Gaza: Resilience Amid Ruins

I live in the United States, where I often look around and see people going about their day, sipping coffee, jogging, shopping — untouched by the images of Gaza that now live in my mind. It is not indifference born of ignorance; it is a chosen blindness. To the so-called “West”: spare us your lectures on human rights and racism. While you preach morality, your governments arm and enable genocide. While Palestinians are slaughtered, you go about life as if nothing is happening. Your silence is complicity, your comfort is built on our blood. Don’t speak of justice while you stand by and watch it burn.

And yet, despite this abandonment, the Palestinian people endure. For more than 16 years under siege, for nearly two years under unrelenting bombardment since October 2023, Gaza has stood as a testament to human resilience. Schools, hospitals, homes, and entire neighborhoods have been reduced to rubble. Families torn apart. Communities erased. And still — amid starvation, thirst, and the constant fear of death — the people of Gaza refuse to disappear.

Take the words of Munira El Najar, a Palestinian mother and teacher, who wrote to the mothers of the world:
“We do not ask for pity, but for witness… so that your children, when they grow up, will know that we had children too, that we had arms and hearts and fears just like you. Let the world remember that in Gaza mothers still give birth under fire, raise children in tents, and teach them that love survives even in war.”

This is the unfathomable resilience of Gaza. Mothers counting their children each morning, praying none were lost to the night’s bombardment. Fathers standing in food lines not knowing if bread will come. Children learning to laugh despite the sound of drones circling above. Life in Gaza is not lived in the ordinary sense — it is survival, a waiting, a testament.

Journalists, doctors, nurses, and aid workers in Gaza embody a kind of courage that the Western world cannot even imagine. They know that to report, to heal, to serve is to paint a target on their backs. Israel openly hunts them, threatens them, and kills them — and yet they persist. They work not only out of duty to their people, but out of defiance to a world that ignores their suffering and denies their reality. Their heroism is incomprehensible, a kind of sacrifice beyond the imagination of those who sit comfortably in newsrooms in New York, London, or Paris.

Even the armed groups, despite the relentless military campaign against them, continue to resist. Israel has degraded their capabilities but has not extinguished them. Their persistence, though militarily small compared to Israel’s might, is symbolic: Gaza will not be erased.

What lessons do we, in our comfort, draw from this? Gaza teaches us resilience in the face of despair, patience in the face of endless hardship, faith even when the world crumbles. Their lives, filled with uncertainty, uprooted by violence and deprivation, are still marked by hope and devotion to God. Their “beautiful patience” (ṣabr jamīl) is not passive, but active — a refusal to surrender dignity.

And above all, Gaza teaches us community. In the ruins, neighbors feed one another, families shelter strangers, and people hold each other up when the ground has given way. Their unity under fire reminds us that solidarity is not an abstract concept; it is the act of survival itself.

The West will one day look back in shame — or be judged by history as complicit. But Gaza will be remembered for something else: for resilience, for faith, for love under fire. The people of Gaza, rooted like olive trees in their land, remind us that when the forest burns, the trees do not run. They endure, and in their endurance lies humanity’s most powerful lesson.

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The post Gaza: Resilience Amid Ruins first appeared on street art united states.
by Sami Wakim via street art united states

Gaza: Resilience Amid Ruins

I live in the United States, where I often look around and see people going about their day, sipping coffee, jogging, shopping — untouched by the images of Gaza that now live in my mind. It is not indifference born of ignorance; it is a chosen blindness. To the so-called “West”: spare us your lectures on human rights and racism. While you preach morality, your governments arm and enable genocide. While Palestinians are slaughtered, you go about life as if nothing is happening. Your silence is complicity, your comfort is built on our blood. Don’t speak of justice while you stand by and watch it burn.

And yet, despite this abandonment, the Palestinian people endure. For more than 16 years under siege, for nearly two years under unrelenting bombardment since October 2023, Gaza has stood as a testament to human resilience. Schools, hospitals, homes, and entire neighborhoods have been reduced to rubble. Families torn apart. Communities erased. And still — amid starvation, thirst, and the constant fear of death — the people of Gaza refuse to disappear.

Take the words of Munira El Najar, a Palestinian mother and teacher, who wrote to the mothers of the world:
“We do not ask for pity, but for witness… so that your children, when they grow up, will know that we had children too, that we had arms and hearts and fears just like you. Let the world remember that in Gaza mothers still give birth under fire, raise children in tents, and teach them that love survives even in war.”

This is the unfathomable resilience of Gaza. Mothers counting their children each morning, praying none were lost to the night’s bombardment. Fathers standing in food lines not knowing if bread will come. Children learning to laugh despite the sound of drones circling above. Life in Gaza is not lived in the ordinary sense — it is survival, a waiting, a testament.

Journalists, doctors, nurses, and aid workers in Gaza embody a kind of courage that the Western world cannot even imagine. They know that to report, to heal, to serve is to paint a target on their backs. Israel openly hunts them, threatens them, and kills them — and yet they persist. They work not only out of duty to their people, but out of defiance to a world that ignores their suffering and denies their reality. Their heroism is incomprehensible, a kind of sacrifice beyond the imagination of those who sit comfortably in newsrooms in New York, London, or Paris.

Even the armed groups, despite the relentless military campaign against them, continue to resist. Israel has degraded their capabilities but has not extinguished them. Their persistence, though militarily small compared to Israel’s might, is symbolic: Gaza will not be erased.

What lessons do we, in our comfort, draw from this? Gaza teaches us resilience in the face of despair, patience in the face of endless hardship, faith even when the world crumbles. Their lives, filled with uncertainty, uprooted by violence and deprivation, are still marked by hope and devotion to God. Their “beautiful patience” (ṣabr jamīl) is not passive, but active — a refusal to surrender dignity.

And above all, Gaza teaches us community. In the ruins, neighbors feed one another, families shelter strangers, and people hold each other up when the ground has given way. Their unity under fire reminds us that solidarity is not an abstract concept; it is the act of survival itself.

The West will one day look back in shame — or be judged by history as complicit. But Gaza will be remembered for something else: for resilience, for faith, for love under fire. The people of Gaza, rooted like olive trees in their land, remind us that when the forest burns, the trees do not run. They endure, and in their endurance lies humanity’s most powerful lesson.

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The post Gaza: Resilience Amid Ruins first appeared on street art united states.
by Sami Wakim via street art united states

Rethinking “The Promised Land” and “The Chosen People”

Religious language can be beautiful, comforting, and deeply meaningful. But it can also carry implications that go unchallenged for generations. Phrases like “the promised land” and “the chosen people” are more than just symbolic — they can shape identities, justify actions, and, in some cases, perpetuate inequality.

In today’s world — where nationalism, displacement, and cultural supremacy often hide behind tradition — it’s worth asking: What happens when these sacred ideas are used to claim power over others?

To call any land “promised” by a divine being is to assert an unshakable, non-negotiable right to it. It removes the conversation from the realm of dialogue and plants it firmly in the realm of destiny.

That kind of language has long been used to legitimize occupation, displacement, and expansion — not just in ancient scripture, but in modern geopolitics. When faith becomes the foundation for political entitlement, it can justify actions that would otherwise be deemed unjust.

The idea of being “chosen” by God might instill pride and purpose within a community. But it also sets up an implicit contrast: if one group is chosen, then others are not.

This belief, when internalized as absolute truth, can easily morph into exclusion or superiority. Throughout history, it has fueled both a sense of moral exceptionalism and the marginalization of those deemed “outside” the divine plan.

These concepts aren’t just theological—they’re political. They’ve shaped borders, fueled conflicts, and underpinned colonization. From the conquest narratives in scripture to modern nation-state claims, sacred entitlement has often been used to mask real-world power struggles.

The danger is clear: when divine justification overrides human rights, justice becomes a casualty.

None of this is to dismiss the power of faith, identity, or spiritual heritage. But as societies evolve, we need to be brave enough to ask hard questions of the stories we’ve inherited. Faith should inspire compassion, not conquest. Identity should build bridges, not walls.

So maybe it’s time to stop asking who is “chosen” and start asking how we can choose one another — in empathy, equity, and shared humanity.

The post Rethinking “The Promised Land” and “The Chosen People” first appeared on street art united states.
by Sami Wakim via street art united states