Ana Maria Monjardino left CNN in October 2023, after deciding she could no longer reconcile her ethics with the organisation’s coverage of Israel and Palestine.

In this episode of The Walkout, Ana Maria reflects on her time inside CNN, the challenges of platforming Palestinian voices in mainstream media, why she ultimately resigned, and what she learned about journalism after leaving one of the world’s biggest news organisations.

We also discuss independent journalism, impartiality and objectivity, and Ana Maria’s subsequent reporting on Palestine-Israel in Latin America.

Subscribe now

In this episode of The Walkout, Ana Maria reflects on her time inside CNN, the challenges of platforming Palestinian voices in mainstream media, why she ultimately resigned, and what she learned about journalism after leaving one of the world's biggest news organisations.

We also discuss independent journalism, impartiality and objectivity, and Ana Maria's subsequent reporting on Palestine-Israel in Latin America.

👉 Support us by becoming a paid subscriber from as little as £1 a month. Your support helps us build independent Palestinian-led media in a world which has never needed it more urgently:

https://donorbox.org/support-palestine-deepdive

👉 Follow us:

https://x.com/PDeepDive

https://instagram.com/palestinedeepdive

https://facebook.com/palestinedeepdive

*DISCLAIMER:*

The views and opinions expressed by guests on Palestine Deep Dive are their own and do not necessarily reflect the views or editorial position of Palestine Deep Dive.

Palestine Deep Dive is committed to fostering informed, open and respectful dialogue for a broad range of perspectives on Palestine-related issues, developments and conversations of significant public interest. Publishing these discussions does not imply agreement with, endorsement of, or verification of every claim made by participants. Viewers are encouraged to engage critically and consult a range of sources.

In this episode of Fronts & Faultlines, Palestinian academic and writer Abdaljawad Omar traces the historical continuity between the Zionist movement, settler militias and Israeli state power. The discussion explores the expansionist logic of “Greater Israel,” the fragmentation of Palestinian resistance, the legacy of Oslo, and why Western sanctions against settlers may amount to little more than political theatre.

To understand the West Bank, he argues, we have to look beyond individual settlers and at the wider system of land expropriation, occupation, colonialism and political control.

Fronts + Fault Lines is developed by the Palestinian Youth Movement (PYM), an organisation of Palestinian and Arab youth in the diaspora struggling for the liberation of our land and people, and hosted by organisers Jeanine and Nihal.

👉 Support us by becoming a paid subscriber from as little as £1 a month. Your support helps us build independent Palestinian-led media in a world which has never needed it more urgently:https://donorbox.org/support-palestine-deepdive

👉 Follow us:

https://x.com/PDeepDive

https://instagram.com/palestinedeepdive

https://facebook.com/palestinedeepdive

*DISCLAIMER:*The views and opinions expressed by guests on Palestine Deep Dive are their own and do not necessarily reflect the views or editorial position of Palestine Deep Dive.Palestine Deep Dive is committed to fostering informed, open and respectful dialogue for a broad range of perspectives on Palestine-related issues, developments and conversations of significant public interest. Publishing these discussions does not imply agreement with, endorsement of, or verification of every claim made by participants. Viewers are encouraged to engage critically and consult a range of sources.

The internationally bestselling Palestinian-American novelist and author of Mornings in Jenin discusses her experience travelling to Gaza in 2024, bringing supplies and medicine, and mentoring young Palestinian writers whose lives had been shattered under the weight of a genocide.

She explains why she believes Palestinians in Gaza must be at the forefront of telling their own stories, and why diaries, fiction, journalism and literature can become part of the historical record.

The conversation also examines the intense pressure placed on Palestinians to police their language, the expectation that Palestinians should remain “perfect victims,” and the consequences writers can face when they refuse to moderate their words.

Abulhawa speaks about returning from Gaza and realising that she had been censoring herself, the pressure she has faced in the publishing world, and why she believes that losing books, contracts or professional opportunities cannot outweigh the responsibility to speak out with force as Israel’s genocide against her people continues to unfold.

When it was launched in June 2025, millions of users joined UpScrolled in just a few weeks making it the fastest growing social media platform to date.

In this episode of Occupied Tech, UpScrolled’s Palestinian founder Issam Hijazi joins Paul Biggar of Tech for Palestine to discuss his journey of building an ethical alternative to Big Tech that rejects surveillance capitalism, and why the future of technology depends on values, not just growth.

From sabotage and censorship to ethical product design, the challenges of raising investment without compromising principles, and the future of social media, this conversation explores what it takes to build technology that serves people instead of exploiting them.

Occupied Tech is a podcast by Tech for Palestine in collaboration with Palestine Deep Dive. Each episode explores how the global tech industry fuels Israel’s apartheid, occupation, and genocide, while also highlighting the brave individuals and organisations working to dismantle this system of oppression.

Subscribe now

In this episode of Occupied Tech, UpScrolled’s Palestinian founder Issam Hijazi joins Paul Biggar of Tech for Palestine to discuss his journey of building an ethical alternative to Big Tech that rejects surveillance capitalism, and why the future of technology depends on values, not just growth.

From sabotage and censorship to ethical product design, the challenges of raising investment without compromising principles, and the future of social media, this conversation explores what it takes to build technology that serves people instead of exploiting them.

Occupied Tech is a podcast by Tech for Palestine in collaboration with Palestine Deep Dive. Each episode explores how the global tech industry fuels Israel’s apartheid, occupation, and genocide, while also highlighting the brave individuals and organisations working to dismantle this system of oppression.

👉 Support us by becoming a paid subscriber from as little as £1 a month. Your support helps us build independent Palestinian-led media in a world which has never needed it more urgently:

https://donorbox.org/support-palestine-deepdive

👉 Follow us:

https://x.com/PDeepDive

https://instagram.com/palestinedeepdive

https://facebook.com/palestinedeepdive

*DISCLAIMER:*

The views and opinions expressed by guests on Palestine Deep Dive are their own and do not necessarily reflect the views or editorial position of Palestine Deep Dive.

Palestine Deep Dive is committed to fostering informed, open and respectful dialogue for a broad range of perspectives on Palestine-related issues, developments and conversations of significant public interest. Publishing these discussions does not imply agreement with, endorsement of, or verification of every claim made by participants. Viewers are encouraged to engage critically and consult a range of sources.

“I’ll buy it from you for $30. I swear, I’m only making two dollars on it.” That was my 21-year-old brother Anas making his pitch to someone leaving an aid distribution centre. Around him, hundreds of exhausted people stood under the relentless sun, sweat streaming down their foreheads as they waited for their turn. Anas paced along the line, scanning faces and asking the same question over and over: “Are you selling? Anyone want to sell?”

Three years ago, at 18, Anas began the programme he had dreamed of joining for years: Journalism and Media. It was the spark that changed everything for him. A boy who had never cared much for his studies suddenly became driven, passionate, and eager to learn, determined to graduate as an exceptional reporter.

He used to picture himself stepping out of a television studio after a long day at the news desk. Above the study table in his bedroom, he had hung a sign that read: Journalist Anas Abu AlShaikh. Back then, there was no sign that this dream would be shattered, that life as he knew it would collapse, or that sunburn and dust would become the defining marks of his daily work.

The war that followed 7 October 2023 forever altered the meaning of dreams for the people of Gaza. Homes were destroyed, families were displaced, and nothing was left but memories. Universities were flattened, education ground to a halt, and the rubble of campus buildings became makeshift shelters for displaced families.

With each passing day, the war levelled more buildings and buried the ambitions of countless students. As the oldest son, Anas fled with our family from Gaza City to the south, and then to central Gaza, carrying the heaviest burden of our survival. Instead of attending journalism lectures, he spent his days standing in endless lines to fill a jerrycan with clean drinking water. Instead of walking into an exam hall, he gathered the family’s phones and walked miles to find a solar charging station.

Fragments Remain

Eventually, local universities tried to recover a fraction of their capacity, launching online portals so students would not lose years of their lives for nothing. Despite having no electricity, no home, no reliable internet, and barely any food, Anas decided to try. He resolved to chase whatever scattered fragments of his dream remained.

He began making the long trek to a private co-working space with internet access, sitting through lectures and slowly feeling that familiar spark of passion return. One night, he stayed up until dawn studying for his first midterm exam in “Introduction to Journalism”. The next morning, he woke up filled with enthusiasm. Life was devoid of colour, yet for a fleeting moment, it felt as though it was returning. But just an hour after leaving for his exam, he walked back through the door, his face pale and drained, as if the entire world had suddenly shrunk around him.

His phone - the only tool he had to continue his university education - had been stolen on his way to take the test.

With that loss, Anas gave up on his studies. He set out to find any work that could cover his basic daily expenses. But without a completed degree or vocational training, finding a job was almost impossible.

“Instead of sitting around doing nothing, come with me to the aid distribution centre. We can make a bit of money,” a friend told him one day. The idea weighed heavy on Anas’s heart and was agonising to even contemplate. How could someone whose dream was to report the news suddenly find himself buying and reselling aid packages? But there was only one real question: What was the alternative?

Survival Trade

He went to the site with his friend. Outside, crowds of people stood waiting for their turn in the blazing sun. Dozens of young men, their faces weathered, their exhaustion visible, pleaded with people to sell them their supplies. On his first day, Anas was overcome with embarrassment. He stood quietly, waiting for someone to approach him first, and went home at the end of the day without earning a single cent.

The next day, he forced himself to endure it. He began walking through the crowd, approaching people one by one, asking whether they wanted to sell, and bargaining over prices. He now buys these packages and resells them to merchants at a slightly higher price. Although the aid packages were valuable, families have more complex needs; children needed fresh food and medicine, not just another bag of flour or sugar. Parents therefore sold their aid packages to buy other essentials for their children.

“Five dollars in profit today. Alhamdulillah, it’s good—better than nothing.” That phrase came to define Anas’s days. From 7am to 3pm, he stands in the middle of the street alongside dozens of young men just like him, all for five dollars or less.

Anas often says that as he stands in those crowds, he looks at the young men around him and imagines that every single one of them once had a dream. Many of them, he knows, were probably training to be journalists too, preparing to report the news, instead of being forced to become it.

The war did not just shatter existing dreams; it destroyed the very capacity to dream at all, forcing young people into a relentless search for anything that simply keeps them alive. It stripped away their ability to plan for a future, leaving them trapped in a reality where tomorrow is entirely unknown, shaped only by fear of what comes next.

And tomorrow at 7am, Anas will be standing at the gates of the distribution centre once again, not with a reporter’s notebook, but striving for five dollars, without any idea left of what it means to dream.

In the first episode of a brand-new Palestine Deep Dive series, The Walkout, Karishma Patel sits down with Ahmed Alnaouq to discuss why she left the BBC after five years as a journalist and newsreader.

The conversation offers a rare insider perspective on one of the most consequential debates in journalism today as Karishma shares her journey from aspiring public service journalist to becoming one of the BBC’s rising on-air reporters, before ultimately concluding that she could no longer work within an institution she believes failed to uphold its journalistic principles during Israel’s genocidal war on Gaza.

Together, they explore the culture inside mainstream newsrooms, editorial decision-making, political pressure, media ethics, the role of evidence in journalism, and why so many journalists have become disillusioned with legacy media. Karishma also explains why she believes independent journalism is more important than ever and introduces ‘The Walkout’, a new Palestine Deep Dive series featuring journalists who left major media organisations over their coverage of Gaza.

Subscribe now

The conversation offers a rare insider perspective on one of the most consequential debates in journalism today as Karishma shares her journey from aspiring public service journalist to becoming one of the BBC's rising on-air reporters, before ultimately concluding that she could no longer work within an institution she believes failed to uphold its journalistic principles during Israel's genocidal war on Gaza.

Together, they explore the culture inside mainstream newsrooms, editorial decision-making, political pressure, media ethics, the role of evidence in journalism, and why so many journalists have become disillusioned with legacy media. Karishma also explains why she believes independent journalism is more important than ever and introduces the new Palestine Deep Dive series featuring journalists who left major media organisations over their coverage of Gaza.

Palestine Deep Dive reached out to the BBC for reply. A BBC spokesperson said: “The BBC is fully committed to reporting the Israel-Gaza conflict independently, accurately and to the highest standards of journalism. We have covered the conflict impartially and without fear or favour and produced powerful coverage from the region that has shown how the Israeli government and military’s actions have had a devastating human cost on civilians in Gaza.”

They also added that coverage across all BBC platforms “included stories of Palestinian victims and testimony from civilians, doctors and aid workers,” and “consistently reflect the historical context through our experienced correspondents, most notably International Editor Jeremy Bowen, and we explore and explain the accusations of genocide and war crimes.”

“The BBC, like all international news organisations, is unable to operate within Gaza, but through working with trusted freelance journalists we have kept audiences informed through first-hand testimony and descriptions of what is happening. The BBC has repeatedly called on the Israeli government to allow international journalists into Gaza to work alongside Palestinian journalists.”

👉 Support us by becoming a paid subscriber from as little as £1 a month. Your support helps us build independent Palestinian-led media in a world which has never needed it more urgently:

https://donorbox.org/support-palestine-deepdive

👉 Follow us:

https://x.com/PDeepDive

https://instagram.com/palestinedeepdive

https://facebook.com/palestinedeepdive

*DISCLAIMER:*

The views and opinions expressed by guests on Palestine Deep Dive are their own and do not necessarily reflect the views or editorial position of Palestine Deep Dive.

Palestine Deep Dive is committed to fostering informed, open and respectful dialogue for a broad range of perspectives on Palestine-related issues, developments and conversations of significant public interest. Publishing these discussions does not imply agreement with, endorsement of, or verification of every claim made by participants. Viewers are encouraged to engage critically and consult a range of sources.

For anyone who says sport and politics should never mix, I have a simple question: where have you been?

For us in Gaza, politics has never stayed outside the stadium gates. It follows us into our homes, onto our phones, and even into the matches we watch. Football has always been about more than tactics, trophies, or ninety minutes. It is about identity, memory, dignity, and sometimes, solidarity.

This World Cup reminded me of that all over again. Growing up in Gaza, we rarely chose teams based solely on their style of play. Of course we admired beautiful football, but we also looked at what teams, players, and countries represented beyond the pitch. We carried our own reality into every tournament because we never had the luxury of separating politics from life.

That is why many of us cheered for Egypt whenever they played. Palestinians felt a deep affection for Egypt. Egypt is our neighbour, our Arab sister nation, and for many Palestinians, especially in Gaza, supporting Egypt felt natural. Their victories felt familiar. Their defeats hurt. We saw ourselves reflected in their struggle to carry the hopes of millions.

Subscribe now

We felt immense joy when we saw Egyptian players such as Mohamed Salah and Emam Ashour celebrating by dancing to Egyptian songs in North America. All Arabs, including us in Gaza, sang the famous line from an Egyptian song: “And the question on my mind is: how do you manage to do it, Egypt? How do you manage to do it?” It reminded us that football can still create moments of collective happiness even in the darkest times.

When Egypt’s journey ended, there was genuine heartbreak across Gaza. For generations, Egypt has never been just another national team. We celebrate their victories as our own. Their players carry the hopes of an entire region, and for a few precious weeks their football united millions beyond borders.

After the Egyptian coach Hossam Hassan spoke out in support of the Palestinian cause, a journalist asked him, following Egypt’s loss, whether he thought Egypt was being penalised by the referees because of what he had said before their last match.

He replied: “We were talking about human issues. Do you feel anything? Do you feel anything? Football, the players, the media, and sports are supposed to stand with a humanitarian cause.” This shows that football can deliver a human message that goes beyond the game itself.

Spanish Solidarity

When Egypt exited the tournament, many of us searched for another team to believe in. Many hearts turned towards Spain. Not because of tiki-taka. Not because of trophies. But because, in recent years, Spain has become home to some of the strongest expressions of solidarity with Palestine in Europe. From football stadiums filled with Palestinian flags to players and public figures speaking out, from demonstrations in Madrid and Barcelona to local governments taking symbolic positions, many Spaniards have shown that they refuse to remain silent while Gaza burns.

Spanish streets filled with marches for Gaza. Palestinian flags appeared in stadiums across the country. Municipalities, activists, artists, and ordinary supporters refused to look away from our suffering. Among those voices was Lamine Yamal, who waved a Palestinian flag during Barcelona’s La Liga title parade, reminding us that the game could still carry a moral conscience. Those gestures travelled all the way to Gaza. Some of us found ourselves raising Spanish flags alongside Palestinian ones—not because we had abandoned our own identity, but because gratitude naturally follows solidarity.

Governments are not people, and people are not governments. Yet solidarity matters. When your existence is constantly denied, every voice raised in support carries weight. As a Gazan, I cannot pretend that those moments mean nothing. When Spanish fans waved Palestinian flags, we noticed. When Spanish streets filled with people demanding justice for Gaza, we noticed. When prominent Spanish voices challenged the silence that dominates much of Europe, we noticed. Football supporters often say that loyalty cannot be bought. The same is true of solidarity.

Beyond Football

This is why Spain won more than the World Cup. They won our hearts. Some will dismiss this as bringing politics into sport. But politics entered football long before Palestinians ever spoke about it. Nations use sporting victories to project power. Governments celebrate athletes as symbols of national prestige. Major tournaments are wrapped in flags, anthems, diplomacy, and image-building.

To ask Palestinians alone to leave politics outside the stadium is to ask us to ignore the reality that shapes every part of our lives. We cannot. When the final whistle blew, many of us felt we were witnessing something larger than football. Spain—the country that recognised the State of Palestine in 2024, offering Palestinians a rare moment of hope that the world was finally beginning to acknowledge our existence—stood at the summit of world football.

For many of us, Spain lifting the trophy meant more than sporting success. It felt like humanity, dignity, and justice had claimed a small victory of their own. Here was a team representing a country that had taken the principled political step of recognising Palestine, now receiving the biggest prize in world football on a stage watched by billions. For Palestinians, symbols matter because recognition matters. Every act that affirms our existence pushes back against decades of erasure.

There was a sense of poetic justice. Not because football can solve political injustice. But because, for one brief moment, humanity seemed louder than indifference. When you have lived through genocide, displacement, siege, and unimaginable loss, you begin to see football differently. You celebrate goals, but you also look for humanity. You admire skill, but you also remember who stood with you when the world looked away.

That does not mean every Spanish player shares the same politics. It does not mean every supporter agrees. It certainly does not mean any nation is beyond criticism. It simply means solidarity creates connections that statistics never can.

Shared Humanity

This World Cup reminded us that football remains one of the few languages understood across borders. A chant in one stadium can echo across continents. A flag held aloft in Europe can reach someone watching from Gaza. A gesture that lasts seconds can be remembered for years.

People often ask why Palestinians care so deeply about these symbols. Because symbols are sometimes all that survive. Because recognition is a form of resistance. Because when so much has been taken away, being seen still matters.

Subscribe now

Spain lifted the trophy. History will remember them as world champions. But many Palestinians will remember something else. We will remember a country whose people stood with Gaza when silence was easier. We will remember recognition when much of the world denied us. We will remember solidarity carried across football stadiums, city squares and television screens. We will remember Lamine Yamal’s solidarity when he held the Palestinian flag. That is why this World Cup will live differently in Palestinian memory.

Perhaps that is the greatest lesson this tournament leaves behind. The biggest trophies are not always lifted by those with the loudest politics or the greatest power. This World Cup reminded us that trophies are won with talent, but lasting respect is earned by those whose principles and actions remind the world that football, at its very best, can still reflect our shared humanity. Cups belong to champions. History belongs to those who choose humanity. For many of us watching from Gaza, Spain won both.

By Rida Thabet

For generations, Gaza’s schools were far more than just brick-and-mortar buildings with blackboards and desks. They were the vibrant heartbeat of the community. In these classrooms, education went hand-in-hand with character building. Schools were safe spaces where children learned not only how to read, write, and solve equations, but also how to share, collaborate, and belong. The daily routine of the school yard reinforced a rich social fabric—one rooted in Palestinian collective values. In these spaces, childhood was protected, and the spirit of community was passed down from one generation to the next.

Today, relentless war and repeated forced displacement have shattered those safe spaces. As families are uprooted from their homes and forced into overcrowded displacement camps, the physical and social structures of everyday life have collapsed. Under the crushing weight of severe scarcity, the deep-seated spirit of solidarity that once defined Gazan society is under immense strain.

When survival becomes the sole priority, social norms inevitably shift. In the camps, a neighbour is no longer seen as a partner in a shared life, but as a direct competitor for life’s most scarce resources: a jerrycan of clean water, a piece of bread, or a small patch of shade under a tent. The collaborative environment that classrooms spent decades cultivating has been replaced by an unforgiving landscape driven by survivalist individualism, where young children are forced to shoulder adult burdens to keep their families alive.

Subscribe now

The tragic depth of this shift is visible in every corner of the shelters. Not long ago, I saw a young girl sitting in the dust, her fingers skilfully rolling cigarettes to sell for a few coins. Just two years prior, I had watched that same girl shine on stage during a spelling competition for fifth graders.

In Nuseirat, I met a boy who recognised me from his former school in western Gaza, where he used to study. Today, he wanders barefoot through the camp, his hair bleached and burned to a copper tint from months living under the harsh coastal sun in a tent by the sea. Skinny and exhausted, he earns pennies by pulling a partially destroyed wheelchair to transport heavy groceries for shoppers.

Traumatised Children

A displaced mother described to me her children’s contrasting traumas. “My son who watched his father killed by shelling laughs all the time,” she said. “My other son, who didn’t witness anything, started wetting himself.”

These are not isolated stories; they represent a fundamental erosion of childhood. Without functioning schools, primary-grade children—particularly those in grades 1 through 5—are suffering massive learning losses. Thousands of young students have missed fundamental milestones in basic literacy and numeracy, putting an entire generation at risk of dropping out of education permanently.

Yet, the damage extends far beyond missed academic lessons. Schools provided a critical framework for psychological stability and temporal continuity. Deprived of a structured school environment, children are trapped in a closed temporal circle of immediate danger and uncertainty. The future no longer feels like a space for dreams or ambition. During a drawing activity in a shelter, when asked to draw himself five years in the future, one young boy simply drew a grave with his own name, softly explaining: “I’ll definitely die before I grow up.”

Subscribe now

To adapt to constant threats, children’s nervous systems undergo a profound shift. Emotional numbing becomes a necessary defence mechanism, a way to suppress unbearable sadness and fear just to keep functioning day after day. One child said: “I don’t cry because, if I did, I wouldn’t be able stop.” Many of the people I know keep saying: “No time for grieving; we will do that later.”

Over time, this chronic overload erodes a child’s ability to express empathy, build secure friendships, and process complex emotions. When survival forces a child to shut down their emotional life, the capacity to trust others and work together begins to fade.

On top of all this, medical screenings for six-year-olds, which is a requirement for registering in virtual schools, now routinely include tests for abdominal and groin hernias—a direct consequence of young children lifting heavy water jerricans day after day.

Healing this profound rift requires an approach that goes far beyond simply handing out textbooks or administering standardised tests. It requires restoring the protective, humanising heart of the community within learning spaces.

Rida Thabet is an education specialist working for the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA) in Gaza, Palestine.

Living in Gaza, surrounded by genocide, hunger, relentless bombing, unreliable internet, and the scarcity of even basic necessities, including access to phone charging, many might think that pursuing education under such conditions is impossible. Yet, despite these overwhelming challenges, I refused to give in to the occupation and managed to participate in many incredible international courses—courses that became my sanctuary, a window into a better world, and a source of hope.

Instructed English Language Learning (IELL) – Islamic University of Gaza & Northumbria University, UK

The first course was taught by the brilliant Prof. Nazmi Al-Masri from the Islamic University of Gaza and Dr. Bill Guariento from Northumbria University in Newcastle. Every Friday for ten weeks, I eagerly awaited every session despite the unstable internet. Sometimes, my phone battery was critically low, and I had to balance charging it with joining the session, but the thirst for knowledge always outweighed these difficulties.

We learned how to learn a new language, focusing especially on motivation, meaningful interaction, and consistent practice. These lessons changed the way I approach language learning; instead of worrying about making mistakes, I became more confident in communicating and practising regularly.

Subscribe now

In the last session, we had the honour of hosting Professor Rod Ellis in a joint session involving students from the Islamic University of Gaza and the students from Northumbria University. It was a unique opportunity to engage directly with an expert in language learning. I was the first student to ask him a question, encouraged by Dr. Bill, who said, “Be the one to get the ball rolling…” This moment allowed us to connect across borders through academic dialogue.

Despite my desire to contribute more, the genocide and poor connectivity limited my ability to engage fully. Still, the atmosphere Dr. Nazmi and Dr. Bill created made even partial participation feel meaningful.

English Speaking Practice – Mr. Anas Mansour, alongside students from Saudi Arabia and Jordan

This course was taught solely by Mr. Anas Mansour, with Esraa as an amazing assistant trainer. Our group was small, consisting of only five students from different countries, including Saudi Arabia and Jordan. An intimate environment made it easier for us to communicate confidently. We discussed everything from simple daily conversations to cultural and global issues. Speaking freely in this supportive setting allowed me to improve my fluency and confidence.

Every day at exactly 6.45pm, I looked forward to the session. It felt like stepping into a new world, one full of hope, life, and dreams, far away from the destruction and despair surrounding me. Mr. Anas was patient and encouraging, gently correcting my pronunciation and grammar mistakes, guiding me to improve bit by bit. His careful attention boosted my self-confidence.

I sadly missed the final session due to bombings and internet outages. Nevertheless, this course showed me that even in hardship, learning can flourish. I am proud to say that my English is nearly fluent, and I will work even harder to reach the level of excellence I believe I’m capable of.

Critical Pedagogy and Curriculum – University of Malta/IUG

Organised by the University of Malta, LINEs4Palestine2 was more than a series of Zoom lectures; it was a living connection—a window to the outside world, even while we remained caught in a cycle of stillness and waiting.

Guided by distinguished scholars—Prof. Carmel Borg, Dr. Joseph Gravina, Dr. Maria Brown, and Dr. Maria Cutajar—we explored Critical Pedagogy and Community and Intergenerational Learning, examining how education can promote justice, strengthen communities, and continue even in times of disruption. These ideas resonated deeply with me because I have seen how learning can persist beyond classrooms during periods of crisis. The course helped me view education not only as a system, but as a source of connection, empowerment, and hope.

I experienced first-hand how education and ideas can cross physical barriers, even when people cannot.

Sci-Fi Filmmaking Workshops – University of Porto & University of Glasgow/IUG

This course was part of the inspiring “LINES for Palestine” project—a sci-fi film-making workshop connecting students in Gaza with students in Porto, Portugal.

Each workshop was packed with fascinating content: storytelling, character creation, production, filming, editing, and finally screening our films. The teamwork across countries was breathtaking. Communicating with students and lecturers from Portugal was a reminder that life continues beyond Gaza’s borders.

Each of the seven groups created unique sci-fi films, and our team’s film was considered the soul of the project, creatively blending all ideas into one narrative.

Dr. Damian Ross, Dr. Nazmi Al-Masri, Sahar Alshobaki, Giovanna Fassetta, and Maria Grazia Imperiale were central to fostering encouragement, confidence, and belonging, with their dedication standing at the heart of the project. David Gerow strengthened my writing through valuable feedback, while Ali Makki made film-making engaging by linking theory with practice.

The Portuguese students impressed me with their kindness. Through our collaboration, what began as a university project became a meaningful cross-border connection built on shared hopes, mutual support, and genuine human understanding.

Education in Genocide and Displacement – Örebro University, Sweden

Created through a collaboration between pro-Palestinian activists and European universities, this volunteer-based project had two goals: first, to help break our isolation here in Gaza by connecting us with the outside world, and second, to explore how international universities might be able to support us—now or in the future.

The format was simple: each student from Gaza was paired with a student from abroad, and I was paired with a wonderful girl named Charlie Elvander. From the start, she was clear: “This is not about grades or formal requirements. We are just supposed to talk, connect, and once I report back to my university, you will have completed this course.” That felt liberating—what mattered wasn’t academic credit, but human connection.

Our conversations went far beyond sharing experiences—they became deep, solution-oriented dialogues. Together, we reflected on how international universities could move from sympathy to tangible action in supporting Palestinian students.

We spoke about how exchange opportunities could offer Palestinian students a chance to study abroad, to learn in stable environments, and to bring back knowledge that could rebuild what has been lost.

We also discussed how access to international research databases and digital libraries could transform our educational reality, allowing us to participate in the global academic community and respond to how our struggles are studied. While students in universities like Örebro can instantly reach thousands of academic resources, students in Gaza are cut off from these essential tools.

In the absence of physical libraries destroyed by bombardment, online access is not a luxury—it is survival.

Digital Storytelling – Resilient Voices Project, British Council

The Resilient Voices programme—a project supported by the British Council under the SARD (Stories of Adversity, Resilience, and Determination)—gave Palestinian students in Gaza a platform to tell our stories and to break through our isolation.

Using English as a bridge, we transformed our lived experiences and pain into narratives that resonate beyond Gaza’s borders. Through visual, audio, and written forms, we learned to tell stories that reveal not only what we endure, but also how we continue to dream, resist, and create. It was a space where language became connection, storytelling became survival, and our voices found their way to the world.

Subscribe now

The course was guided by four inspiring mentors: Martin in storytelling, Gerhard in clarity and precision, Ahmed in English communication, and Auxi in psychosocial support. Through these sessions, we learned to share our own perspectives as well as draw inspiration from others, fostering a sense of connection and solidarity across borders.

I saw how storytelling goes beyond documenting the past; it builds bridges of communication and hope, affirming Palestinian students’ right to participate in global academic and human conversations despite genocide and destruction.

In the end, these workshops reminded me that even in Gaza, even amid darkness, something beautiful can still grow. These courses were not just lessons, but lifelines amidst genocide. Each opportunity reminded me that education can open new paths, connect us beyond borders, and give us the tools to shape a future we believe in.

👉 Support us by becoming a paid subscriber from as little as £1 a month. Your support helps us build independent Palestinian-led media in a world which has never needed it more urgently:

https://donorbox.org/support-palestine-deepdive

👉 Follow us:

https://x.com/PDeepDive

https://instagram.com/palestinedeepdive

https://facebook.com/palestinedeepdive

*DISCLAIMER:*

The views and opinions expressed by guests on Palestine Deep Dive are their own and do not necessarily reflect the views or editorial position of Palestine Deep Dive.

Palestine Deep Dive is committed to fostering informed, open and respectful dialogue for a broad range of perspectives on Palestine-related issues, developments and conversations of significant public interest. Publishing these discussions does not imply agreement with, endorsement of, or verification of every claim made by participants. Viewers are encouraged to engage critically and consult a range of sources.

Palestine Deep Dive’s Ahmed Alnaouq and Hala Hanina are joined by broadcaster and former England footballing legend Gary Lineker and journalist and writer Afua Hirsch for a wide-ranging conversation on Palestine, Israel, football, media narratives, free speech and why sport can never truly be separated from politics and the world around it.

It’s 7am in Al-Nuseirat Camp. The weather is cold and dry beneath a cloudy sky. I woke up exhausted after gathering firewood the day before. I got dressed and prepared to head to Al-Azhar University. It was already 7.30am, and my first lecture started at 10am. However, I was already worried about the struggle of finding transport.

I walked to the nearest parking area, in front of Al-Farouq Mosque. To my surprise, dozens of students were also waiting for any available transportation. By 8.30am, I could not wait any longer. I grabbed my backpack and walked another half-kilometre to the second parking area on Salah al-Din Road, beside the entrance to Al-Bureij Camp.

Just as I arrived, a driver was shouting, “Gaza! Al-Saraya!”

Subscribe now

Without hesitation, I climbed onto the bonnet of the car. It was risky, but it was the only available spot, and I could not afford to wait any longer. The car’s old engine began rumbling. I held tightly onto the slippery hood and looked back, focusing on people’s faces as my vision slowly zoomed out while the car moved forward. I always do that, though I have never had a clear reason why.

“I hope we arrive safely. Last time, gangs detained my cousins,” one of the passengers said.

As we drove farther, our stress only grew. Among the passengers were a father and his son. The boy looked about six years old. He never stopped asking questions, as is natural for any child his age. Yet somehow, every question seemed to carry a much deeper meaning.

Dangerous Journey

The child, Omar, as I recall, pointed at the yellow concrete blocks and asked his father, “Baba, what are these blocks?” “Oh, Omar,” his father replied, “they are barriers that mark the areas we can and cannot access.” “But what happens if we go beyond them?” Omar asked. “It wouldn’t be good, son. Those areas are under the control of the Israeli army.”

Omar’s expression changed instantly. Then he almost shouted, “Do you mean we will die?” Suddenly, all the passengers responded in a tone of denial. “No, no. God forbid. Don’t worry, little boy. We won’t.” It was as though Omar had voiced the question that all of us were secretly trying to avoid. The question we had been hiding from had finally found its way into the open. The car carried around twenty-five passengers, along with the weight of all their dreams. Every one of them could have vanished in a matter of seconds. That idea alone was frightening.

When we finally arrived, I walked to Al-Rimal, a district that used to be one of Gaza’s most vibrant areas. I stepped out of the car as though shackles had been removed from my legs. Still dizzy from the ride, I walked slowly through the streets. I looked around. Tents were everywhere. Smoke and ashes drifted through the air from makeshift street-food vendors. Buildings stood shattered and hollow. Miserable expressions covered people’s faces. Still, the cloudy sky had not yet brought any rain, making the already gloomy atmosphere feel unbearable.

I finally reached my university half an hour late and rushed to my first lecture, only to be disappointed when I found the door closed. What upset me most was not missing the lecture, but having to spend another half-hour alone with my thoughts. I gathered myself, took a seat and waited. This is what the beginning of a regular day in my life looks like, nine months into the ceasefire.

As I contemplated the university’s destroyed buildings, I thought about my life since the beginning of the ceasefire. I think I had raised the ceiling of my expectations too high. I thought I would return to a repaired university, one that was better than it had been before, or that I might be able to study abroad. But the harsh fact that I would still have to gather wood and fill water containers the second I returned home pulled me back to reality. It was time for the second lecture. The walls of the hall had been repaired with tarpaulins. There were not even enough seats for all the students. The microphone crackled and repeatedly cut out, yet I did my best to understand.

Broken Expectations

It’s 5pm, and I am sitting in a cart hitched to the back of a car on Al-Bahar Street, heading home. I look at the sea and take deep breaths. It feels as though I have finally rested after a thousand years. The cart bumps violently over every pothole, each impact feeling as though it might break your ribs. Finally, I arrive home. Completely exhausted, I go straight to filling the water containers. I fill two containers and carry nearly 40 kilograms of water for 200 metres. Then I climb to the third floor and pour the water into the small tank inside our house.

Now it is time to chop wood. I grab a large piece of wood and try to break it into smaller pieces. I keep hammering until my hands are torn. Eventually, I stop out of exhaustion, unable even to lift the hammer. My neighbour passes by. “May God give you strength,” he says. “God willing, gas will come back to the country.” He speaks with solidarity, with the shared weight of suffering behind every word. He makes me feel less frustrated. I gather whatever wood I have managed to chop, light a fire and cook breakfast, lunch and dinner as a single meal.

Subscribe now

After resting for a while, my friend calls. “Mohammed, come down. I’m outside your house. Let’s go to the beach.” I do not hesitate. I grab my jacket, and we are soon on our way. We do not stop telling jokes and laughing throughout the journey. But the moment we arrive and see the sea, a sombre silence fills the space, as though the sea is the keeper of our sorrows. To us, it is the last sanctuary we have left, the final place where we can restore our hope and recover the will to continue beyond the unbearable.

As I contemplate the sunset and think about my day, I realise that nothing in it is worth singling out as a particular sorrow. It is the repetition of all those small, frustrating events. It is the continuous pressure. It is a life built on alternatives rather than solutions. All we ask for in Gaza, nine months into the ceasefire and after lowering our standards, is a dignified life with the minimum basic necessities: to open the tap and find running water, and to light the gas and find a cooking flame.

Yet we continue moving from one makeshift alternative to the next, doing whatever we can to adapt and survive. But for how long? Each one takes another piece of our identity with it.

In the courtyard of Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza, the scene in December 2025 was almost unimaginable. The smell of death still hung over a place marked by destruction, yet so too did an extraordinary determination to survive. Two hundred and fifty doctors stood together dressed in graduation robes. They called themselves the “Phoenix Batch”, a name chosen to represent their rise from the ashes and despair.

These young doctors had studied medicine amid explosions and volunteered in operating theatres before they had even graduated. By completing their studies, they were fulfilling their own dreams while also paying tribute to the professors and colleagues who had been martyred. It was as though the place itself refused to forget. This was the same ground where the Israeli war machine had destroyed stone and tree alike. Yet from among the ruins and charred buildings, the Phoenix Batch emerged.

Despite the joy of the graduation ceremony, Dr Adnan Al-Bursh’s seat remained empty. He should have been there among his students on their graduation day, but his body is still being withheld. His absence left their happiness incomplete. The sense of loss could not disappear while his martyred body has still not been returned home.

Subscribe now

Dr Adnan Al-Bursh stood out as an exceptional medical figure. He served as a senior consultant orthopaedic surgeon and head of the Orthopaedic Department at Al-Shifa Medical Complex. He was also a lecturer at the Faculty of Medicine at the Islamic University.

According to his wife, Yasmin Hamada, Dr Adnan possessed advanced and rare medical qualifications that were unmatched in the Gaza Strip. They made him one of Gaza’s irreplaceable medical and academic pillars. His cousin, Dr Munir Al-Bursh, the director general of the Ministry of Health, also confirmed the exceptional importance of his expertise.

Beyond Medicine

Dr Adnan’s ambitions extended far beyond his daily work. He carried within him a much greater dream for Gaza and its people. His wife remembers the vision that remained with him throughout his life: “He dreamed of building a private, independent orthopaedic hospital—the first of its kind in the Gaza Strip. He wanted it to bring together the most skilled surgeons and be equipped with the latest medical technologies.”

He did not simply want to construct another building. He imagined a fully equipped medical centre staffed by a highly capable team, one that would spare patients in Gaza the hardship of travelling abroad to receive treatment. He hoped that this medical institution would elevate the standard of medicine throughout Palestine. But the hands of betrayal moved faster than the realisation of his dream.

Dr Adnan’s generosity extended far beyond the operating theatre. It was also reflected in his love of sport. He served as head of the Medical Department of the Football Association in the Gaza Strip.

Adnan was a lover of life. He regarded the sea as his “first friend” and visited it every morning. On the football pitch, he chased the ball with the spirit of a child and the passion of a devoted player.

At home, he was a tender father who could never say no to his children’s requests. His wife described the affection he showered upon them: “If one of our children asked for a toy they already had, he would buy it again just to see their joy. If his daughter wanted a birthday cake at any time of the year, he would bring it immediately. He lived just to make his family happy.”

His wife also recalled Dr Adnan’s gentle artistic side. He loved playing the piano and played it beautifully. It was a talent that revealed another dimension of his warm and caring personality.

Final Duty

Dr Adnan never abandoned his duty. After the Indonesian Hospital was bombed, he moved to Al-Awda Hospital in northern Gaza, determined to remain beside the wounded. On 19 December 2023, he was arrested from inside the hospital. Dr Munir Al-Bursh recalled the dramatic events surrounding his detention: “The phone rang. It was Adnan. He said, ‘Hello, Dr Munir. The occupation has just released us.’”

The joy lasted only a few minutes. The quadcopter drones soon returned and began calling out his name: “Adnan… come down, or we will demolish the hospital over everyone’s heads.” Dr Munir continued: “I screamed at him, ‘Don’t go down! Escape to the roof!’”

But Adnan would not allow the hospital to be destroyed over the heads of its patients. In an act of ultimate self-sacrifice, he surrendered himself in order to protect those who remained inside.

His wife recalled the final conversation she had with him: “He called and asked me, ‘Should I go down to them?’ I said, ‘Yes, put your trust in God.’ I was confident there were no charges against him. He had spent his life between books and operating rooms. He handed his papers, identity card and passport to another doctor and said, ‘Give these to my wife if I do not return within 24 hours, because the situation will be dangerous then.’”

Convinced of his innocence, his wife immediately arranged for a lawyer from within the occupied territories. The news she received was grim. Dr Adnan had been placed under administrative detention for 45 days, accompanied by a cruel order prohibiting him from receiving visits from a lawyer for 90 days. She spent those nights counting the hours and praying that his detention would not be extended, unaware of the trap that awaited him.

The targeting of Dr Adnan was not a coincidence. It was part of a systematic strategy to strike at the pillars of Gazan society. As his wife explained: “Adnan was not an ordinary surgeon. He was a symbol of steadfastness. He refused to leave the hospitals in the north, even under fire. His presence gave hope and life to the wounded. When the occupation sought to destroy every sign of life in the north, it arrested its source: Dr Adnan.”

Prison Defiance

Inside the darkness of the prison cells, Dr Adnan transformed his cell into a place of culture and solidarity. He recited Arabic poetry and encouraged his fellow prisoners to exercise in order to raise their morale.

His wife recounted vivid testimony given by one of his fellow captives: “Adnan disappeared into the interrogation rooms for six hours. When the door finally opened, he returned with a noble, mocking smile. We asked him, ‘What did they do to you?’ He replied with the calm confidence of a master: ‘They were asking me about a complex medical case they had failed to treat, so I sat down and lectured them on how to cure it.’”

For a moment, the captors appeared to forget that they were executioners. They became students sitting before a brilliant medical mind. They attempted to reward him for his consultations by offering him cake and fish. But he refused to accept anything for himself alone. “Bring nothing for me alone,” he told them. “Bring something for everyone in the section.” In doing so, he transformed the prison cell into a day of Eid for all those detained alongside him. Even inside captivity, he achieved a moral victory over his torturers.

Subscribe now

Adnan did not die a natural death. He was martyred under torture. His wife, quoting one of his colleagues who witnessed the events that led to his death, described the deception that preceded his transfer to Ofer Prison: “After three months in Al-Jalamah Prison, the interrogators tried to break his spirit using a trick. The interrogator asked him, ‘What do you wish for? Take the phone and call your family.’”

Adnan, intelligent and cautious, feared that the telephone call might be used to track his family or place them in danger. He therefore refused. Instead, he made a simple humanitarian request. He asked to be transferred so that he could stay with his lifelong friend and colleague, Dr Mohammed Abu Salmiya, the director of Al-Shifa Medical Complex, who was being held in another prison.

Fatal Deception

The interrogator pretended to agree. But the promise was nothing more than a cruel deception. Rather than reuniting Dr Adnan with his friend, the authorities transferred him to Ofer Prison. There, guards were waiting to subject him to a brutal reception. It marked the beginning of his final moments.

His wife continued with the horrific details: “They placed him in a narrow iron cage and then took him into a corridor 350 metres long. His hands were tied, and his neck was chained to his legs, forcing him to remain bent over. They beat him severely on the head and back.”

She continued: “A guard called over a colleague who was described as huge and broad and said, ‘This is Adnan.’ The guard then pulled his chains with such force that Adnan fell and his head struck the ground. The other prisoners heard the impact so clearly that they were certain he had died.”

The guard then summoned two prisoners and instructed them: “Take him to the fourth floor, and do not call a nurse unless you are certain that he is dead.” Less than an hour later, Dr Adnan was martyred as a result of internal bleeding, following four months of heroic endurance inside the occupation’s prisons.

Dr Adnan was martyred on 19 April 2024. His family did not learn of his death until early May. He left behind a legacy of resilience and humanity, while his body remains withheld at the Abu Kabir Forensic Institute and kept within the so-called “cemeteries of numbers”.

During the darkness of captivity, Adnan began imagining a novel titled The Valley Stones. It would tell the story of the courage and resilience of Gaza’s doctors. He did not know that he himself would become its hero.

His wife made a vow: “I have decided to collect everything his companions narrated and publish the book in his name. I will complete the story as a tribute to his spirit.”

She concluded with a message addressed to their six children: “Adnan hoped that one of his children would succeed him and inherit the secrets of the orthopaedic craft. Today, I say to him: your children will continue the journey. They will grow up to say, ‘We are the children of the Healer, the continuation of the hand that never stopped giving.’”

Body Withheld

Dr Adnan’s wife repeatedly stood outside the offices of the International Committee of the Red Cross, taking every available opportunity to demand the return of her husband’s body so that she might see him one final time. She did not ask for compensation. She asked only for a shroud.

The withholding of his body is a form of continuing torture inflicted upon the living. She cried out: “We are living in the 21st century, and a doctor is still being denied the right to a funeral and a grave.” She searched for his face among the unidentified bodies that were returned, while the occupation continued to fear him even in death.

She told me that she would be present everywhere: outside every institution and in every place where her voice might be heard. She declared clearly: “I am not only the wife of a martyr. I am now a revolutionary woman.”

The Phoenix Batch of doctors stands as the pinnacle of defiance. Adnan Al-Bursh left behind 250 “Adnans”, carrying forward his scalpel and his message. His body remains a prisoner, and his novel has not yet been committed to paper. But its story is lived every day in every hospital and every tent across Gaza. Dr Adnan did not die. He became a “Valley Stone”: solid, eternal and deeply rooted in the land he died trying to heal.

Today, the tragedy is being repeated through the imprisonment of his colleague, Dr Hussam Abu Safiya, the director of Kamal Adwan Hospital, who is currently being held in occupation prisons. The fear for Dr Hussam’s life mirrors the pain and dread that we once felt for Dr Adnan. Both men carried the burden of northern Gaza. Both refused to abandon the wounded. Both remained at their hospitals until the moment they were arrested.

With reports that Dr Hussam’s health is deteriorating inside prison, the world must act. We cannot allow the events at Ofer Prison to happen again. We cannot lose another hero to torture as we did Dr Adnan.

According to UNESCO, 164 cultural sites across Gaza have been damaged by Israeli strikes since 7 October 2023. Each site tells part of a larger story. Together, they tell the story of a people whose presence on this land stretches back millennia.

That is why the destruction of these places feels so devastating. It is not simply that Gaza is losing ancient churches, mosques or markets. It is that Palestinians are being forced to watch the physical evidence of their history disappear before their eyes.

The first time I visited Gaza City’s old quarter after months of displacement, I found myself searching for landmarks that had guided me my entire life. The Great Omari Mosque. Saint Porphyrius Church. Al-Zawiya Market. The gold market. For generations, these places were more than buildings. They were points of reference in our daily lives, repositories of memory and reminders that Gaza’s story stretches far beyond the wars that have come to define it in international headlines. What I found instead were ruins.

Since October 2023, the world has witnessed Israel’s destruction of homes, hospitals, schools and universities across Gaza. Less attention has been paid to another target of this genocide: the cultural and historical landmarks that connect Palestinians to their past. This destruction is often discussed as collateral damage. It is not.

Cultural Erasure

What has happened to Gaza’s churches, mosques, markets and archaeological sites is part of a broader assault on Palestinian existence itself. A people can be displaced. They can be starved. They can be killed. But they can also be erased by severing their connection to history, memory and place.

The Orthodox Church of Saint Porphyrius, believed to be the third-oldest church in the world, stood for centuries in Gaza City’s al-Zaytoon neighbourhood. It survived empires, invasions and wars. There are approximately twenty Christian homes standing around this church.

At Saint Porphyrius Church, more than 400 people crowded into the ancient stone halls, hoping the walls that had stood for so many years would hold. Just a few hundred metres down the street, the Latin convent next to the Catholic Holy Family Church offered refuge to another 500. Two communities, two churches, the same desperate search for safety.

That safety did not last. The church was targeted by an Israeli strike on 19 October 2023, killing 17 Palestinian Christians who were sheltering there. It was the first time in history that this church had been targeted.

On 16 December 2023, gunfire cracked through the courtyard of the Holy Family compound. An Israeli sniper shot and killed two Christian women as they moved inside the church grounds where they were sheltering.

The violence returned 19 months later. On 18 July 2025, an Israeli artillery shell hit the Holy Family Church directly. Three Christians sheltering there were killed in the strike: Saad Salama, 60, who had worked for years as the parish janitor; Fumya Ayaad, 84, an elderly woman who was receiving psychosocial support in a Caritas tent on the grounds; and Najwa Abu Dawood, 71. What began as sanctuaries for Gaza’s small Christian community turned into places marked by loss, twice over.

Sacred Ruins

For many outside Gaza, churches and mosques represent separate communities. In Gaza, they often represent something else: coexistence. Saint Porphyrius was not merely a Christian landmark. During previous wars, it opened its doors to displaced Muslim families. It was a symbol of a city whose social fabric was woven from shared suffering and shared survival. When such a place is destroyed, the loss cannot be measured only in stones and walls.

Just a short distance away stood the Great Omari Mosque, Gaza’s most important mosque and one of the oldest in Palestine. For centuries, its minaret dominated the skyline of the old city. Generations learned to pray there. Children played in its courtyards. Families arranged their lives around it.

The Great Mosque of Gaza — al-Omari Mosque, a 1,400-year-old landmark named after Caliph Umar bin al-Khattab — was struck twice in late 2023. It sustained partial damage to its minaret on 19 November, then was left in a near-ruinous state after further bombardment on 8 December.

Nearly two years later, on 6 November 2025, crews began clearing rubble from the site in Gaza City. Salvaged stones were set aside for future restoration, and the courtyard was reopened for worship. For Palestinians, places like the Great Omari Mosque are not tourist attractions. They are living institutions that carry the memories of countless lives. To destroy them is to attack the continuity between past and present.

Living Markets

The same is true of Gaza’s historic markets. Without the Omari Mosque, the market loses its spirit. Long before Gaza became synonymous with siege and war, al-Zawiya Market was the beating heart of the city. Its narrow alleys connected traders, craftsmen and families across generations. Since October 2023, al-Zawiya Market has been hit again and again. Israeli airstrikes and artillery pounded the market until entire rows of buildings and shops collapsed into rubble. Today, about 75 percent of it is gone.

This was not just any market. Al-Zawiya used to hold everything. It was a cluster of smaller markets inside one: grain stalls, spice souqs, apothecary shops. It was where people bought their daily bread, their medicine, amid the smell of cumin that told you that you were home. It was where Gaza shopped, traded, and lived its daily life. What’s left now is a skeleton of what it was.

Tucked into one corner of al-Zawiya Market sits Gaza’s gold market. It contains 120 jewellery shops beneath arches that look as though they were carved to last forever. It is an architectural masterpiece and the only one of its kind in the Strip. It’s called Qaysariyya, a name borrowed from the Roman era for industrial and commercial arcades. Local history says it was built in 1476.

But like so much in Gaza, it has lived many lives. After the Nakba in 1948, when Zionist militias and later the Israeli state expelled most Palestinians from their land, the gold market was emptied. It sat quietly. By the 1950s it had been turned into a shoemakers’ market. That lasted until 1968, when Gaza’s economy started breathing again and gold slowly found its way back.

The real shift came in 1970. Palestinians from Gaza were allowed to work inside occupied Palestine. Wages came home. But there were no banks, no stable currency to trust. So people did what people have done for centuries: they saved in gold. That’s what turned Qaysariyya around. By the early 1980s it was Gaza’s central hub for jewellery. There was nowhere else like it. No gold market in the north, centre, or south. Just this one. More craftsmen came. Renovations were made. By the 2000s the market gleamed again. Then the genocide began in October 2023.

Against Oblivion

The gold market was hit repeatedly. The worst came on 4 July 2024, when an Israeli strike bombed the arcade. The blast tore through the shops and even damaged the nearby Great Mosque of Gaza. Today, around 30 jewellery shops have been completely destroyed or burned out. The rest are being patched up by the traders themselves, with their own hands, under the same arches that have stood for more than 500 years.

These places remind Gazans of their fathers and grandfathers, and of their childhoods spent among the market’s alleys. They reminds us how we lost part of ourselves after so many of these places were destroyed. That is because heritage is not separate from human life.

Subscribe now

Too often, discussions of cultural destruction create a false choice between people and buildings, as though concern for one diminishes concern for the other. But the destruction of heritage matters precisely because it affects people. Buildings become meaningful because generations fill them with stories, traditions and memories.

Yet even amid the rubble, people continue to pray at the Great Omari Mosque. Merchants continue to reopen damaged shops. Christians continue to gather at Saint Porphyrius. These acts may appear small, but they carry enormous significance. They are declarations that Gaza’s history cannot be erased as easily as its buildings can be demolished.

Israel may destroy stone, wood and marble. It may reduce centuries-old landmarks to rubble. But memory survives through the people who carry it. And as long as Palestinians continue to remember these places, tell their stories and rebuild what has been destroyed, Gaza’s history remains alive.

Palestine Deep Dive’s Ahmed Alnaouq and Hala Hanina are joined by Palestinian poet and writer Mohammed El-Kurd, and British MP and chair of the Gaza Tribunal Jeremy Corbyn.

Together, they discuss the relationship between material complicity in genocide and narrative dehumanisation of Palestinians, the Gaza tribunal, politics of appeal and the changing political debate in Britain and the United States.

Subscribe now