"Death, death to the IDF" (Israel Defense Force). "Muerte, muerte a las fuerzas armadas de Israel" ENG ESP

ENGLISH
Death, death to the IDF (Israel Defense Force)
"Death to the IDF": UK band Bob Vylan sparks outrage over Glastonbury chant. The singer concluded, “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free, inshallah”.
Bob Vylan led chants of “death to the IDF” and “free, free Palestine” during a provocative set at Glastonbury 2025.
NOTE
We have the right to express our thoughts directly; we don't have to be "correct" or mince words.
In France occupied by Nazi Germany, wasn't the normal to think "death, death to the Gestapo" or "death, death to the Wehrmacht"? The opposite was to be with the Vichy Regime, with its collusion and collaboration.
The IDF violates all international law; they have been the enforcer of murderous, colonialist, and racist Zionism for decades. They are terrorists, terrorists of the State of Israel, a terrorist state. They bomb with impunity, they burn alive those unable to defend themselves, they shoot children in the head, dismember them, blow up women, destroy buildings and tents, eliminate water sources, their planes, drones, tanks, and snipers target healthcare workers, educators, and journalists... they are cowards, they won't stand up to an army, and now they are finishing the "job" with genocide, hour after hour, without rest, without mercy...
If we lived in Palestine, the minimum cry would be "DEATH, death to IDF," and the desire would be to have an armed force, including air and anti-aircraft forces, that could defend us.
We are left with words. Are we going to cut them back?
28 June 2025
On a day of political statements at Worthy Farm, Bob Vylan played a set on the West Holts Stage on Saturday afternoon (June 28) immediately before the much-anticipated Kneecap appearance and led the capacity crowd through a raucous performance.
The set saw frontman Bobby Vylan call for solidarity with bands that “use their platform to speak up for the Palestinian people”, namechecking Kneecap, The Murder Capital and Amyl & The Sniffers in particular.
He also said that he was aware that the performance was being streamed on the BBC and so he would not say anything “too extreme”, adding that he would “leave that to those lads”, referring to “their mates Kneecap”.
After the crowd instigated a chant of “free, free Palestine”, which they did multiple times, Bobby said, “Have you heard this one?”, before leading a chant of “death, death to the IDF”, referring to the Israeli Defense Forces, which are involved in the ongoing war in Gaza.
Bobby also said: “We are not pacifist punks here over at Bob Vylan Enterprises,” referencing lyrics from their 2023 single ‘Censored (Interlude)’. “We are the violent punks, because sometimes you gotta get your message across with violence because that is the only language some people speak, unfortunately.”
Throughout the performance, political slogans were projected onto the screen behind them, including “Free Palestine – United Nations have called it a genocide – the BBC calls it a ‘conflict’”.
Authorities had closed off access to the stage beforehand due to the demand to see the Irish rap trio that have been at the centre of a storm of controversy in recent months, with their set starting just half an hour after Bob Vylan’s.
Kneecap went on to deliver an incendiary set in which they again accused Israel of “committing genocide against the Palestinian people, aided by the UK government”. They also took aim at Prime Minister Keir Starmer, as well as Rod Stewart for his recent comments in support of Nigel Farage.
Others to use their platform to speak out at Glastonbury 2025 include Amyl & The Sniffers, who took on colonisation, the war in Palestine, AI and J.K. Rowling in their fiery set on the Other Stage on Saturday. Inhaler and CMAT also made pro-Palestine remarks on Friday, among others.
So who are Bob Vylan?
The duo are Bobby Vylan, the frontman, and drummer Bobbie Vylan. They have not revealed their real names to protect their privacy.
They formed in Ipswich in 2017 and their musical style is a mix of punk, rap, and hard rock.
They have released three albums - We Live Here (2020), Bob Vylan Presents The Price Of Life (2022), and last year's Humble As The Sun - and their music has won them awards including best alternative act at the MOBOs in 2022, and best album at the Kerrang Awards in the same year.
Their songs confront issues including racism, homophobia, toxic masculinity, and far-right politics, and the track Pretty Songs is often introduced by Bobby saying that "violence is the only language that some people understand".
Gigs often include some crowd-surfing from the frontman, and they have collaborated with artists including Amyl And The Sniffers singer Amy Taylor, Soft Play guitarist Laurie Vincent, and rock band Kid Kapichi.
In an interview with The Guardian last year, Bobby Vylan told how he attended his first pro-Palestine protest at the age of 15, escorted by a friend's mother.
The duo have been outspoken on the war in Gaza and called out other acts seen as left-wing who haven't been showing the same amount of public solidarity.
The Glastonbury set
Before their appearance at the festival, the duo highlighted it to fans watching at home, posting on Facebook: "Turns out we're finally at a point where the BBC trust us on live tv! Watch us live either in the field or in the comfort of your own home!"
On stage, they performed in front of a screen bearing several statements, including one which claimed Israel's actions in Gaza amount to "genocide".
Afterwards, as controversy over the set grew, they appeared to double down with statements shared on social media.
REMEMBER
UNITED NATIONS, GENERAL ASSEMBLY: “Reaffirms the legitimacy of the struggle of peoples for independence, territorial integrity, national unity and liberation from colonial and alien domination and foreign occupation by all available means, including armed struggle” Resolution 34/44, 23 November 1979
Francesca Albanese: "Israel cannot claim the right to self-defence against a threat that emanates from a territory it occupies [Gaza], from a territory that is under belligerent occupation". Israel's right to self-defence is “non-existent” under international law as it is not under threat from another state.
🔻 When a singer at #Glastonbury chants “Death to the IDF”
The Western world erupts…
BBC apologizes, the government condemns, police investigate,
and the Israeli embassy is “deeply disturbed”!
🔺 But when #Gaza is bombed day and night,
Families wiped out, hospitals flattened,
Children pulled from rubble headless…
Silence reigns.
Or worse: “#Israel has the right to defend itself.”
🎭 The hypocrisy is stunning.
Chanting against bombs is a crime,
But dropping the bombs?
That's “freedom and democracy.”
ESPAÑOL
Actualización, 22 agosto 2025: El actor Javier Bardem llama "nazis" a las Fuerzas de Defensa de Israel Asimismo, el actor acompaña sus palabras con un vídeo en el que aparece cómo dispara un tirador contra un grupo de personas.
NACIONES UNIDAS, ASAMBLEA GENERAL: «Reafirma la legitimidad de la lucha de los pueblos por la independencia, la integridad territorial, la unidad nacional y la liberación de la dominación colonial y extranjera y de la ocupación extranjera por todos los medios disponibles, incluida la lucha armada» Resolución 34/44, 23 de noviembre de 1979.
Francesca Albanese: «Israel no puede reivindicar el derecho a la legítima defensa frente a una amenaza que emana de un territorio que ocupa [Gaza], de un territorio que está bajo ocupación beligerante». El derecho de Israel a la legítima defensa es «inexistente» en virtud del derecho internacional, ya que no está amenazado por otro Estado.
🔻 Cuando un cantante en #Glastonbury canta «Muerte a las FDI»
El mundo occidental estalla...
¡La BBC se disculpa, el gobierno condena, la policía investiga,
y la embajada israelí está «profundamente perturbada»!
🔺 Pero cuando #Gaza es bombardeada día y noche,
Familias aniquiladas, hospitales arrasados,
Niños sacados de los escombros sin cabeza...
Reina el silencio.
O peor: «#Israel tiene derecho a defenderse».
🎭 La hipocresía es impresionante.
Cantar contra las bombas es un crimen,
¿Pero lanzar las bombas?
Eso es «libertad y democracia».
“The Disappearance of Dr. Abu Safiya” documental, 33 min, documentary. ESP ENG
ESPAÑOL Aquíi el enlace al documental “La desaparición del Dr. Abu Safiya” Al Jazeera Documental (33 min) sobre la detención y la tortura de este médico de Gaza por parte de Israel El programa “Fault Lines” del canal Al Jazeera English ha emitido un poderoso documental que cuenta la historia del Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya, pediatra palestino y director del Hospital Kamal Adwan, en el norte de Gaza, a quien Israel mantiene detenido hace nueve meses prácticamente sin contacto con el mundo exterior. Abu Safiya se hizo conocido por millones de personas en todo el mundo por los videos que compartía regularmente desde el interior del hospital, que muestran los estragos del brutal ataque militar de Israel contra Gaza y contra el propio hospital. A fines de diciembre de 2024, las fuerzas militares israelíes irrumpieron en el Hospital Kamal Adwan y obligaron a salir al personal y los pacientes. El Dr. Abu Safiya fue arrestado en esa incursión y se encuentra detenido desde entonces, en duras condiciones y sin un proceso judicial en su contra. Hablamos con la directora del documental, Amel Guettatfi, así como con la Dra. Azra Zyada, quien se encuentra en Londres y se mantenía regularmente en contacto con el Dr. Abu Safiya antes de su detención. AMY GOODMAN: Esto es Democracy Now!, democracynow.org, Soy Amy Goodman, con Nermeen Shaikh. NERMEEN SHAIKH: Pasamos ahora a la historia del Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya, un aclamado pediatra palestino y director del Hospital Kamal Adwan en el norte de Gaza. A medida que la situación a su alrededor se agravaba cada vez más durante los bombardeos israelíes, el Dr. Abu Safiya comenzó a grabar videos para que el mundo viera lo que sucedía en el norte de Gaza y pidiera ayuda. Les habla el Dr. Abu Safiya el 22 de diciembre de 2024. DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] No sabemos por qué nos bombardean, ni por qué nos atacan de esta manera a pesar de que solicitamos protección internacional al mundo. Seguimos apelando al mundo y recordándole que existen las Convenciones de Ginebra, que el mundo alaba. Esto incluye la protección del sistema sanitario y del personal hospitalario. Hasta este momento, lamentablemente, estamos siendo atacados a plena vista del mundo entero, pero, por desgracia, hemos caído en oídos sordos. AMY GOODMAN: Cuando el Dr. Abu Safiya grabó ese vídeo, el Hospital Kamal Adwan era el último hospital en funcionamiento en el norte de Gaza. Apenas unos días después, las fuerzas israelíes irrumpieron en el complejo médico y el médico fue detenido y encarcelado. Permanece en la prisión de Ofer hasta el día de hoy, sin cargos ni juicio. Una nueva y conmovedora película, producida por el programa documental Fault Lines de Al Jazeera English, cuenta su historia. La película se titula La Desaparición del Dr. Abu Safiya. Nos acompañarán la directora de la película y un colega en unos minutos, pero primero hablaremos de la película. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Lo detuvieron a él y a otros médicos en la clínica ambulatoria. Los interrogaron. ELIAS ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Lo golpearon tres veces en el pecho con la culata de la pistola de un soldado y también con la mano. Lo insultaron. Lo interrogaron sobre nimiedades. ¿Por qué no sale del hospital? ¿Por qué se queda en el norte? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] La situación es catastrófica en todo el sentido de la palabra. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Le dijeron: «Dr. Hussam, no se relacione con periodistas». No querían que contara al mundo lo que estaba sucediendo en Gaza y en el norte. ELIAS ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] A primera hora de la mañana, cuando el ejército se retiró del Hospital Kamal Adwan, mi padre fue a ver cómo estaban el hospital y los mártires. Encontró a mi hermano Ibrahim entre ellos. ABDEL MONEIM AL-SHRAFI: [traducido] Se desplomó. Estuvo llorando durante seis o siete horas. No se detuvo, porque era muy cercano a su hijo Ibrahim. AMY GOODMAN: En el siguiente vídeo, escuchamos al Dr. Abu Safiya, a su esposa Albina y, de nuevo, a su hijo Elias, a quien acabamos de oír. DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Nos quemaron el corazón por el hospital. Nos quemaron por completo. Mataron a mi hijo porque transmitimos un mensaje humanitario. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Era un hombre joven, de solo 20 años. Tenía toda la vida por delante. Quería estudiar medicina y ser médico como su padre. Enterramos a mi hijo junto al hospital, justo afuera, y nos despedimos de él. DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: Allahu Akbar. ELIAS ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Durante el entierro, llamaron a mi padre a la UCI y él respondió. Dejó a mi hermano Ibrahim durante el funeral. Ni siquiera tuvo tiempo de llorar a mi hermano Ibrahim. Llevó sus lágrimas al quirófano. Esto lo fortaleció, porque mi padre trataba a todos sus pacientes como si fueran sus hijos. NERMEEN SHAIKH: El segundo asalto al Hospital Kamal Adwan ocurrió el 27 de diciembre de 2024. En el siguiente video, las enfermeras Rawiya Tanboura y Abdel Moneim al-Shrafi describen lo sucedido. También escuchamos a la esposa del Dr. Abu Safiya, Albina, describiendo su arresto y las órdenes del personal militar israelí. RAWIYA TANBOURA: [traducido] Los tanques comenzaron a rodear el hospital. ABDEL MONEIM AL-SHRAFI: [traducido] Había muchísimos tanques y vehículos. Los chicos y yo bromeábamos diciendo que nos habían traído a todo Israel. SOLDADO ISRAELÍ 1: [traducido] Todos en el hospital: El ejército los rodea. Están rodeados. RAWIYA TANBOURA: [traducido] Un tanque grande entró y se detuvo en recepción. Empezó a disparar, disparando hacia adelante, disparando y girando. Entonces apuntaron el cañón a través de la puerta de recepción, y así iba hacia los pacientes. ABDEL MONEIM AL-SHRAFI: [traducido] Pensé que era el último día de mi vida. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Cuando llegó el ejército con un tanque y un cuadricóptero, lo llamaron. SOLDADO ISRAELÍ 2: [traducido] Doctor, levántese la camisa. Doctor, levántese la camisa. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Iba hacia ellos seguro de no haber hecho nada malo. Fue hacia ellos con su bata blanca. SOLDADO ISRAELÍ 3 [traducido] Venga, doctor. Venga, doctor. SOLDADO ISRAELÍ 4: [traducido] Buenos días. ¿Cómo está? ¿Todo bien? Pase. ABDEL MONEIM AL-SHRAFI: [traducido] El ejército ordenó al Dr. Hussam que sacara a toda la gente. SOLDADO ISRAELÍ 1: [traducido] Deben seguir las instrucciones y reunirse en el patio central. Todos en el hospital: El ejército los rodea. ABDEL MONEIM AL-SHRAFI: [traducido] El Dr. Hussam los sacó por orden del ejército, bajo amenaza. NERMEEN SHAIKH: En el siguiente vídeo, la enfermera Rawiya Tanboura, de Kamal Adwan, describe cómo se vieron obligados a evacuar el hospital. Luego, escuchamos al enfermero Abdel Moneim al-Shrafi sobre cómo el personal médico masculino, incluido el Dr. Abu Safiya, fue tratado por el ejército israelí. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Nos evacuaron a las mujeres, incluyendo al personal médico femenino. RAWIYA TANBOURA: [traducido] Claro, cada vez que el soldado israelí nos habla, grita: "¡Esperen aquí, hijos de puta!". Seguimos sus órdenes y nos quedamos en silencio. Tenemos miedo. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Les preguntamos: "¿Y los hombres?". Dijeron: "Van a irse, y ellos se reunirán con ustedes después". SOLDADO ISRAELÍ 5: [traducido] ¿No queda nadie dentro? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] No, no queda nadie. SOLDADO ISRAELÍ 5: [traducido] ¿Todo el hospital? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Sí, todo el hospital. RAWIYA TANBOURA: [traducido] Desde el comienzo de la redada, sospechamos que arrestarían al Dr. Hussam, porque ya lo habían amenazado. ABDEL MONEIM AL-SHRAFI: [traducido] El ejército terminó lo que tenía que hacer y el Dr. Hussam se despidió. Mientras se alejaba, lo llamaron: "Hussam, Hussam, ven. Tel Aviv te necesita". Le vendaron los ojos. También le ataron las manos. Luego lo obligaron a caminar. Luego lo tiraron al suelo y comenzaron a golpearlo. Eso nos pasó a todos. Nos trataban como si fuéramos terroristas. Su mensaje era: "Tenemos el control de todos". Nos mantuvieron esposados. Nos humillaron y nos golpearon. Nos cubrieron la cara y nos dijeron que camináramos así. Nos quitaron la ropa. Nos quedamos en ropa interior. Caminábamos en línea recta, uno detrás del otro, el Dr. Hussam al principio y el personal médico detrás de él. Pude ver al Dr. Hussam, pero fingí no verlo porque no quería que se sintiera desanimado. No quería verlo así. AMY GOODMAN: Ahora, un último fragmento de La Desaparición del Dr. Abu Safiya, que incluye a su esposa Albina y a su abogado Gheed Kassem. Comienza con imágenes del Canal 13 de Israel, donde se vio al Dr. Abu Safiya por primera vez desde su encarcelamiento. ENTREVISTADOR: Señor, ¿cómo está? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: Bien. ENTREVISTADOR: Usted es médico de Kamal Adwan, ¿verdad? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: Sí. GHEED KASSEM: [traducido] Todo lo que un detenido come al día no supera las mil calorías. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Su peso rondaba los 90 o 95 kilogramos. Su abogado nos dijo que ahora pesa 60 kilos. ¿Qué le hicieron para que llegara a este punto? GHEED KASSEM: [traducido] Existe una política deliberada dentro de las cárceles para matar de hambre a la gente. Quieren dar un ejemplo. No sé si la administración penitenciaria trata a los detenidos como si fueran realmente seres humanos. ENTREVISTADOR: ¿Ha visto a los rehenes, a nuestros rehenes, a los rehenes israelíes? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] ¿Qué está diciendo? TRADUCTOR: [traducido] ¿Vio a los rehenes israelíes? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] No, no, no. Mi trabajo es principalmente con niños. Soy pediatra. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Interrogaron mucho al médico. GHEED KASSEM: [traducido] La mayoría de las preguntas que le hicieron al Dr. Hussam durante el interrogatorio se referían a su trabajo en Kamal Adwan y a los rehenes y combatientes. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] Después de todas las palizas, torturas e interrogatorios, seguían sin poder inculparlo. GHEED KASSEM: [traducido] Incluso cuando los servicios de inteligencia vienen a hablar con él a veces, dicen: "No tenemos nada contra usted. Pero a pesar de esto, está detenido y seguimos interrogándolo". ENTREVISTADOR: ¿Por qué está aquí? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [traducido] No lo sé. De verdad que no lo sé. AMY GOODMAN: Extractos del documental de Al Jazeera Fault Lines, La desaparición del Dr. Abu Safiya. Ahora vamos con Amel Guettatfi, director de esta película. Solo tenemos unos minutos. ¿Podría hablarnos de la última vez que vio al médico, director del Hospital Kamal Adwan, conocido especialmente por su atención a niños, y de cómo es posible que haya estado detenido sin cargos ni juicio, y de qué sabe de su paradero y estado de salud? AMEL GUETTATFI: Por supuesto. El Dr. Abu Safiya se encuentra en la prisión de Ofer, una prisión en la Cisjordania ocupada. Según B'Tselem, allí se aplica claramente una política de tortura, palizas y abusos. Lleva detenido más de 250 días sin cargos formales ni juicio justo. La única persona que ha podido visitarlo es su abogada, gracias a su incansable lucha para conseguir esas visitas. Vive en condiciones realmente pésimas, documentadas por múltiples organizaciones que demuestran que existe una política organizada y declarada de las autoridades penitenciarias para tratar mal a los 2.600 detenidos que se encuentran en estas cárceles. NERMEEN SHAIKH: Bueno, Dra. Azra Zyada, usted estuvo en contacto diario con el Dr. Abu Safiya durante meses. ¿Qué opina, tanto sobre la película como sobre su estado actual? DRA. AZRA ZYADA: Creo que la película realmente expone y captura el proceso y el plan que Israel utiliza para atacar y desmantelar hospitales. Y creo que la película es la más pertinente en este momento, porque este plan se está utilizando ahora mismo en toda Gaza. Sin embargo, no está tan de moda ni tan expuesto como cuando el Dr. Abu Safiya estuvo en Kamal Adwan. AMY GOODMAN: Quiero agradecerles a ambos por estar con nosotros. Dra. Azra Zyada, le agradecemos enormemente, médica residente en Londres, analista de sistemas de salud, quien ha ayudado a recopilar pruebas de crímenes de guerra en Gaza y ha estado en contacto con una red de médicos y profesionales de la salud en Gaza, incluido el Dr. Abu Safiya. Y muchas gracias a Amel Guettatfi, directora del documental "La Desaparición del Dr. Abu Safiya", disponible en línea. Incluiremos un enlace al documental completo. Con esto termina nuestro programa. ¡Democracy Now! Producido por Mike Burke y Nicole Salazar. Soy Amy Goodman y Nermeen Shaikh. El contenido original de este programa está licenciado bajo la Licencia Creative Commons. Por favor, atribuya las copias legales de esta obra a democracynow.org. Sin embargo, algunas de las obras que este programa incorpora pueden tener licencias independientes. Para más información o permisos adicionales, contáctenos. ENGLISH Here the link to the documentary “The Disappearance of Dr. Abu Safiya” Al Jazeera documentary (33 min) on Israel’s Abduction & Torture of Gaza Doctor. A powerful documentary produced by Fault Lines on Al Jazeera English tells the story of Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya, the Palestinian pediatrician and director of the Kamal Adwan Hospital in northern Gaza whom Israel has detained with virtually no contact to the outside world for nine months. He became known to millions of people around the world for his regular video dispatches from inside the hospital describing the toll of Israel’s brutal military assault on Gaza and on the hospital itself. In late December 2024, Israel raided Kamal Adwan Hospital and forcibly evicted its staff and patients. Dr. Abu Safiya was arrested by Israeli soldiers and has been held without charge in harsh conditions ever since. We play clips from the documentary, The Disappearance of Dr. Abu Safiya, and speak with director Amel Guettatfi, as well as Dr. Azra Zyada in London, who was in frequent contact with Dr. Abu Safiya before his abduction. AMY GOODMAN: This is Democracy Now!, democracynow.org, The War and Peace Report. I’m Amy Goodman, with Nermeen Shaikh. NERMEEN SHAIKH: We turn now to the story of Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya, an acclaimed Palestinian pediatrician and director of the Kamal Adwan Hospital in northern Gaza. As the situation around him became increasingly dire over the course of Israel’s bombardment, Dr. Abu Safiya began recording videos for the world to see what was happening in northern Gaza and to plead for help. This is Dr. Abu Safiya on December 22nd, 2024. DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [translated] We do not know why we are being bombed, and we do not know why we are being targeted in this way despite us asking the world for international protection. We continue to appeal to the world and remind them that there are Geneva Conventions, that the world sings praises of. This includes the protection of the healthcare system and the protection of hospital staff. Up until this moment, unfortunately, we are being targeted in full view of the entire world, but, unfortunately, falling on deaf ears. AMY GOODMAN: When Dr. Abu Safiya recorded that video, the Kamal Adwan Hospital was the last functioning hospital in the north of Gaza. Just days later, Israeli forces stormed the medical complex, and the doctor was detained and imprisoned. He remains an Ofer Prison to this day, without charge or trial. A powerful new film, produced by the documentary program Fault Lines on Al Jazeera English, tells his story. The film is called The Disappearance of Dr. Abu Safiya. We’ll be joined by the film’s director and a colleague in just a few minutes, but first to the film itself. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [translated] They detained him and a few other doctors in the outpatient clinic. They interrogated them. ELIAS ABU SAFIYA: [translated] He was beaten three times in the chest with the butt of a soldier’s gun and by hand, too. He was insulted. He was interrogated about trivial things. Why won’t you leave the hospital? Why are you staying in the north? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [translated] The situation is catastrophic in every sense of the word. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [translated] They told him, “Dr. Hussam, don’t connect with journalists.” They didn’t want him to tell the world what was happening in Gaza and in the north. ELIAS ABU SAFIYA: [translated] In the early morning, when the army withdrew from Kamal Adwan Hospital, my father went to check on the hospital and the martyrs. He found my brother Ibrahim among the martyrs. ABDEL MONEIM AL-SHRAFI: [translated] He collapsed. He was crying for six or seven hours. He didn’t stop, because he was very, very close to his son Ibrahim. AMY GOODMAN: In the next clip, we hear from Dr. Abu Safiya, his wife Albina, and again from his son, who we just heard from, Elias. DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [translated] They burned our hearts over the hospital. They burned them completely. They killed my son because we deliver a humanitarian message. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [translated] He was a young man, only 20 years old. He had his whole life ahead of him. He wanted to study medicine and become a doctor like his father. We buried my son next to the hospital, just outside the hospital, and said goodbye to him. DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: Allahu Akbar. ELIAS ABU SAFIYA: [translated] During the burial, my father was called to the ICU, and he responded. He left my brother Ibrahim during the funeral. He couldn’t even take the time to grieve my brother Ibrahim. He took his tears with him to the operating room. This made him more determined, because my father treated all his patients like they were his sons. NERMEEN SHAIKH: The second raid on the Kamal Adwan Hospital occurred on December 27th, 2024. In the following clip, nurses Rawiya Tanboura and Abdel Moneim al-Shrafi describe what happened. We also hear from Dr. Abu Safiya’s wife Albina describing his arrest and Israeli military personnel issuing orders. RAWIYA TANBOURA: [translated] The tanks began to encircle the hospital. ABDEL MONEIM AL-SHRAFI: [translated] There were so many tanks and vehicles. Me and the guys were joking that they moved all of Israel to us. ISRAELI SOLDIER 1: [translated] Everyone in the hospital: The army surrounds you. You are surrounded. RAWIYA TANBOURA: [translated] A big tank entered and stood by reception. And it started firing, firing forward, firing and turning. And then they pointed the muzzle through the reception door, and it was going like this at patients. ABDEL MONEIM AL-SHRAFI: [translated] I thought it was the last day of my life. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [translated] When the army arrived with a tank and a quadcopter, they called him. ISRAELI SOLDIER 2: [translated] Doctor, lift your shirt. Doctor, lift your shirt. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [translated] He was going to them confident that he had not done anything wrong. He went to them in his white coat. ISRAELI SOLDIER 3: [translated] Come, Doctor. Come, Doctor. ISRAELI SOLDIER 4: [translated] Good morning. How are you? Everything good? Come on in. ABDEL MONEIM AL-SHRAFI: [translated] The army ordered Dr. Hussam to get all the people out. ISRAELI SOLDIER 1: [translated] You must follow instructions and gather in the central courtyard. Everyone in the hospital: The army surrounds you. ABDEL MONEIM AL-SHRAFI: [translated] Dr. Hussam got them out under the army’s order, under threat. NERMEEN SHAIKH: In the next clip, Kamal Adwan nurse Rawiya Tanboura describes how they were forced to evacuate the hospital. Then we hear from nurse Abdel Moneim al-Shrafi about how male medical staff, including Dr. Abu Safiya, were treated by the Israeli military. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [translated] They evacuated us women, including the female medical staff. RAWIYA TANBOURA: [translated] Of course, every time the Israeli soldier speaks to us, he’s yelling. “Wait here, you son of a —.” We followed his orders and stood without a word. We’re scared. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [translated] We asked them, “What about the men?” They said, “You’re going to go, and they will join you after.” ISRAELI SOLDIER 5: [translated] There’s no one left inside? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [translated] No, there’s no one left. ISRAELI SOLDIER 5: [translated] The entire hospital? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [translated] Yes, the entire hospital. RAWIYA TANBOURA: [translated] Since the start of the raid, we suspected that Dr. Hussam would be arrested, because they had already threatened him. ABDEL MONEIM AL-SHRAFI: [translated] The army finished what they needed to do, and Dr. Hussam said goodbye to them. As Dr. Hussam was walking away, they called for him: “Hussam, Hussam, come. Tel Aviv wants you.” They blindfolded him. They also tied his hands. And then they made him walk. And then they threw him to the ground and started beating him. That happened to all of us. They were treating us like we’re terrorists. Their message was: We are in control of everyone. They kept us in handcuffs. They humiliated and hit us. The covered our faces and told us to walk like this. They removed our clothes. We stayed in our underwear. We were walking in a straight line behind each other, Dr. Hussam at the start and the medical staff behind him. I could see Dr. Hussam, but I pretended I couldn’t see him, because I didn’t want him to feel deflated. I didn’t want to see him like this. AMY GOODMAN: Now to a final clip from The Disappearance of Dr. Abu Safiya, including his wife Albina and his attorney Gheed Kassem. It begins with footage from Israel’s Channel 13, where Dr. Abu Safiya was seen for the first time since his imprisonment. INTERVIEWER: Monsieur, how are you? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: Fine. INTERVIEWER: You are a doctor of Kamal Adwan, right? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: Yes. GHEED KASSEM: [translated] Everything that a detainee eats per day does not exceed a thousand calories. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [translated] His weight was around 90 to 95 kilograms. His lawyer told us that he now weighs 60 kilograms. What did they do to him for him to get to this point? GHEED KASSEM: [translated] There is a deliberate policy inside prisons to starve people there. They want to make an example out of them. I don’t know if the prison administration deals with the detainees like they’re truly human beings. INTERVIEWER: You have seen the hostages, our hostages, Israeli hostages? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [translated] What is he saying? TRANSLATOR: [translated] Did you see the Israeli hostages? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [translated] No, no, no. My work is mainly with children. I’m a pediatrician. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [translated] They interrogated the doctor a lot. GHEED KASSEM: [translated] Most of the questions that they asked Dr. Hussam in the interrogation were about his work at Kamal Adwan and about the hostages and fighters. ALBINA ABU SAFIYA: [translated] After all the beating, all the torture and all the interrogation, they still weren’t able to pin anything on him. GHEED KASSEM: [translated] Even when the intelligence services come to talk to him sometimes, they say, “We have nothing on you. But despite this, you are being held, detained, and we’re still interrogating you.” INTERVIEWER: Why are you here? DR. HUSSAM ABU SAFIYA: [translated] I don’t know. I really don’t know. AMY GOODMAN: Excerpts from Al Jazeera’s Fault Lines documentary The Disappearance of Dr. Abu Safiya. We go right now to Amel Guettatfi, who is the director of this film. We only have a few minutes. If you can talk about the last time the doctor was seen, a head of the Kamal Adwan Hospital, particularly known for its care for children, and how it’s possible that he has been held without charge, without trial, and what you know of his whereabouts now and his condition? AMEL GUETTATFI: Of course. Dr. Abu Safiya now is in Ofer Prison. That is a prison in occupied West Bank. According to B’Tselem, there, there’s clearly a policy of torture and beating and abuse at the prison there. He’s been held for over 250 days without formal charges and without any due trial. The only person that’s been able to visit him is his lawyer, and that’s because she’s fighting very, very hard to get those visitations. He has really awful conditions, that have been documented by multiple organizations that show you that there is an organized and declared policy of the prison authorities to treat the 2,600 detainees that are inside these prisons poorly. NERMEEN SHAIKH: Well, Dr. Azra Zyada, you were in touch with Dr. Abu Safiya every day for months. Your final thoughts, both on the film as well as on his condition now? DR. AZRA ZYADA: So, I think the film really exposes and captures the process and the blueprint that Israel uses to attack and decommission hospitals. And I think the film is the most pertinent at this moment in time, because this blueprint is being used right now across Gaza. However, it’s not really under the limelight, and it’s not as exposed as it was when Dr. Abu Safiya was in Kamal Adwan. AMY GOODMAN: I want to thank you both for being with us. Dr Azra Zyada, we thank you so much, London-based medical doctor, healthcare systems analyst, who’s helped gather evidence of war crimes from Gaza and has been in touch with a network of doctors and healthcare workers in Gaza, including Dr. Abu Safiya. And thank you so much to Amel Guettatfi, who is the director of this documentary, The Disappearance of Dr. Abu Safiya, which is available online. We’ll link to the whole documentary. That does it for our show. Democracy Now! is produced with Mike Burke, Nicole Salazar. I’m Amy Goodman, with Nermeen Shaikh.
Publicado hace 5 días.Letter from Gaza. "I'm 18, and already 4 wars old". Carta desde Gaza. "Tengo 18 años, he vivido 4 guerras". ENG ESP
ENGLISH Letter from Gaza: I'm 18, and already 4 wars old.A letter of a quiet yet unyielding girl who dreams of a better future and believes that hope is stronger than war GAZA, Oct. 5 2025 -- My name is Rahaf Radi. I am 18 years old, a 12th-grade student, and I am writing to you from a small tent in a town called al-Zawaida in central Gaza. It is currently nighttime. Distant booms and occasional explosions still punctuate the darkness, but writing to you -- those of you who care about what's happening here -- offers me a moment of solace amid the chaos. I fell in love with writing when I was a child. What I write today is more than a letter; it is a testimony -- the story of our life and a fragment of what we endure here. From an early age, I have looked at life with a measure of hope. Even growing up surrounded by restrictions and hardship, I have always searched for glimmers of light. I am quiet by nature -- I love to read, to reflect -- but inside me there is also a rebellious spirit, unwilling to accept the chains of this reality. The paradox may sound strange: serenity gives me strength, while rebellion compels me toward change. In my 18 years, I have lived through four wars. I still remember the pounding of airstrikes in 2014, when I was still a child, and the suffocating shelter rooms where we hid. In 2019 and 2021, I was older, and I saw death creep closer to our homes as each conflict broke out. In 2023, violence erupted again and escalated into the war that has yet to end. To grow up under such relentless violence would be unimaginable in other places; yet here, it has become ordinary. Today, my family and I squeeze into a tent just a few meters wide. We have lost our home. What breaks my heart most, though, is that I have lost my school. Some of the teachers were killed in the bombings. Many of my classmates have disappeared without a trace. At first, the school was converted into a shelter for the displaced. Not long after, it was leveled. Sitting at a desk in a real classroom is a pipe dream now. In more than a year of displacement, the memories of school have never left me. I can still see myself waking up early, buttoning the blue uniform, and walking with friends through Gaza's crowded streets. We laughed all the way, trading innocent visions of a luminous future. School was more than a place of learning; it was a second home, a stage for ambition. The day the school building was bombed into rubble, a part of me was taken with it. My childhood collapsed right before my eyes. I cried, but I swore that destruction would not deprive me of my right to learn. I built a "desk" from scraps of wood salvaged from the ruins. On it, I place the few books I have -- hand-me-downs from older students, some torn but still legible. I study by candlelight, or with a small battery lamp. The air inside the tent is stifling; the roar of fighter jets never leaves the skies. Still, when I open my books, I try to seal myself inside another world. I dream of becoming a journalist not only because I love writing, but also because journalism seems to be the only way to speak for my generation. I want to tell the world what it means to live here -- to write not just of sorrow, but of defiance and hope; to tell the stories of children, women and young people who refuse to surrender to despair. I want to be a witness, not merely a victim. The Gaza I knew as a child was alive with color: its bustling markets, the scent of the sea, the streets crowded with students. The Gaza I see now is wounded, hollow: houses gutted, streets emptied, dreams postponed -- if not yet shattered. However, when I sit before the sea and watch the waves, I feel that the city is not dead. Like us, it has the power to rise again. I know that day will not come easily, but I am determined to show that Palestinians -- the people of this land, the heirs to its history -- do not vanish. Even when bodies are buried, the dreams endure. That faith gives me the strength to face my fear each time I hear the death of a friend or relative, each time an explosion rattles the air not far from where I am. I rein in my terror with prayer, with quiet talks with my mother and friends, with words scribbled into notebooks. Since the latest war began, I have been keeping a diary. I wrote down moments of fear, the sudden hush when the bombing pauses, children's tears and the fragile bursts of joy we manage to create. I write to preserve memory, believing that if I survive, one day I will place these pages in the hands of my own children. I will tell them that whatever success I would achieve did not come from nothing -- it was forged in the long patience of life under fire. For me, learning and writing are not merely a path to a certificate or a job. They are a means of survival -- what convinces me that my life has meaning, and that my future may still unfold differently from my present. I picture myself years from now, a journalist known beyond Gaza, traveling the world, telling my city's story in my voice and on my page -- proof that Palestinians, whatever the devastation they endure, remain capable of dreaming, of building. This is my letter from Gaza. The letter of a quiet yet unyielding girl who dreams of a better future and believes that hope is stronger than war. And I trust that these words will stand as witness: that the Palestinian dream never dies. Note: Rahaf Radi is an 18-year-old girl in Gaza. She was a student at Roqaya Secondary School in Gaza City before the Gaza war. ESPAÑOL Carta desde Asia Occidental: Tengo 18 años y ya he vivido cuatro guerras. Una carta de una chica tranquila pero inquebrantable que sueña con un futuro mejor y cree que la esperanza es más fuerte que la guerra. GAZA, 5 de octubre de 2025 Me llamo Rahaf Radi. Tengo 18 años, soy estudiante de bachillerato y les escribo desde una pequeña tienda de campaña en un pueblo llamado al-Zawaida, en el centro de Gaza. Es de noche. Explosiones lejanas y ocasionales aún marcan la oscuridad, pero escribirles a ustedes, a quienes les importa lo que sucede aquí, me ofrece un momento de consuelo en medio del caos. Me enamoré de la escritura de niña. Lo que escribo hoy es más que una carta; es un testimonio: la historia de nuestra vida y un fragmento de lo que soportamos aquí. Desde muy joven, he visto la vida con cierta esperanza. Incluso habiendo crecido rodeada de restricciones y dificultades, siempre he buscado destellos de luz. Soy tranquila por naturaleza —me encanta leer, reflexionar—, pero dentro de mí también hay un espíritu rebelde, reacia a aceptar las cadenas de esta realidad. La paradoja puede sonar extraña: la serenidad me da fuerza, mientras que la rebelión me impulsa al cambio. En mis 18 años, he vivido cuatro guerras. Todavía recuerdo el estruendo de los bombardeos en 2014, cuando aún era una niña, y las sofocantes habitaciones de los refugios donde nos escondíamos. En 2019 y 2021, ya mayor, vi cómo la muerte se acercaba sigilosamente a nuestros hogares con cada conflicto. En 2023, la violencia estalló de nuevo y se intensificó hasta convertirse en la guerra que aún no ha terminado. Crecer bajo una violencia tan implacable sería inimaginable en otros lugares; sin embargo, aquí, se ha vuelto algo cotidiano. Hoy, mi familia y yo nos apiñamos en una tienda de campaña de apenas unos metros de ancho. Hemos perdido nuestro hogar. Pero lo que más me rompe el corazón es haber perdido mi escuela. Algunos profesores murieron en los bombardeos. Muchos de mis compañeros han desaparecido sin dejar rastro. Al principio, la escuela se convirtió en un refugio para desplazados. Poco después, fue arrasada. Sentarme en un pupitre en un aula de verdad es ahora una quimera. En más de un año de desplazamiento, los recuerdos de la escuela nunca me han abandonado. Todavía me veo madrugando, abotonándome el uniforme azul y caminando con amigos por las concurridas calles de Gaza. Nos reíamos todo el camino, compartiendo inocentes visiones de un futuro brillante. La escuela era más que un lugar de aprendizaje; era un segundo hogar, un escenario para la ambición. El día que el edificio de la escuela fue bombardeado hasta quedar reducido a escombros, una parte de mí se lo llevó. Mi infancia se derrumbó ante mis ojos. Lloré, pero juré que la destrucción no me privaría de mi derecho a aprender. Construí un "escritorio" con trozos de madera rescatados de las ruinas. Sobre él, coloco los pocos libros que tengo: libros heredados de estudiantes mayores, algunos rotos pero aún legibles. Estudio a la luz de las velas o con una pequeña lámpara de pilas. El aire dentro de la tienda es sofocante; el rugido de los aviones de combate no se aleja del cielo. Aun así, cuando abro mis libros, intento aislarme en otro mundo. Sueño con ser periodista no solo porque me encanta escribir, sino también porque el periodismo parece ser la única forma de hablar por mi generación. Quiero contarle al mundo lo que significa vivir aquí: escribir no solo sobre el dolor, sino también sobre la resistencia y la esperanza; contar las historias de niños, mujeres y jóvenes que se niegan a rendirse a la desesperación. Quiero ser testigo, no solo víctima. La Gaza que conocí de niña rebosaba de color: sus mercados bulliciosos, el aroma del mar, las calles abarrotadas de estudiantes. La Gaza que veo ahora está herida, vacía: casas destruidas, calles vacías, sueños pospuestos, si no destrozados. Sin embargo, cuando me siento frente al mar y observo las olas, siento que la ciudad no está muerta. Como nosotros, tiene el poder de resurgir. Sé que ese día no llegará fácilmente, pero estoy decidida a demostrar que los palestinos —la gente de esta tierra, los herederos de su historia— no desaparecen. Incluso cuando los cuerpos son enterrados, los sueños perduran. Esa fe me da la fuerza para afrontar el miedo cada vez que oigo la muerte de un amigo o familiar, cada vez que una explosión sacude el aire no muy lejos de donde estoy. Controlo mi terror con la oración, con conversaciones tranquilas con mi madre y amigos, con palabras garabateadas en cuadernos. Desde que comenzó la última guerra, he estado escribiendo un diario. Escribí momentos de miedo, el silencio repentino al detenerse el bombardeo, las lágrimas de los niños y los frágiles estallidos de alegría que logramos crear. Escribo para preservar la memoria, creyendo que si sobrevivo, un día dejaré estas páginas en manos de mis propios hijos. Les diré que cualquier éxito que alcanzara no surgió de la nada; se forjó en la larga paciencia de la vida bajo fuego. Para mí, aprender y escribir no son solo un camino hacia un certificado o un trabajo. Son un medio de supervivencia; lo que me convence de que mi vida tiene sentido y de que mi futuro aún puede ser diferente a mi presente. Me imagino dentro de unos años, como una periodista conocida más allá de Gaza, viajando por el mundo, contando la historia de mi ciudad con mi voz y en mi página: prueba de que los palestinos, a pesar de la devastación que sufren, siguen siendo capaces de soñar, de construir. Esta es mi carta desde Gaza. La carta de una chica tranquila pero inquebrantable que sueña con un futuro mejor y cree que la esperanza es más fuerte que la guerra. Y confío en que estas palabras perduren como testimonio de que el sueño palestino nunca muere. Nota: Rahaf Radi es una joven de 18 años de Gaza. Estudió en la Escuela Secundaria Roqaya de la ciudad de Gaza antes de la guerra de Gaza.
Publicado hace 6 días.Poem. Poema. It's a rumor, only a rumor. Es un rumor, sólo un rumor. Muhammad Shehada
Muhammad Shehada@muhammadshehad2 ENGLISH2 oct. 2025 For Gazans,the world beyond the fenceis not a place —it’s a rumor. A whisper through concrete.A glimmer beyond drones.A world imagined,Behind endless walls. Gazans have never seen a mountain.Never felt snow kiss their cheeks.Never touched the bark of an old forest,or dipped their hands in a river or a creek. No lakes.No ships.No airports.No planes overhead.Just war machines.Gunboats.Tanks.Bulldozers.Bombs.And plenty of fighter jets. Most have never met a soulfrom outside the cage they were born in.Their world ends where the fences rise,The world beyond is just a blur,a ghost behind the rusted tin. The few who made it outSay the air smells different,Cleaner.The sky feels wider.The landscape is greener.People have lives. They speak of choice. Of movement.Of dreams not only survival.Most Gazans killednever got the chanceto experience living.They were born dead on arrival. Their lives were footnotesbefore they were even written.They diedknowing only fences,bombs,and the sound of deathclosing in. But we —we must not turn their worldinto a rumor too. ESPAÑOL Muhammad Shehada @muhammadshehad2 · 2 oct 2025. Para los gazatíes, el mundo más allá de la valla no es un lugar, es un rumor. Un susurro a través del hormigón. Un destello más allá de los drones. Un mundo imaginado, tras muros infinitos. Los gazatíes nunca han visto una montaña. Nunca han sentido la nieve acariciar sus mejillas. Nunca han tocado la corteza de un bosque antiguo, ni han sumergido sus manos en un río o un arroyo. No hay lagos. No hay barcos. No hay aeropuertos. No hay aviones sobrevolando. Solo máquinas de guerra. Cañoneras. Tanques. Bulldozers. Bombas. Y muchos aviones de combate. La mayoría nunca ha conocido a nadie de fuera de la jaula en la que nacieron. Su mundo termina donde se alzan las vallas, el mundo más allá es solo una mancha borrosa, un fantasma tras la hojalata oxidada. Los pocos que lograron salir dicen que el aire huele diferente, más limpio. El cielo se siente más amplio. El paisaje es más verde. La gente tiene vidas. Hablan de elección. De movimiento. De sueños, no solo de supervivencia. La mayoría de los gazatíes asesinados nunca tuvieron la oportunidad de experimentar la vida. Nacieron muertos al llegar. Sus vidas eran notas a pie de página incluso antes de ser escritas. Murieron conociendo solo vallas, bombas, y el sonido de la muerte acercándose. Pero nosotros — nosotros no debemos convertir su mundo también en un rumor.
Publicado hace 8 días.De Gaza al mundo. From Gaza to the world. Gaznica. Firas Thabet, Gaznica, 2025, acrylic on canvas, 127 x 152 cm. ESP ENG
De Gaza al mundo. From Gaza to the World. ESPAÑOL La reciente exposición en la galería Recess de Brooklyn reúne la obra de 25 artistas de Gaza ofreciendo una mirada dolorosa y urgente sobre el conflicto persistente en la Franja de Gaza. Bajo ataques israelíes que los propios participantes definen como “genocidio”, estas creaciones buscan más que una expresión cultural; se perfilan como testigos de un sufrimiento colectivo, una denuncia expuesta a través del arte que llega a resonar a escala global. El proyecto representa una apuesta clara por la resistencia artística y el poder testimonial en la construcción de memoria sobre la crisis humanitaria palestina. La exhibición, parte de una bienal internacional descentralizada, destaca particularmente obras como ‘Gaznica’, un tapiz confeccionado por Firas Thabet “bajo bombardeos incesantes” en Gaza, que reinterpreta la icónica imagen del Guernica de Pablo Picasso. El propio Thabet enfatiza que su pieza busca recordar la advertencia del pintor español, a la vez que sirve como testimonio del alcance social y político del arte en tiempos de guerra. Tal intertextualidad demuestra cómo el arte contemporáneo dialoga con la historia para denunciar la perpetuidad del sufrimiento humano asociado con los conflictos armados, en palabras reproducidas en el texto original. Esta función testimonial y memorialista resulta fundamental en la muestra, que según la curadora Fatema Abu Owda, trasciende lo cultural para transformarse en una voz directa salida de la experiencia del genocidio, una amplificación de historias de violencia y trauma surgidas desde la misma Gaza. El arte no es aquí sólo estética, sino resistencia y documento vivo de lo soportado por su pueblo. En la exposición convergen distintas técnicas y miradas: desde los bocetos de Suhail Salam sobre la “miséria mental” provocada por la guerra, hasta ilustraciones digitales de Mosaab Abusall que muestran muñecas marcadas por la violencia, y conmovedoras imágenes en blanco y negro creadas con teléfono móvil por Osama Husein Al Naqqa donde el dolor y la pérdida se corporizan en la imagen de un niño. Esta diversidad en medios y enfoques evidencia la adaptabilidad de los artistas palestinos y la urgencia de dar visibilidad a historias habitualmente silenciadas. ENGLISH Gaza Biennale, installed at the Brooklyn not-for-profit space Recess and titled From Gaza to the World. Gaza Biennial 2025 Review: Defiance Amid Devastation Jenny WuReviews18 September 2025artreview.com Motaz Naim, Ruin, from the series Gaza and Its Destroyed Cities, 2024–25, acrylic on canvas. Courtesy the artist and the Gaza Biennale This New York Pavilion of the decentralised biennial functions as ‘a final call’ To call an exhibition a biennial would imply a spectacle, but the latest iteration of the roving Gaza Biennale, installed at the Brooklyn not-for-profit space Recess and titled From Gaza to the World, is a modest affair. In the lobby a monitor plays a documentary featuring profiles of over a dozen of the 53 exhibiting artists, all of whom are from Gaza. Some are currently living under siege, others displaced. Another monitor loops a selection of videoworks by Emad Badwan, Mohanad Al Sayes and Yahya Alsholy. Alsholy’s captivating short film Escape from Farida (2025) cuts between plotlines about a man digging in rubble in search of a kitten, a couple breaking up over whether to leave or stay in Gaza and an aspiring filmmaker and actress attempting to shoot a scene from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet (1597) in a dilapidated theatre. Many works on view are reproductions of originals that could not be transported to Brooklyn (the press release calls these reproductions ‘displaced’ forms). Hanging beside the entrance to the main gallery is a textile reproduction of an acrylic painting – presently stuck in Gaza – by Firas Thabet. Titled Gaznica (2025) and replete with references to Picasso’s Guernica (1937) – a mourning woman, an eye-shaped lamp – the one-square-metre tapestry is a proxy for an object that is trapped, alongside the vast majority of the civilian population, inside military infrastructure and red tape in the Israel-occupied region. Firas Thabet, Gaznica, 2025, acrylic on canvas, 127 x 152 cm. Courtesy the artist and the Gaza Biennale Recess’s main gallery contains mostly figurative two-dimensional works depicting architectural ruins and scenes of destitution, such as Ossama Naqa’s black-and-white digital drawings, which have been printed on paper and hung studio-style on the walls (throughout the exhibition, the works’ original mediums are listed on their labels). One of these drawings, which Naqa made on his phone while sheltering in a garage in Khan Younis, depicts a mourner entangled in a Käthe Kollwitz-esque embrace with the body of a loved one. At the back of the gallery, sectioned off behind a black curtain, two slideshows projected on facing walls advance through photographs of, among other works, gypsum and gauze sculptures by Mohammad Suliman that resemble carefully sorted piles of rubble. Another video, projected down onto a rectangular plinth, shows artist Khaled Huseyin making naturalistic, nearly lifesize clay busts. Here, Suliman’s and Huseyin’s sculptures have no physical form; they exist as transmissions. In the context of the exhibition, they join a host of ongoing signals, from news broadcasts to social media posts, through which Palestinians in Gaza are attempting to convey the horrors of the genocide that the IDF is committing there. Osama Husein Al Naqqa, The Embrace, 2024, digital drawing. Courtesy the artist and the Gaza Biennale From Gaza to the World is one of 17 branches of an itinerant exhibition curated by Palestine-based artists Fidaa Ataya, Andreas Ibrahim and Tasneem Shatat, in collaboration with the Al Risan Art Museum in the Occupied West Bank. The visuals and ethos of this particular presentation call to mind the notion of ‘bare life’, a phrase coined by philosopher Giorgio Agamben in 1995 to refer to the stripping of life of its civic, legal and cultural dimensions down to mere biological survival. Examples of ‘bare life’, per Agamben, can be found in places where people are subject to indefinite detention by a sovereign power – alive without rights, deprived of the freedom of movement as well as that of permanent settlement. The materiality of the exhibition itself conveys this condition of bare-bones survival: images of works in Gaza are printed on squares of wheatpasted poster on plywood – as is the case with Ahmad Aladawi’s six graphic-style drawings, By Fire by Blood (2024) – and pieces of a vinyl banner, like for Murad Al-Assar’s acrylic paintings The Rose and the War, Palestinian Winter, Pain and Hope and Noise of Death (all 2025). The exhibition design also leans into the aesthetics of provisionality, with plenty of visible eye hooks and temporary structures, such as the black scrim that marks off the screening room, which looks like the threadbare curtain in Escape from Farida against which the aspiring filmmaker and actress film their poison-drinking scene. Yara Zuhod, We Will Return Home, 2024, chalk pastel on black paper, 30 x 42 cm. Courtesy the artist and the Gaza Biennale Visually, it is undeniable that the reproductions are altered forms of the original works. A Child’s Quest (2025), Mohammed Mghari’s painting of a hunched adolescent pushing acid-yellow water canisters in the seat of a wheelchair, was originally an acrylic painting on canvas. Now it is an image on a waxy stretched surface inside an austere black frame. What was likely a layered and textured surface has been flattened to uniform standard resolution. Same goes for Yara Zuhod’s I Am the Homeland and We Will Return Home (both 2024), two chalk pastel drawings on black paper depicting ghostly, blue-skinned women: one hugs a yellow house; the other holds a large bronze key symbolising the Palestinians’ right to reclaim their land. In the exhibition, these drawings, which were made on coarse A3 paper, have all but quadrupled in size; with each groove in the paper magnified, Zuhod’s images appear to be covered in black specks. While the contents of the works and the events they reference are devastating enough on their own, the artists’ and organisers’ explicit material limitations and the reduced quality of their reproductions also manage to unsettle and communicate, on a subliminal level, the severe reduction of basic living standards to which Palestinians in Gaza have been subjected. The extent to which the curators could support the exhibiting artists seems also to have been reduced to the bare essentials of a search-and-rescue mission, whose objective was to document and preserve as many works, studios, processes and personal testimonies as possible under the conditions of war. Recess, which proposed to host the biennial by answering an open call, is a small space, and the walls are densely hung. This seems to speak to the organisers’ desire to include as many documents as possible, given that the exhibition is, in the words of participating artist Fatima Ali Abu Owdah, ‘a final call… before the coffins close on all that remains’. By way of its meagreness and provisionality, From Gaza to the World makes a strong case that, for artists living under occupation, art is not a luxury – not a hobby for Sunday painters or a travel souvenir for wealthy collectors – but an imperative and an inalienable record of life and death.
Publicado hace 8 días.