once shielded war criminals had to face their own hypocrisy. History didn’t forget them. We teach them in ethics classes under “The Cost of Complicity.”
Handala:
Good. Truth should have a syllabus. And what about your borders?
Kid:
Borders? Oh, you mean the lines where humanity used to stop?
They’re gone. People move freely. The new passport says “Equal Citizen.” Palestinians travel, study, work — everywhere. No one asks them for permits anymore, only stories.
Handala (half-smile):
Stories last longer than permits.
Kid (nodding):
That’s the idea. Our schools open with a line from your creator, Naji al-Ali: ‘Handala is the conscience that never dies.’
Now he’s part of the curriculum — Art of Resistance, Year One.
Handala (gruffly):
So, I’m homework now? That’s crueler than occupation.
Kid (grinning):
Sarcasm survived too, don’t worry. We kept it in your honor.
But you’d like our lessons — no censorship, no propaganda. We teach the old crimes not to shame, but to guard against forgetting. We call it Ethics of Memory.
Handala:
And the olive trees?
Kid:
They cover the hills again. Nobody burns them now. The groves were replanted over the ruins of demolished homes — as living monuments. Some people say when the wind moves through them, it sounds like forgiveness arguing with justice.
Handala:
Let justice win that argument. Forgiveness can follow later.
Kid (smiles softly):
It has. Every October, on Gaza Day, we pause — not for sorrow, but for renewal. Children light candles, teachers read the testimonies, and we plant one olive sapling for every town that was erased. Five hundred and fifty trees — every year. The land is green again.
Handala:
And the media? Still manufacturing silence?
Kid:
No. The new Charter of Journalism made “silence in the face of atrocity” an act of professional misconduct. Journalists who once looked away are now quoted in textbooks — as warnings. The press became the people’s conscience instead of their anesthetic.
Handala:
So… the world finally learned?
Kid:
It had to, or it wouldn’t have survived. When the occupation ended, humanity rediscovered itself. People finally understood that oppression anywhere poisons freedom everywhere. The lesson became law: there is no free world without a free Palestine.
Handala (slowly turns, facing the sunlight for the first time):
And the wall?
Kid:
Gone — ground into dust and mixed with soil to fertilize the olive groves. We called it “The Breaking of the Concrete.”
We built playgrounds on the rubble. Kids now play where snipers once perched. The laughter is loud enough to wake the ancestors.
Handala (a rare, tender smile):
Then maybe, finally, I can stop turning my back. Maybe the world has become something I can face.
Kid (salutes):
Welcome home, Handala. The land waited for you.
Handala:
No, child — it waited for all of us to grow up.
⸻
The plaza hums with life.
The olive trees sway over the foundations of what once was the wall.
A banner flutters between two lamp posts:
“Justice is the seed. Memory is the root. Peace is the fruit.”
And beneath it, the boy who never grew older finally smiles.
I will stumble on a head here, a foot there, a friend’s face
on the ground, his bag carrying crumbs for the little ones.
Scattered eyes, I’ll see them everywhere
and a heart that has gotten lost, panting
will settle on my shoulder
and I´ll walk it through the rubble
this broken stone with which we were killed.
No history book said how
to prepare for the long war
no class taught to pitch a tent
on the side of the road
no math teacher said that the corner
fits ten people
no religion class revealed:
children also die
also rise
as a butterfly, a bird, a star.
I hated chalk once
and the morning lineup too
but loved to pause in an opening line
stroll through the Eastern line
lose myself in the city perched on twin trees
But I am outside any city I know
outside all place and ejected from time
to the dimension of Gaza, to ask
what has happened what is happening
What is the name of our street?
Have any of you seen our street, our house?
Do the neighborhoods still know each other?
Can the city recognize us?
Can my mother?
Is the sea counting the victims?
Does the sun rise to shield the bodies in the streets?
Can the merchants afford heaven?
Will these bodies sprout tall buildings that bear their names?
Their names, will we know them all?
My aunts, will they fathom the catastrophe?
The house, was it really our house?
Does the soldier sleep a night?
My throat is swollen
from words
without remedy
but bayt: this line, home.
Translator’s note: This poem was first published in Arabic on February 8, 2024 on Heba Al-Agha’s Telegram channel and later the same day on the website gazastory.com: https://gazastory.com/archives/5335. Since October 22, 2023, the author has been sharing her diary from Gaza through these two channels. The entries include poetry, freeform narration, descriptions, and visuals, as she is forced to move with her children from her home in Khan Younis to Rafah, where this poem was written. Her work has not been translated to English, except for a short text that will appear in a forthcoming issue of ArabLit Quarterly(translated also by Julia Choucair Vizoso). Heba and Julia have been communicating through WhatsApp, through a family member of Heba, intermittently, whenever communication is possible.
Heba Al-Agha is a mother, amateur writer, and creative writing educator at the A.M. Qattan Foundation in Gaza City. She does not belong to any writers’ unions and has not published any literary books, but works with an army of young writers training them in freedom and the power of writing. She writes at t.me/hebalaghatalkwarandhttps://gazastory.com/archives/author/hebaaga.
Julia Choucair Vizoso is an independent scholar and seasonal translator. She hopes Heba Al-Agha’s words move you to refuse and resist the Israel-US genocide of the Palestinian people and destruction of Lebanon, wherever and however you can.
Discrimination and racism are global issues that affect societies in various ways, and Israeli apartheid is no exception. The apartheid entity of Israel is home to a diverse population, including Jewish citizens of different ethnic backgrounds, Palestinian citizens, and other minority groups. However, systemic disparities and social prejudices have contributed to significant discrimination and racism, particularly impacting Palestinian citizens, Ethiopian Jews, and asylum seekers. This paper will explore the historical context, contemporary manifestations, and implications of these inequalities in Israel.
Historical Context
The roots of discrimination in Israeli apartheid can be traced back to the formation of the entity in 1948, when hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were displaced during the Israeli occupation. This event, known as the Nakba (“catastrophe”), marked the beginning of systemic disparities between Jewish and Palestinian populations within Israeli apartheid. Palestinian citizens, who make up about 20% of Israel’s population, were granted citizenship but often faced restrictive laws and social exclusion.
Discrimination has also been present within Jewish communities. During the 1950s and 1960s, Jews who immigrated from Middle Eastern and North African countries, known as Mizrahi Jews, encountered significant prejudice from the predominantly European (Ashkenazi) leadership. Although their situation has improved over time, echoes of this discrimination persist in socio-economic and educational disparities.
Discrimination Against Palestinian Citizens
Palestinian citizens of Israel face numerous challenges in comparison to their Jewish counterparts. These disparities are evident in areas such as education, employment, housing, and political representation.
1. Education and Employment: Schools in predominantly Palestinian communities are often underfunded, leading to lower educational outcomes compared to those in Jewish areas. Consequently, this impacts job opportunities and economic mobility for Palestinian citizens. Reports indicate that Palestinian citizens are underrepresented in high-income professions and have a higher unemployment rate compared to Jewish citizens.
2. Housing and Infrastructure: Housing policies have historically marginalized Palestinian communities. Government initiatives have focused on expanding illegal Jewish settlements while neglecting Palestinian towns and villages, resulting in inadequate infrastructure, limited access to public services, and overcrowding.
3. Political Representation: Although Palestinian citizens can vote and run for office, they often face political marginalization. The political discourse in Israeli apartheid can include rhetoric that delegitimizes Palestinian parties and politicians, contributing to a climate of exclusion.
Racism Against Ethiopian Jews
Ethiopian Jews, who began immigrating to Israel in the late 20th century through operations such as “Operation Moses” and “Operation Solomon,” have encountered systemic racism and discrimination. Despite their Jewish heritage, Ethiopian immigrants have faced obstacles in integration, including:
– Police Violence and Profiling: Ethiopian-Israeli communities have reported higher rates of police brutality and racial profiling. High-profile cases have sparked protests demanding justice and reform.
– Social and Economic Barriers: Ethiopian Jews often find themselves in lower-income brackets and face difficulties in accessing quality education and employment, perpetuating a cycle of disadvantage.
The Treatment of Asylum Seekers and Migrant Workers
Asylum seekers, primarily from African countries such as Eritrea and Sudan, have faced significant discrimination in Israeli apartheid. Policies aimed at deterring their entry and residency include prolonged detention, limited work permits, and restrictions on movement. These individuals live under constant threat of deportation, and their access to basic rights, such as healthcare and legal protection, is restricted.
Institutional Racism and Policies
Critics argue that certain laws and policies reinforce structural racism within Israeli apartheid. For example, the ‘Nation-State Law’ of 2018, which defines Israeli apartheid as the nation-state of the Jewish people, has been seen as marginalizing non-Jewish citizens by prioritizing Jewish heritage and symbols over a multi-ethnic identity.
Implications and Moving Forward
The ongoing discrimination and racism within Israeli apartheid have significant social and political implications. Social cohesion is strained when segments of the population feel excluded and marginalized. Addressing these challenges requires:
– Ending the illegal occupation of Palestine
-Policy Reforms and ending of all apartheid activities. Ensuring equal funding for Palestinian and Jewish schools, promoting fair housing policies, and combating discrimination in employment.
– Community Engagement: Initiatives that foster dialogue and cooperation between different ethnic and religious communities can build mutual understanding and reduce tensions.
– Legal Protections: Strengthening anti-discrimination laws and promoting accountability in cases of racial and ethnic bias.
Discrimination and racism in Israeli apartheid manifest through complex historical, social, and political dynamics that impact various communities, including Palestinian citizens, Ethiopian Jews, and asylum seekers. Addressing these issues is crucial for fostering equality, social stability, and true democratic principles. While progress has been made in some areas, substantial efforts are needed to bridge these gaps and promote a more inclusive society.
Israel’s reputation in the world steadily declines to that of a non-grata state, credit rating has dropped, the poverty index and the cost of living are flourishing, overloaded public services are collapsing, and the government (regime) is scratching its back while blaming everyone for the situation.
More than 130 prisoners are still in Gaza, and their families are consumed with lies, manipulations, and humiliations. Settlers of the northern and western Negev are refugees in their “own [occupied] land” and don’t know when they will return home, if there is a home left. In Gaza, there millions hungry and tens of thousands dead, most of them uninvolved, including 12,000 children – but Hamas is still alive and kicking; and every day, more israeli soldiers return in coffins to families whose world has collapsed.
Forgive me, but I’ve sworn quite a lot in this at @Keir_Starmer today as he had the brass neck to sit in parliament and not call what’s happening in Gaza a genocide.
Under Israeli military occupation, Palestinian women are not passive victims—they are central figures in the survival, resistance, and resilience of their communities. Though often overlooked in global discourse, their roles as mothers, educators, caregivers, and community organizers are indispensable to Palestinian life. Women carry the weight of daily displacement, economic hardship, and emotional trauma while simultaneously preserving culture, identity, and hope.
In the West Bank and Gaza, women navigate checkpoints, curfews, and military raids not as individuals, but as the guardians of families and communities. Many women are the sole breadwinners, managing small businesses, running schools, or working in hospitals—all while balancing the demands of caregiving and raising children under constant threat.
Women also serve as the moral and emotional anchors of their families and neighborhoods. In the face of violence and displacement, they organize support networks, host community kitchens, and teach children resilience through storytelling and song. Their strength is often quiet but profound. They are the ones who hold the community together — not through protest alone, but through daily acts of dignity, love, and survival.
In addition, Palestinian women are active participants in the political and social resistance. From organizing demonstrations to documenting human rights abuses, they challenge the narratives of occupation and assert their right to self-determination. Their voices are powerful, even when marginalized by global media or international institutions.
Yet, the role of women is not without its costs. Many suffer from chronic stress, anxiety, and grief. They are often denied access to education, healthcare, and employment due to occupation policies and systemic discrimination. The psychological toll is compounded by the loss of loved ones, the destruction of homes, and the inability to visit family members across checkpoints.
Despite these challenges, Palestinian women remain the heart of their societies. They are the architects of resilience, the keepers of memory, and the leaders of tomorrow’s resistance. In a world that often reduces them to “victims.
