Forwarded from Amyra ุฃู
ูุฑุฉ โข Notes โุณุฌูู (AmyraCull โุฃู
ูุฑุฉ โก)
Witnessing Gaza - Journal 7
Refined Anger
When I spent real time talking to high school and college-age Palestinians, the conversations didnโt stay on the surface for long. We moved quickly past polite explanations - into what they actually thought about what was being done to them.
These were the first times their anger showed itself clearly, and it came through as focused, specific, sharpened by suffering, and most of all, justified. They were angry for a simple reason: the same patterns kept repeating. Homes erased, family lines broken, futures shut down, excuses made, and cameras coming and going. Governments kept sending weapons, and the news kept smoothing everything into โcomplicated tensionsโ so the world could keep looking away.
They had been forced to study their own oppression just to survive it, and they understood exactly how the story gets managed. Palestinian death becomes numbers, โcontextโ becomes a stalling tactic, and language gets twisted until obvious violence becomes something the world can tolerate.
What stood out most was the history they carried in their voices. Their timeline wasnโt โsince October,โ it was generational, shaped by restraint, humiliation, surveillance, and siege long before this genocide began. They were grieving something they were never allowed to have in the first place. Their parents couldnโt hand down stories of freedom, and their grandparents never got to live to see liberation.
The question they kept circling back to was painful: โwhat are you doing to stop this?โ They werenโt asking for people to simply share their words. They wanted action, interruption, and real pressure applied where it matters most, not more spectatorship dressed up as concern.
Many people tried - boycotts, protests, digital resistance, breaking through propaganda, refusing the script, refusing silence - and many were punished for it, because the machine is built to absorb outrage until outrage turns into exhaustion. The Gazans could see the effort, but they could still see the failure, not as something random, but as the outcome of a system designed to protect itself.
Even with all of that, these same young people still spoke about hope, faith, and resistance. Not as a form of denial, but as something practiced with discipline, because giving it up is exactly what the occupation wants. Their faith reinforced their steadfastness to their land, to their families, and to justice.
They held anger and hope at the same time, grief and clarity at the same time, with an anger grounded in evidence and a hope rooted in refusal.
If Gaza has made anything undeniable, itโs that oppression depends on distance - distance from truth, distance from consequences, distance from the people it destroys - and once that distance collapses, silence stops being neutral and turns into a choice.
Refined Anger
When I spent real time talking to high school and college-age Palestinians, the conversations didnโt stay on the surface for long. We moved quickly past polite explanations - into what they actually thought about what was being done to them.
These were the first times their anger showed itself clearly, and it came through as focused, specific, sharpened by suffering, and most of all, justified. They were angry for a simple reason: the same patterns kept repeating. Homes erased, family lines broken, futures shut down, excuses made, and cameras coming and going. Governments kept sending weapons, and the news kept smoothing everything into โcomplicated tensionsโ so the world could keep looking away.
They had been forced to study their own oppression just to survive it, and they understood exactly how the story gets managed. Palestinian death becomes numbers, โcontextโ becomes a stalling tactic, and language gets twisted until obvious violence becomes something the world can tolerate.
What stood out most was the history they carried in their voices. Their timeline wasnโt โsince October,โ it was generational, shaped by restraint, humiliation, surveillance, and siege long before this genocide began. They were grieving something they were never allowed to have in the first place. Their parents couldnโt hand down stories of freedom, and their grandparents never got to live to see liberation.
The question they kept circling back to was painful: โwhat are you doing to stop this?โ They werenโt asking for people to simply share their words. They wanted action, interruption, and real pressure applied where it matters most, not more spectatorship dressed up as concern.
Many people tried - boycotts, protests, digital resistance, breaking through propaganda, refusing the script, refusing silence - and many were punished for it, because the machine is built to absorb outrage until outrage turns into exhaustion. The Gazans could see the effort, but they could still see the failure, not as something random, but as the outcome of a system designed to protect itself.
Even with all of that, these same young people still spoke about hope, faith, and resistance. Not as a form of denial, but as something practiced with discipline, because giving it up is exactly what the occupation wants. Their faith reinforced their steadfastness to their land, to their families, and to justice.
They held anger and hope at the same time, grief and clarity at the same time, with an anger grounded in evidence and a hope rooted in refusal.
If Gaza has made anything undeniable, itโs that oppression depends on distance - distance from truth, distance from consequences, distance from the people it destroys - and once that distance collapses, silence stops being neutral and turns into a choice.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
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Trump accused of raping a 13-yo in newly released epstein files
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Forwarded from Amyra ุฃู
ูุฑุฉ โข Notes โุณุฌูู (AmyraCull โุฃู
ูุฑุฉ โก)
Witnessing Gaza -Journal 8
Suspended Time
Time did not move normally in Gaza. By several months into the genocide, time itself had become unreliable. Conversations began, broke off, and resumed days later. Continuity felt optional. People remembered the moment a building fell, the sound just before the silence, the way the air folded inward. Dates blurred. Weeks collapsed. Time no longer passed. It pressed.
I was there because I owned a livestream. Not a newsroom. Not an institution. A feed. One of the few remaining ways Gaza could still speak outward. It ran constantly, until it could not. Electricity failed. Signal thinned. Bodies took precedence over bandwidth. The camera did not explain. It stayed.
Inside that distortion, discipline emerged.
Voices lowered around children. Tone was shaped before words. Medics spoke in plain sentences designed to function. Young people delayed their grief, placing it somewhere internal where it would not interfere with survival. Feeling remained, set aside carefully, like something fragile that would be needed later.
The discipline was tested in quieter ways.
Some days, what appeared was unbearable simply because it was ordinary. Loss moved through daily life without announcement. The dead were handled quickly. The living learned where not to look. What mattered most often passed just outside view, carried through without pause or comment.
At times, information stopped short. Names were withheld. Locations were protected. Details were softened or delayed. Not from uncertainty, but from judgement. Protecting people became a priority. Withholding became part of the work.
Language changed under the same pressure.
Messages shortened. Corrections arrived hours later, sometimes days. Numbers were revised quietly. Accuracy still mattered. A mother explained a shortage the way someone explains weather. Her voice carried no appeal. Information was offered because it was needed.
Ethical clarity held, under strain.
Anger existed. It surfaced in pauses, in breathing that took too long to steady. It did not overtake judgement. Claims stayed measured. Words were weighed against consequence. Boundaries held in conditions meant to erode them.
Absence ran through everything.
Images were never sent. Stories stopped mid-sentence. Long pauses marked what had been deliberately protected. These were not failures of documentation. They were acts of guardianship. Some moments were kept for those who survived them. Some grief was not offered as evidence.
From the outside, this restraint was misread.
Quiet was taken for resignation. Control was mistaken for numbness. The refusal to perform grief was read as acceptance. These interpretations relied on distance. They assumed survival should be visible and loud.
What became clear over time was regulation. Of time, of emotion, of language, of judgement. All of it held together inside a reality designed to unravel them. This was how continuity was preserved when continuity itself was under threat.
As activists and aid workers we learned these tools to protect their safety and instilled them as unspoken law in our communities. Surveillance technology, governments, and individuals with ill intent surrounded us on all sides.
Much of what sustained them was never visible. It moved through small decisions, careful silences, names not spoken aloud. What endured was not the record, but the refusal to be undone.
Suspended Time
Time did not move normally in Gaza. By several months into the genocide, time itself had become unreliable. Conversations began, broke off, and resumed days later. Continuity felt optional. People remembered the moment a building fell, the sound just before the silence, the way the air folded inward. Dates blurred. Weeks collapsed. Time no longer passed. It pressed.
I was there because I owned a livestream. Not a newsroom. Not an institution. A feed. One of the few remaining ways Gaza could still speak outward. It ran constantly, until it could not. Electricity failed. Signal thinned. Bodies took precedence over bandwidth. The camera did not explain. It stayed.
Inside that distortion, discipline emerged.
Voices lowered around children. Tone was shaped before words. Medics spoke in plain sentences designed to function. Young people delayed their grief, placing it somewhere internal where it would not interfere with survival. Feeling remained, set aside carefully, like something fragile that would be needed later.
The discipline was tested in quieter ways.
Some days, what appeared was unbearable simply because it was ordinary. Loss moved through daily life without announcement. The dead were handled quickly. The living learned where not to look. What mattered most often passed just outside view, carried through without pause or comment.
At times, information stopped short. Names were withheld. Locations were protected. Details were softened or delayed. Not from uncertainty, but from judgement. Protecting people became a priority. Withholding became part of the work.
Language changed under the same pressure.
Messages shortened. Corrections arrived hours later, sometimes days. Numbers were revised quietly. Accuracy still mattered. A mother explained a shortage the way someone explains weather. Her voice carried no appeal. Information was offered because it was needed.
Ethical clarity held, under strain.
Anger existed. It surfaced in pauses, in breathing that took too long to steady. It did not overtake judgement. Claims stayed measured. Words were weighed against consequence. Boundaries held in conditions meant to erode them.
Absence ran through everything.
Images were never sent. Stories stopped mid-sentence. Long pauses marked what had been deliberately protected. These were not failures of documentation. They were acts of guardianship. Some moments were kept for those who survived them. Some grief was not offered as evidence.
From the outside, this restraint was misread.
Quiet was taken for resignation. Control was mistaken for numbness. The refusal to perform grief was read as acceptance. These interpretations relied on distance. They assumed survival should be visible and loud.
What became clear over time was regulation. Of time, of emotion, of language, of judgement. All of it held together inside a reality designed to unravel them. This was how continuity was preserved when continuity itself was under threat.
As activists and aid workers we learned these tools to protect their safety and instilled them as unspoken law in our communities. Surveillance technology, governments, and individuals with ill intent surrounded us on all sides.
Much of what sustained them was never visible. It moved through small decisions, careful silences, names not spoken aloud. What endured was not the record, but the refusal to be undone.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
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We are trained to treat every disturbing overlap among the powerful as โjust coincidence.โ Timelines align. Locations overlap. Names recur. The public is told not to connect dots - only to consume fragments.
Jeffrey Epstein did not operate alone. That is established. He had protection, access, and years of immunity. That alone proves something larger than an individual crime: systems exist to shield certain people while victims are buried.
Authoritarian leaders, war architects, financiers, and intelligence networks do not move randomly. They circulate through the same spaces, benefit from the same silences, and survive the same scandals. Accountability is selective by design.
The real conspiracy is not that every overlap proves coordination. Itโs that the public is conditioned to believe none of them ever matter.
Power depends on our refusal to connect the dots & ask who benefits.
The price of that refusal is always paid by the innocent.
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Andrew Tate the fake Muslim kike is praising and glazing Epstein. Can you imagine?... Top G, G for Goy.
#truth
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๐บ For three straight days, the occupation has not stopped - bombs falling across Gaza, civilians killed hour after hour.๐ค At the same time, the West Bank is under assault. Soldiers and settlers move together, acting as one force. Daily raids, attacks, and intimidation.๐ฅ The world watches and continues as normal.โ ๏ธ How much humanity actually exists if this can continue openly, for years, without consequence?
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Here is your terroristic army worshipping Israel. United States of Israel
#Jews
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Forwarded from Amyra ุฃู
ูุฑุฉ โข Notes โุณุฌูู (AmyraCull โุฃู
ูุฑุฉ โก)
Witnessing Gaza - Journal 9
Cohesion Among Collapse
I expected and feared that famine would be the thing that made them fall apart, but instead it brought them closer.
In tents & homes already holding too many people, more kept arriving - cousins, neighbors, someoneโs aunt, children who simply followed a familiar face. Without a question being asked, a space would be cleared, blankets would be shifted, portions would be quietly divided smaller. It was never described as sacrifice because their hearts were in tune despite the collapse around them.
Care did not depend on relationship, closeness, or even familiarity. An older boy watched over younger children who were not his brothers, a young woman corrected children who were not hers, and they listened without hesitation. Elders were respected by default and treated with dignity as much as possible. Protection moved through their society as if everyone deserved it and everyone knew their place.
Faith lived in the behavior of the smallest child, their actions much louder than the words. People shared because keeping something only for yourself wasnโt natural to them, even when they had very little. Patience was not passive. It was a decision repeated throughout their lives. Grief did not isolate a person - it gathered others closely, as if sorrow itself created a social responsibility.
Even when they had very little, they still fed animals that had nothing - not only their own, but stray cats and birds that wandered near the homes. I watched food divided with the same quiet fairness, a small portion set aside without discussion. Hunger did not cancel their humanity. It only reduced the size of what could be given in generosity.
One day, after a small donation had reached a family, they rejoined our livestream to celebrate. On camera, they held up a small piece of manakeesh that they had managed to make from what they could find. The boy carrying it didnโt sit down to eat. He moved in and out of frame, tearing pieces with his hands and placing them into the palms of the other children beside him, then the adults just off-camera. He didnโt share with a sad look on his face. Instead, he had visible excitement, as if the real reward was being able to share at all.
More than once, women told me that when the genocide ended they would cook for me properly - maqluba, musakhan, qidra. They spoke about ingredients and the right order of preparation while living through hunger themselves. During livestreams they would ask what I had eaten that day and whether I was taking care of my health. Little did they know, I would mute my microphone before drinking water so they wouldnโt hear it.
What I first thought was just emergency cooperation revealed itself as something older than the genocide. They were not becoming close under a camera lense. They were continuing a closeness that had already been formed across years of siege, displacement, and even having their calories counted by the occupation.
The order I kept noticing did not come from rules or hierarchy. It came from a shared understanding that no one stands alone here, even if they survived alone.
From far away, suffering is often imagined as something that strips people down to instinct - survival replacing morality. But what I kept witnessing was the opposite. Their families and friends were always the first thing on their mind, and their prayers went to others before themselves.
I began to understand this type of resilience - a culture where community survives catastrophe without needing to be reinvented each time. The war did not teach them how to hold onto each other. It only proved how long they already had.
Buildings were damaged.
Routines were broken.
Their bonds were not.
Cohesion Among Collapse
I expected and feared that famine would be the thing that made them fall apart, but instead it brought them closer.
In tents & homes already holding too many people, more kept arriving - cousins, neighbors, someoneโs aunt, children who simply followed a familiar face. Without a question being asked, a space would be cleared, blankets would be shifted, portions would be quietly divided smaller. It was never described as sacrifice because their hearts were in tune despite the collapse around them.
Care did not depend on relationship, closeness, or even familiarity. An older boy watched over younger children who were not his brothers, a young woman corrected children who were not hers, and they listened without hesitation. Elders were respected by default and treated with dignity as much as possible. Protection moved through their society as if everyone deserved it and everyone knew their place.
Faith lived in the behavior of the smallest child, their actions much louder than the words. People shared because keeping something only for yourself wasnโt natural to them, even when they had very little. Patience was not passive. It was a decision repeated throughout their lives. Grief did not isolate a person - it gathered others closely, as if sorrow itself created a social responsibility.
Even when they had very little, they still fed animals that had nothing - not only their own, but stray cats and birds that wandered near the homes. I watched food divided with the same quiet fairness, a small portion set aside without discussion. Hunger did not cancel their humanity. It only reduced the size of what could be given in generosity.
One day, after a small donation had reached a family, they rejoined our livestream to celebrate. On camera, they held up a small piece of manakeesh that they had managed to make from what they could find. The boy carrying it didnโt sit down to eat. He moved in and out of frame, tearing pieces with his hands and placing them into the palms of the other children beside him, then the adults just off-camera. He didnโt share with a sad look on his face. Instead, he had visible excitement, as if the real reward was being able to share at all.
More than once, women told me that when the genocide ended they would cook for me properly - maqluba, musakhan, qidra. They spoke about ingredients and the right order of preparation while living through hunger themselves. During livestreams they would ask what I had eaten that day and whether I was taking care of my health. Little did they know, I would mute my microphone before drinking water so they wouldnโt hear it.
What I first thought was just emergency cooperation revealed itself as something older than the genocide. They were not becoming close under a camera lense. They were continuing a closeness that had already been formed across years of siege, displacement, and even having their calories counted by the occupation.
The order I kept noticing did not come from rules or hierarchy. It came from a shared understanding that no one stands alone here, even if they survived alone.
From far away, suffering is often imagined as something that strips people down to instinct - survival replacing morality. But what I kept witnessing was the opposite. Their families and friends were always the first thing on their mind, and their prayers went to others before themselves.
I began to understand this type of resilience - a culture where community survives catastrophe without needing to be reinvented each time. The war did not teach them how to hold onto each other. It only proved how long they already had.
Buildings were damaged.
Routines were broken.
Their bonds were not.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
๐
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๐
โ
AmyraCull ุฃู ูุฑุฉ
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My Links/Info
Verified Aid Requests
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๐น This video above is sourced from clips taken by our brother Bakr - a journalist reporting from the field in Gaza.๐ Bakr documented the evacuation of the sick, elderly, and children - along with the companions forced to leave with them to seek treatment outside the Strip. What he witnessed was not a functioning evacuation system - but a bottleneck. The barriers to exit are nearly insurmountable.๐ค Fewer than roughly fifty people per day are allowed out while thousands remain in urgent need.๐ฅ Inside the hospitals, many patients lack even basic care. The occupationโs stranglehold on aid and medical supply entry has reduced treatment to improvisation - people waiting not only for medicine but for their most basic human rights to be recognized.๐ต๐ธ Palestinian society has always been self-sustaining - and even under prolonged siege and destruction, communities continue carrying one another as best they can.๐ But the healthcare sector itself is systematically devastated. Medication, surgical materials, and specialized treatment - including cancer care - are simply unavailable.๐ฉ This documentation exists for two reasons - to preserve history and to demand action now. The outside world has more leverage than it admits. A swift political decision could end this reality.๐ฅ What is required is international accountability for the occupation.
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Ramadan Dua for those who are looking for duas in this Ramadan
https://hamzaaa.com/Ramadan_duass.html?lang=ar
https://hamzaaa.com/Ramadan_duass.html?lang=ar
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๐ฌ๐น Guatemalan authorities have intensified their investigation into the ultra-Orthodox sect known as Lev Tahor, accusing leaders of child abuse, human trafficking, forced child marriages, and severe exploitation.
๐ฅ Lev Tahor has a long history of moving across countries (#Canada, Mexico, Guatemala, and others) to avoid child welfare prosecutions.
ใฐ In December 2024, #Guatemalan police took about 160 minors and 40 women into protective custody amid abuse and trafficking allegations.
๐ฒ๐ฝ In January 2025,IsraeliYoel Alter (๐ฎ๐ฑ 35), a senior Lev Tahor member, was arrested in #Guatemala City in coordination with Interpol on human trafficking and organized-crime charges at the request of #Mexican prosecutors.
๐ธ๐ป Another Lev Tahor leader, Jonathan Emmanuel Cardona Castillo (23), was arrested in El #Salvador on an international warrant for rape, abuse, and human-trafficking allegations.
๐จ๐ด Authorities in #Colombia also recently rescued 17 children from a hotel where Lev Tahor members were staying, amid abuse and kidnapping allegations.
๐ฅ Other recent cases tied toIsrael
๐ค Tal, Oren, and Alon Alexander (U.S./#Israeli-#American) - Three brothers arrested in December 2024 for drugging, sexually assaulting , and trafficking of women.
๐ค New York Divorce Coercion Gang (historical federal case, 2013โ2015) - A #Hasidic-linked group led by Mendel #Epstein that kidnapped and tortured men in the #NewYork area to force religious divorces.
๐ค Documented sexual abuse cases in ultra-Orthodox/#Brooklyn communities - Multiple community figures convicted of child sexual abuse or trafficking-related offenses.
๐ฎ๐ฑ These incidents reveal a broader pattern of transnational extremism and exploitation that is led by #Israelisand their associates.
Our library has a full documentary about the Lev Tahor cult.
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Forwarded from Amyra ุฃู
ูุฑุฉ โข Notes โุณุฌูู (Amyra ูู โุฃู
ูุฑุฉ โก)
Witnessing Gaza - Journal 10
Evidence Without Action
There is a particular fracture that happens when you watch your own life become footage broadcast to the world in real time. It is not only destruction that wounds; it is the translation of destruction into language that feels detached from the people living inside it.
Before the war, screens were ordinary and woven into daily routine. They carried sports matches, wedding clips, school ceremonies, and travel reels from cities that felt impossibly distant. A phone functioned as a window outward, a reminder that the world was wider than the narrow strip of sky overhead. It represented possibility.
Then that window reversed direction and began reflecting their own devastation back at them.
In the first months, many still believed that visibility would carry moral weight. The assumption was almost instinctive - if the world could see it, it would respond - right? If the images were undeniable, decisive action would follow - or at least that is what we expect from humanity. There was confusion, certainly, but there was also a quiet faith in the idea that exposure generates intervention, that there must be a threshold beyond which suffering cannot be ignored.
Several people confided in me that they eventually stopped watching the news altogether. Not because the images were too graphic - they were already living those images - but because the commentary created a deeper rupture. They described an absence of humanity in the tone itself. Their neighborhoods were framed as โdevelopments.โ Their dead were discussed as โfigures.โ Their suffering was analyzed as strategy rather than acknowledged as loss.
One woman told me, โIt sounds like they are talking about weather.โ
A sentence that broke my heart.
Over time, some said they no longer cared what international courts or governing bodies declared because statements were issued, hearings were convened, and rulings were debated in carefully structured language while nothing around them materially shifted, and the widening gap between recognition and protection began to feel less like process and more like performance.
There was another layer beneath that disillusionment, and it was heavier. They observed that even attempts at doing good were obstructed or punished - aid restricted, advocacy challenged, voices marginalized or silenced. The message that filtered down was not that help was coming, but that even trying to help carried consequences. That realization altered something fundamental.
Gradually, they stopped watching the news because it intensified the sense that humanity existed in rhetoric but not in practice. They stopped anchoring hope to international statements because they did not translate into safety. The screen, which once felt like a bridge to global conscience, began to function as a mirror reflecting hierarchy - whose lives trigger urgency and whose are processed slowly, conditionally, politically.
Instead of waiting for external rescue, they rooted themselves. They leaned into their steadfastness and faith, they counted their neighbors, sacrificed for extended family, and improvised networks of mutual support. They shifted from expecting interruption to cultivating endurance. Hope narrowed, but it did not disappear. It relocated and adapted as they had always done.
The footage will should never be allowed to fade into archives, and the choices made in living rooms and shelters most certainly will will not. What will be remembered most was not who watched, who stayed, and who betrayed humanity.
Evidence Without Action
There is a particular fracture that happens when you watch your own life become footage broadcast to the world in real time. It is not only destruction that wounds; it is the translation of destruction into language that feels detached from the people living inside it.
Before the war, screens were ordinary and woven into daily routine. They carried sports matches, wedding clips, school ceremonies, and travel reels from cities that felt impossibly distant. A phone functioned as a window outward, a reminder that the world was wider than the narrow strip of sky overhead. It represented possibility.
Then that window reversed direction and began reflecting their own devastation back at them.
In the first months, many still believed that visibility would carry moral weight. The assumption was almost instinctive - if the world could see it, it would respond - right? If the images were undeniable, decisive action would follow - or at least that is what we expect from humanity. There was confusion, certainly, but there was also a quiet faith in the idea that exposure generates intervention, that there must be a threshold beyond which suffering cannot be ignored.
Several people confided in me that they eventually stopped watching the news altogether. Not because the images were too graphic - they were already living those images - but because the commentary created a deeper rupture. They described an absence of humanity in the tone itself. Their neighborhoods were framed as โdevelopments.โ Their dead were discussed as โfigures.โ Their suffering was analyzed as strategy rather than acknowledged as loss.
One woman told me, โIt sounds like they are talking about weather.โ
A sentence that broke my heart.
Over time, some said they no longer cared what international courts or governing bodies declared because statements were issued, hearings were convened, and rulings were debated in carefully structured language while nothing around them materially shifted, and the widening gap between recognition and protection began to feel less like process and more like performance.
There was another layer beneath that disillusionment, and it was heavier. They observed that even attempts at doing good were obstructed or punished - aid restricted, advocacy challenged, voices marginalized or silenced. The message that filtered down was not that help was coming, but that even trying to help carried consequences. That realization altered something fundamental.
Gradually, they stopped watching the news because it intensified the sense that humanity existed in rhetoric but not in practice. They stopped anchoring hope to international statements because they did not translate into safety. The screen, which once felt like a bridge to global conscience, began to function as a mirror reflecting hierarchy - whose lives trigger urgency and whose are processed slowly, conditionally, politically.
Instead of waiting for external rescue, they rooted themselves. They leaned into their steadfastness and faith, they counted their neighbors, sacrificed for extended family, and improvised networks of mutual support. They shifted from expecting interruption to cultivating endurance. Hope narrowed, but it did not disappear. It relocated and adapted as they had always done.
The footage will should never be allowed to fade into archives, and the choices made in living rooms and shelters most certainly will will not. What will be remembered most was not who watched, who stayed, and who betrayed humanity.
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
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Forwarded from Amyra ุฃู
ูุฑุฉ โข Notes โุณุฌูู (Amyra ูู โุฃู
ูุฑุฉ โก)
Witnessing Gaza - Journal 11
Faith Under Siege
There is a dimension of this genocide that is difficult to see from the outside because it lives within the quiet routines of faith.
For Palestinians in Gaza, faith is woven directly into daily life. It shapes how a person wakes, how they cleanse themselves, how they measure the hours, how communities gather, and how the dead are honored.
From the earliest days of this war, even the most ordinary acts of worship were disrupted.
Before prayer, Muslims perform wudu, the ritual washing of the hands, face, arms, and feet. The act is simple yet deeply meaningful, reflecting the Islamic teaching that cleanliness itself is part of faith.
When water disappeared across Gaza, the ability to perform this basic act of devotion collapsed.
Many Palestinians began performing tayammum, a form of ritual purification permitted when water cannot be used. In this practice, a person wipes their face and hands with clean earth or dust before prayer. Islamic law preserved this provision for moments of severe hardship, yet few imagined it would become a daily necessity.
Water inside Gaza has to be rationed for survival. Every drop measured. Drinking came first, leaving little or nothing for washing. Some Palestinians described washing with water for the first time in months or more.
Prayer itself also became fraught with danger.
The adhan, the call to prayer that echoes across neighborhoods five times each day, traditionally structures the rhythm of communal life. Under drones and constant bombardment, that same call carried risk. Any visible gathering could attract attention from the sky.
Many mosques were damaged or destroyed, removing the spaces that once anchored spiritual and communal life.
Families prayed inside tents, hospital corridors, and shattered homes, anything to keep the rhythm of worship inside a landscape of ruins.
The disruption extended into the sacred responsibilities surrounding death.
Islamic burial practices require care and dignity. The deceased is washed in a cleansing known as ghusl, then wrapped in a white burial shroud called a kafan. The community gathers for Salat al-Janazah, the funeral prayer that honors the dead.
During this genocide, these rites are repeatedly interrupted.
Gaza reached a point where burial shrouds ran out entirely, forcing families to wrap their loved ones in blankets or whatever cloth could be found. The ritual washing of bodies could not always be performed. Funeral prayers were sometimes hurried or carried out between strikes, while cemeteries over-filled.
The holy month of Ramadan also unfolded under conditions few could have imagined.
Ramadan traditionally brings community together. At sunset, families gather for iftar, breaking fast together, while mosques fill at night for taraweeh prayers.
In Gaza, Ramadan passes through displaced and destroyed neighborhoods. Many fast while already starving. They often break their fast with almost nothing, while the mosques stand damaged or gone.
Despite everything, faith continues to shape daily life.
Children recite verses of the Qurโan to strengthen their faith. Families still bury their loved ones facing Mecca and preserve dignity within the narrow space that war has left them.
For Palestine, faith is the thread holding life together when everything else has been stripped away.
Ritual purification, prayer, burial, and the sacred rhythms of Ramadan form the quiet architecture of life itself.
Interference with those rhythms reaches into the most intimate spaces of a communityโs existence.
Despite all of this - Gaza is a beacon of strength and steadfast Islam. They are the reason many came to know the faith.
The least the world should do is return the gift of mercy!
Faith Under Siege
There is a dimension of this genocide that is difficult to see from the outside because it lives within the quiet routines of faith.
For Palestinians in Gaza, faith is woven directly into daily life. It shapes how a person wakes, how they cleanse themselves, how they measure the hours, how communities gather, and how the dead are honored.
From the earliest days of this war, even the most ordinary acts of worship were disrupted.
Before prayer, Muslims perform wudu, the ritual washing of the hands, face, arms, and feet. The act is simple yet deeply meaningful, reflecting the Islamic teaching that cleanliness itself is part of faith.
When water disappeared across Gaza, the ability to perform this basic act of devotion collapsed.
Many Palestinians began performing tayammum, a form of ritual purification permitted when water cannot be used. In this practice, a person wipes their face and hands with clean earth or dust before prayer. Islamic law preserved this provision for moments of severe hardship, yet few imagined it would become a daily necessity.
Water inside Gaza has to be rationed for survival. Every drop measured. Drinking came first, leaving little or nothing for washing. Some Palestinians described washing with water for the first time in months or more.
Prayer itself also became fraught with danger.
The adhan, the call to prayer that echoes across neighborhoods five times each day, traditionally structures the rhythm of communal life. Under drones and constant bombardment, that same call carried risk. Any visible gathering could attract attention from the sky.
Many mosques were damaged or destroyed, removing the spaces that once anchored spiritual and communal life.
Families prayed inside tents, hospital corridors, and shattered homes, anything to keep the rhythm of worship inside a landscape of ruins.
The disruption extended into the sacred responsibilities surrounding death.
Islamic burial practices require care and dignity. The deceased is washed in a cleansing known as ghusl, then wrapped in a white burial shroud called a kafan. The community gathers for Salat al-Janazah, the funeral prayer that honors the dead.
During this genocide, these rites are repeatedly interrupted.
Gaza reached a point where burial shrouds ran out entirely, forcing families to wrap their loved ones in blankets or whatever cloth could be found. The ritual washing of bodies could not always be performed. Funeral prayers were sometimes hurried or carried out between strikes, while cemeteries over-filled.
The holy month of Ramadan also unfolded under conditions few could have imagined.
Ramadan traditionally brings community together. At sunset, families gather for iftar, breaking fast together, while mosques fill at night for taraweeh prayers.
In Gaza, Ramadan passes through displaced and destroyed neighborhoods. Many fast while already starving. They often break their fast with almost nothing, while the mosques stand damaged or gone.
Despite everything, faith continues to shape daily life.
Children recite verses of the Qurโan to strengthen their faith. Families still bury their loved ones facing Mecca and preserve dignity within the narrow space that war has left them.
For Palestine, faith is the thread holding life together when everything else has been stripped away.
Ritual purification, prayer, burial, and the sacred rhythms of Ramadan form the quiet architecture of life itself.
Interference with those rhythms reaches into the most intimate spaces of a communityโs existence.
Despite all of this - Gaza is a beacon of strength and steadfast Islam. They are the reason many came to know the faith.
The least the world should do is return the gift of mercy!
This journal begins here. I will add at least one entry from my time with Gaza each week.
๐
๐
๐
โ
AmyraCull ุฃู ูุฑุฉ
โข
My Links/Info
Verified Aid Requests
@Libr8News โข โข @Libr8Chat
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Netanyahu Origins
Jews always changes their name to control and deceive the goyim in their ideologies.
#Jews
Join us @FEIAM1
Chat: @FEAMCHAT2
Jews always changes their name to control and deceive the goyim in their ideologies.
#Jews
Join us @FEIAM1
Chat: @FEAMCHAT2
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Eid Mubarak โค
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