Falastin - Volume 9 Issue 1

Volume 9 - Issue 1

1

March 2025

Falastin Staff Editor in Chief, Basma Bsharat Copy Editor, Lamia Abdallah Layout Editor, Fadia Alagha Arabic Editor, Fadia Alagha Advisor, Rania Mustafa

We would like to thank Lina Jaradat for providing the powerful cover art for this issue. Based in Jordan, Lina’s art often focuses on socio-political issues, as seen in the cover and in a few other pieces featured in this issue. You can find more of her work on her instagram @linajaradat_.

We want to extend our heartfelt gratitude to all the contributors whose voices make Falastin possible. Our sincerest thanks also goes to the PACC board for their unwavering support of the magazine’s vision, and to the sponsors whose generosity helps to ensure the continued success of this project. Most importantly, we thank you, our readers. It is through your support that Falastin continues to grow and thrive.

973-253-6145 388 Lakeview Ave Clifton, NJ 07011

paccusa.org info@paccusa.org

Table of Contents 06.

The Seeds of Exile - A Palestinian Family’s Journey

08.

‫اإلنتصار القادم‬ ‫نو ُر‬ ِ

10.

You Ask Me Who I Am

‫أميرة أبو علي و عبد الرحمن عياش‬

Sarah Mustafa

11.

13.

14.

Hind Noorjhan Alam

Last Night Promise Hala Kamal Al-Khatib

Stories Collected Janna Ramadan

15.

16.

18.

Gathering the Pieces Haliema Twam

Phantom Memories Reem Suqi

An Early Morning Trip to Ramallah’s Farmer’s Market Aya Mustafa

20.

22.

Aminah Alhassan

Evening Briefing Janna Ramadan

Bullets Fall to the Adhan Shaniyat Turani

Letter from the Editor in Chief and Palestine Education Director Dear PACC family, We are honored to share with you Volume 9 of Falastin magazine.

This issue is deeply inspired by the monumental return of over 30,000 displaced Palestinians to North Gaza in January 2025, following their forced displacement. Despite enduring violence, airstrikes, forced starvation, and widespread destruction, Palestinians returned home as soon as they were able. Devastatingly, as this new volume nears completion, Israel has violated the ceasefire, bringing with it renewed violence, death, and destruction.

In light of this, the theme of this volume is Return. Through our advocacy, cultural practices, and unwavering commitment to Palestine, we dedicate this work to the memory of those Palestinians we have lost and to the promise that we will return.

Issue 1 of this volume, titled Return as Memory, explores how Palestinians in the diaspora preserve their identity through memory, oral history, and cultural practices. Contributors have submitted powerful stories and artwork reflecting on personal and ancestral memories. From Aminah Alhassan’s poignant tribute to her grandfather’s story in Seeds of Exile to Aya Mustafa’s compelling account of her visits to the Ramallah Farmer’s Market, the connections between Palestinians in the diaspora and their homeland are ever-present, whether through physical visits or cultural ties.

This issue also features photographs from past PACC Homeland Project trips. Since 2017, PACC has facilitated a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for Palestinian Americans to visit Palestine—exploring its history, experiencing its culture, connecting with the land, and, most importantly, reclaiming their Palestinian identity.

By fostering these memories of the homeland, PACC has contributed to the active preservation of Palestinian ancestral memory. More than a visit, this experience is an act of reclamation—of identity, heritage, and ancestral memory—ensuring that the spirit of Palestine lives on in the diaspora.

In this volume, we emphasize that return is not merely a geographical movement; it is a profound journey of reclaiming Palestinian identity and heritage—across generations, borders, and experiences, whether in Palestine or the diaspora.

Until freedom, Basma Bsharat Editor-in-Chief of Falastin

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The Way Back Artwork Credit: Lina Jaradat IG: @linajaradat_

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The Seeds of Exile - A Palestinian Family’s Journey Aminah Alhassan In the town of Qalqilya, where the air carried the scent of citrus blossoms and olive groves swayed gently in the breeze, a young farmer named Ahmed tended to his family’s land. He had inherited this earth from his ancestors, each tree bearing the fruit of generations’ labor and love. At just twenty years old, Ahmed had his future carved out in the roots of the land, his hands calloused from years of harvesting oranges, figs, and olives. But in 1948, everything changed.

So he left. Along with thousands of other Palestinians, he fled from the home that had once been his world, a home that was no longer his to keep. He walked away from his land, from the olive trees his great-grandfather had planted, and from the scent of jasmine that filled their home’s courtyard. Some of his relatives stayed and fought, but their weapons were seized, their resistance crushed before it could truly begin.

Determined not to be blind to his oppressors, Ahmed taught himself English. He pored over newspapers, read books left behind by the British, and forced himself to understand the language of those who had taken his land. Knowledge, he believed, was its own kind of weapon.

The warnings came first—low murmurs of danger and soldiers moving closer. Then, one day, Israeli and British soldiers arrived at Ahmed’s farm, their threats as sharp as the steel of their weapons. They ordered him to leave, to abandon the very land that had shaped his childhood.

His son, Hatem, never knew what it was like to live in Palestine, but he carried his father’s longing like a second heartbeat. Whenever he visited, he collected pieces of a homeland he could never fully claim— golden beaches that stretched endlessly, settlers in uniform patrolling roads that should have been

His father urged him to return, to gather what little remained of their harvest before it was taken from them, but Ahmed hesitated. He had seen others try—men like him, fathers, brothers—only to be met with bullets.

Photo Credit: Aminah Alhassan

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free, the laughter of cousins stealing sunflowers from a guarded field. It was a small act of defiance, a reminder that even in the face of occupation, childhood found a way to bloom.

forbidden from returning to the very place that had shaped their lives. They passed away with that yearning still alive inside them, never able to set foot on their native soil again.

But life in Palestine was never stable. In 1959, Ahmed and his family left, seeking a new life in Iraq. There, Hatem was born, and for a while, they found peace. Ahmed found work as a surveyor in Kuwait, mapping lands that were not his own, building a future on borrowed soil. But exile followed them like a shadow. When the Gulf War erupted, Palestinians became targets once more.

The violence forced them to flee again, this time to Jordan, carrying with them the weight of yet another lost home.

Their story is not unique. It is echoed in the voices of countless Palestinian families, each carrying a history of displacement, resilience, and hope. The Nakba was not just a moment in time—it was a wound that deepened with each generation, a wound that refused to heal.

Now, their descendants carry their memory, their struggle, and their unyielding love for a homeland they may never truly call their own. But they also carry their voices, their stories, and their will to fight for justice.

In 1981, Ahmed and his wife made one last attempt to return to Palestine. They longed to walk on their land, to press their hands against the trees they had once nurtured, to breathe in the air of their homeland before it was too late. But the doors were closed to them. They were refugees, stateless,

Because the story of Palestine is not just one of loss.

It is a story of survival. And as long as these stories are told, as long as their voices rise, the dream of return will never fade.

Photo Credit: Aminah Alhassan

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‫اإلنتصار القادم‬ ‫نو ُر‬ ‫ِ‬

‫أميرة أبو علي و عبد الرحمن عياش‬ ‫ازا ًة لِ َما َحدَ َ‬ ‫ض ْ‬ ‫أن َه ِذ ِه ال َفرْ َح ُة َكا َن ْ‬ ‫ت م َُج َ‬ ‫ت‬ ‫َو َك ّٓ‬ ‫ث فِي َس َن ٍة َم َ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫ْ‬ ‫ار ‪.‬‬ ‫َكأ َ َّن َها دَ هْ رٌ؛ َه َمسْ ُ‬ ‫ت ِب َ‬ ‫ص ْوتِي حِي َن َما أعْ ل َِن إِط َاَل ُق َو ْقفِ ال َّن ِ‬ ‫فِي َحرْ ٍ‬ ‫اجى‬ ‫ب أَ َرا َق ِ‬ ‫ار السِّنِّ َوال َّش َبابِ‪َ ،‬و َت َن َ‬ ‫ت األَ ْط َفا َل َو ِك َب َ‬ ‫ِيع‪َ ،‬و َلكِنَّ ال ُم ْش َت َر َك َبي َْن َمنْ فِي َه ِذ ِه الجُمْ َل ِة‬ ‫األَ َل ُم َبي َْن َ‬ ‫الجم ِ‬ ‫الج َّنةِ‪َ ،‬ف َمنْ اسْ ُت ْش ِهدَ‬ ‫ان ُد ْن َي ِو ًّيا أَ ْم فِي َ‬ ‫ِصارُ‪َ ،‬س َوا ٌء َك َ‬ ‫ه َُو اال ْنت َ‬ ‫َف َ‬ ‫العا َل ِم ‪.‬‬ ‫ُوش َ‬ ‫از‪َ ،‬و َمنْ َع َ‬ ‫اش َش ِهدَ َنصْ رً ا َع َلى أَ ْق َوى ُجي ِ‬ ‫ِصا ٌر أَ ْث َب َ‬ ‫ير َلنْ‬ ‫ب‪َ ،‬وأَنَّ ال َّتحْ ِر َ‬ ‫ير َها ا ْق َت َر َ‬ ‫ت أَنَّ َتحْ ِر َ‬ ‫إِ َّن ُه ا ْنت َ‬ ‫الوحِيدَ ةُ ل َِذل َِك‪َ .‬وإِنِّ أَ َرى أَنَّ‬ ‫الوسِ ي َل ُة َ‬ ‫ون إِ َّاَّل ِبالقُوَّ ةِ‪َ ،‬ف َه ِذ ِه َ‬ ‫َي ُك َ‬ ‫ون ُمعِي ًنا ‪.‬‬ ‫الع ْو َن‪َ ،‬وأَرْ جُو أَنْ أَ ُك َ‬ ‫ض َت ْطلُبُ َ‬ ‫َه ِذ ِه األَرْ َ‬ ‫َو َما َزا َل ْ‬ ‫ور َلنْ َي ْد ُخ َل‬ ‫يح ًة‪َ ،‬و َلكِنَّ ال ُّن َ‬ ‫ت أَرْ ضِ ي ِف َلسْ طِ ينُ َج ِر َ‬ ‫َّ‬ ‫وق‪ُ ،‬‬ ‫ت األَ َم َل‪ ،‬أَ َم ًاًل مِنْ‬ ‫وق أَ ْد َخ َل ِ‬ ‫شقُ ٍ‬ ‫الظ َاَل َم إِ َّاَّل مِنْ خ َِاَل ِل ال ُّشقُ ِ‬ ‫ان الرَّ ا ِدعُ‪َ ،‬ف َه َذا‬ ‫يل َجدِي ٍد َاَل َي َت َو َّع ُد إِ َّاَّل ِبال ُّ‬ ‫صمُودِ‪َ ،‬م ْه َما َك َ‬ ‫ِج ٍ‬ ‫الح ُّل ‪.‬‬ ‫ه َُو ال ِج َها ُد‪َ ،‬و َه َذا َ‬

‫‪Artwork Credit: Halima Aziz‬‬ ‫‪IG: @palestinianartist‬‬

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Artwork Credit: Beesan Arafat IG: @beesan.arafat

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You Ask Me Who I Am

I am from Mukhmas, from Jenin, from Venezuela, from Ar-Ram. I am from my parents’ stories of immigration, I am from the sweetness of Knafa and the bitterness of strong Arabic coffee.

And still, you don’t understand— I am more than my hijab and nationality.

I am from the smiles of my niece and nephews, I am the comic relief of my siblings and parents.

I am from the people who say Alhamdulillah through it all.

I am from the struggles, the triumphs, and the tears of my people.

All praise and thanks to Allah.

Sarah Mustafa

You ask me who I am, where I’m from.

But when I say Jersey, you shake your head— “No, I meant from, from.”

I tell you: I was born in Paterson and never lived outside Clifton.

My North Jersey community is unmatched— From the Amos in the streets who have my back without question, To the Khaltos who remind me to send salam to my mama.

I am from the masjid, standing tall beside my sisters and brothers in worship, There’s no place I’d rather be.

But I know what you’re really asking.

You’re asking about the thyme I call za’atar, always on my breakfast table, You’re asking about the people who look and live like me, Who speak in a different tongue, Who you label as uncivilized.

You’re asking about my hijab—wondering if I am oppressed.

You’re asking about my falafel and hummusThe food Israel tries to claim.

You want to place me in a box, but I am from more than one world.

I am from the chaos and commotion of Paterson, and Palestine.

I am from the laughter of my Khaltos, and my Amto.

I am from the prayers of my Seto and Sedo.

I am from the strong smell of cigarettes on my Khalos and Amos, I am from the streets of PalestineThe echoes of my cousins playing in the alleyways.

I am from the separation wall that divides my people but doesn’t break our spirit I am from the chants in the streets: “Dammi Falastini!”

“Rajeen!”

Yet through it all, we remain.

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Artwork Credit: Manal Kahlout IG: @manalalkahlout

Hind

Laugh so hard that your smile shines so bright… so we see it as stars in the night sky, shining from Jannah.

Noorjhan Alam Then, the sky opened, And they, the mothers of heaven, rushed to the front to hold you in their arms, To brush your sweet hair away from your face, To watch your sweet eyes, curious and still.

Our whispers of prayer will always be with you, my sweet one, for you were never alone.

We held on to the edge of our seats, Praying, crying, watching.

If we only knew… the sky had opened up.

And we below, waited … nails digging into our palms as we heard the recordings.

Tears welling up in our eyes, Our throats unable to swallow down the lump.

So now… my sweet one, I smile… for you are home.

I smile, my sweet one, because I know you feel OUR love.

I smile, my sweet, because you can rest.

I smile… knowing that in the worst of it, You were wrapped in love.

Calls and protests, Watching and prayers.

We prayed for that ambulance to come back, But we didn’t know, little one, That the sky had already opened up for you, My sweet one.

I send my love and whispers of prayer to your mother to hold her as well.

Because one day, the sky will open, and you will be in her arms once more.

Don’t fret, mothers, for our sweet Hind.

The sky opened.

The mothers of heaven covered you, The mothers of heaven fed you, The mothers of heaven cleaned you, The mothers of heaven led you to the garden to play.

The mothers of heaven nestled you in their bosom to sleep.

You were never alone, my sweet.

All the mothers were there with you, Some of us taking the night watch and prayers.

As you took your last breath, we were there, my sweet, Holding you with our prayers, Cleaning your wounds with our tears.

As the sky opened up, and as you ascended, You were covered with our prayers, hearing our whispers of love for you, my sweet one.

Now you play among the green pastures, Lay among the wildflowers, Run with those wild little feet, my sweet one, eat and drink,

Artwork Credit: Manal Kahlout IG: @manalalkahlout

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Artwork Credit: Lina Jaradat IG: @linajaradat_

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Last Night Promise

hoping they would guide me through darkness.

Hala Kamal Al-Khatib

Oh, how naive I was!

I trusted them with my inner light, but they left me blind to my last night.

I close my eyes, feel my heartbeat, and hear yours instead.

I assure myself you’re here, holding me, or there, close to my fear, hearing what I cannot say, and understanding what I cannot express.

Hidden feelings and unspoken words, while silence remains the only master– either we kill it, or its light will come to us, carrying death within it.

He’s lurking, knows when to appear, and how.

When this fear sets me free, your love surrounds me.

He thinks he’ll surprise me, but he doesn’t know— a girl raised waiting for death won’t be easy prey.

Protect me with reality, show me pain as you show me love.

Do not soften it.

Let truth be a window, like my windows– they warn me of enemies, reveal the light that deceives me, hiding death behind its beauty, saving me with honesty.

My nights are no longer mine.

They conspire against me, trying to silence my words, to make their voices louder, forgetting our vow.

Artwork Credit: Halima Aziz IG: @palestinianartist

I gave them my secrets, revealed my weakness,

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Stories Collected Janna Ramadan Al-Malha, a village in Jerusalem, and where a maternal family member used to make the call for prayer at Masjid Al-Aqsa, earning the family name Alkhatib.

Safad, known for its almond trees, and in contemporary times, as the home village of the Hadids and Saint Levant.

Yaffa, renowned for its orange and citrus industry and serving as the namesake for Jaffa Cakes.

Jimzu, with a heritage of beekeeping so strong that it might be genetically passed down, as men who never saw their home village now pick up beekeeping as a hobby, unaware that their village was known for it.

Zakariyya, a falahi village with agricultural land used for grains, beans, fruit, and olives.

Ramle and Lydd, known post-1948 for their massacres, but pre-1948 for the Lydda International Airport and olive and sesame oil presses.

Jerusalem, where we can trace our roots back more than 5,000 years.

Acca, Al Safiriyya, Anabta, Beit Hanina, Bethlehem, Haifa, Jenin, Miska, Nablus, Ramallah, Salfit, Tulkarem.

As a Palestinian in diaspora, I may not know my home village in the way the land feels or the neighborhood moves. In this generation, I may not water fig trees in the backyard with teta or hear awlad al jiran play outside.

But still, I am bint baladi.

Homeland Project - Nablus Photo Credit: Rania Mustafa IG: @Raniamustafa1

And the village survives until both it and I return.

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Gathering the Pieces Haliema Twam Diaspora is only living on the tip of the iceberg of your own self-worth.

Waking up in Plato’s cave, with the sun forever burned behind your eyes.

It is digging in the cold dirt with fingertips, picking at minerals and searching for bones to reintroduce to your body.

Diaspora is losing the shape of your tongue and the wisdom that comes with it.

Wearing other people’s identities like trends you are trying to keep up with.

Skin that doesn’t glow because it is missing home remedies.

Diaspora is a timeline, always looking back through whatever stories you can gather.

Afraid of the future and how it will dye the blood of the young and lose its color.

Diaspora is a look of pity, a reflection stuck in a mirror.

Tactile senses dormant under a burning chest.

Artwork Credit: Manal Kahlout IG: @manalalkahlout

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Phantom Memories

The pain and longing are there, so is the hope, the love, the ability to bring beauty and life where others only bring death.

Reem Suqi I have Phantom Memories—flashes of a life that feels familiar, but is not my own.

I see groves of ‫ زيتون‬, and I can smell the soil.

The smell of ‫ مرمية‬triggers my phantom memories.

Suddenly, my hands are experts—they know the right amount to cure the ailment.

I spot some ‫ خبيزة‬at the market, and phantom memories show me how it looks in the wild when I forage for it.

I carry something heavy, and instinctively, I put it on my head. A phantom memory flashes—me in a ‫ ثوب‬, carrying freshly picked ‫ زيتون‬from home.

I’ve never been graceful, but my balance is perfect.

Nothing falls, as if I’ve done this countless times before. I hear the songs of longing, of missing home, and connection to the land, and I feel it. My soul knows this place.

I see the image on TV—hundreds, thousands, forced out of their homes. My phantom memories flash images of panic and fear—walking long distances, carrying a child, filled with uncertainty, sweat dripping down my back. I have never lived through this, but it feels so familiar…

I see someone claiming to support the cause. My phantom memories perk up, showing me scenes of betrayal. “You’re paranoid,” they say. “Be grateful,” they say. But I know a traitor when I see one.

I stay up at night, glued to my phone. I’m worried.

Things are bad, and they’re getting worse. My phantom memories show me all we’ve survived— the ingenuity, the resilience, the ‫ ثوب‬.

Our roots go deep—deeper than the roots of the olive tree.

Photo Credit: Belal Frankie Lulu IG: @belallulu

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Artwork Credit: Halima Aziz IG: @palestinianartist

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An Early Morning Trip to Ramallah’s Farmer’s Market Aya Mustafa “Yallah Sarah, wake up, we don’t want to get caught in traffic,” I hastily try to wake up my younger sister.

how magical it felt whenever I walked through the bakery’s doors and was greeted with the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked treats and traditional Palestinian bread, Kaak. As we near the entrance of the village, my sister raves to my father about the crispy fried chicken store we pass by, informing him of the great role it plays in the modern Palestinian food scene.

“But it’s so early,” she replies with her eyes still shut.

“The perfect time to go to the Ramallah farmer’s market. If you don’t want to come, you can stay asleep, but Mama, Baba, and I are almost ready to leave.”

The drive to Ramallah is supposed to be a quick 15-minute drive; however, due to the apartheid wall, it takes longer. On a good day, without traffic or checkpoints, the route takes 30 minutes. On a really bad day, it can take up to three hours! This is why my mom and I choose to take this trip very early in the morning, alongside the weather being more tolerable and the produce being fresher, it also means much less of a chance of traffic.

Without another word, Sarah- who only sacrifices her sleep for very special occasions- jumps out of bed and starts getting dressed.

My mom and I started this annual tradition of visiting the farmer’s market early in the morning during our summer visit in 2018. Due to the occupation and different life circumstances, prior to 2018, I had only visited Palestine three times. After that visit, we had committed to visiting Palestine every summer, but my dad wasn’t able to join us on these trips until this year, the summer of 2021.

Although my two older siblings were not able to join us on this trip, it felt very special to finally be experiencing my homeland alongside both my parents, who were filled with stories and memories to share of every street and corner.

Once we get to Ramallah, we are greeted with the smell of freshly brewed arabic coffee and the heavenly smell of freshly fried falafel. The city is just waking up; the friendly voices of people greeting one another good morning, “Sabah al-khayr”, the bustling of store owners opening up shop, and the excited voices of the merchants at the farmer’s market announcing what they are selling today and at what cost, fills the air like a perfectly orchestrated symphony.

Once Sarah finishes getting ready, we head out the door to the car where my parents are waiting for us. The cool early morning weather is phenomenal compared to the midday heat. I quickly roll down the windows to enjoy the friendly breeze. As we drive through our village, my dad points out the school he attended as a young boy, reminiscing about the stories that happened on the schoolyards; my mom points out her grandfather’s old house and tells us of the fruit they used to pick from his backyard. I point out the neighborhood’s bakery, which we called the Ajloni, telling my parents

We find a parking spot, and begin our journey through the farmer’s market. The endless display of fruits and vegetables, in all the vibrant colors of the rainbow, pulls us in. The peaches and plums emit such a delightfully floral, sweet aroma. The figs, grapes, and peeled cactus fruit look so juicy, I can barely wait to eat them. My mouth begins to water as my mom and I plan all the dishes we will cook: tomatoes and onions for qilayet bandoura, eggplant and cauliflower for makloubeh, okra and tomatoes for bamiya, green beans and tomatoes for fasouliya,

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jute leaves for molokhia, stuffed grape leaves (dawali), cabbage (malfoof) and zucchini (kusa), etc… We’re each carrying two or three bags of produce, when we see the wild cucumbers, fakoos, our favorite veggie to snack on! We can’t resist and purchase a kilo of it.

We slowly make our way out of the farmer’s market, soaking in the beauty of it all, recognizing the brilliant resistance of our Palestinian farmers behind each and every piece of produce displayed.

of hot sauce to really give it a kick. It’s a masterpiece I can’t wait to bite into. The man hands over our sandwiches with a smile on his face saying “Sahtain wa a’fiya”, the arabic version of “bon appetit”, wishing a double-portion of health and prosperity on the person eating.

We get back in the car and roll the windows down. The sun is shining brighter now. My parents reminisce on their memories growing up in Palestine, and we all begin to fantasize about coming back to live here. I take that first bite of the sandwich, and everything in the world feels right. I soak the moment in: my parents’ pure joy, my sister and I having the chance to connect with our rich culture, and the beauty of my homeland. Such bliss simply from an early morning trip to Ramallah’s farmer’s market. I begin to envision the wonders of what living in a free Palestine may be like.

The streets of Ramallah are now bustling with people.

After we place our bags in the car, the taunting smell of freshly made falafel forces us to a stand to buy sandwiches for us all. I’m amazed by how quickly the man completes the orders of tens of people: quickly slicing a piece of bread open, slathering it with creamy tahini sauce, and then filling it with crunchy falafel, fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, perfectly pickled pickles and beets, slices of lemon, and a touch

Photo Credit: Belal Frankie Lulu IG: @belallulu

19

Evening Briefing Janna Ramadan

Among the 200, Mohammad Al Tous, the Palestinian who has spent the longest continuous period of time in detention. He has been in prison since 1985.

As part of the University of Cambridge Encampment for Palestine, each night we read the news from Gaza in an evening briefing, followed by a moment of silence. This piece was first performed at a Palestinian Community Dinner held outside Boston, MA, during the first week of the first phase of the ceasefire.

Among the 200, 3 brothers from al-Am’ari camp.

Their fourth brother died in prison from cancer.

Their fifth brother is still in jail. And yesterday, their mother found out that the 3 being released are all being deported.

70 of 200 released Palestinians were deported

Day X of the genocide.

The official death count stands at X thousand Palestinians.

But remember, this number is severely undercounted.

10-15,000 Palestinians are still missing under the rubble.

The death toll from today’s attacks is still being updated.”

Israel has gone back on its commitment to vacate the Netzarim corridor that it made during the genocide to divide the north and south of Gaza.

Two hours after that initial report, Israeli forces shot at Palestinians on Al Rasheed street waiting to return to the north, injuring three and killing one.

23 Palestinians were killed in the last 72 hours.

Then we read the news from Gaza: Jabalia Beit Lahiya Beit Hanoon Al Zaytoun Gaza City Khan Younis Rafah

An evening briefing under ceasefire.

There remains, 78 years on, cause for evening briefings.

Then Al Daffa, the West Bank We close with a minute of silence, to sit in the grief and feel.

After 470 days of genocide, the ceasefire went into effect. So, Tonight’s evening briefing, instead starts with: “It is day 7 of the ceasefire The death toll stands at 47,306 But we know that number is too low.

Some days this past week, Palestinian rescue teams recovered over 100 bodies.

Yesterday, 200 Palestinians prisoners were released from Israeli prisons in an exchange for 4 hostages.

Homeland Project - Areeha Photo Credit: Rania Mustafa IG: @Raniamustafa1

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Homeland Project - Bethlehhem Photo Credit: Rania Mustafa IG: @Raniamustafa1

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Bullets Fall to the Adhan

survival, it was the last thing the occupation could never take.

Shaniyat Turani

One night in Ramadan, I stood beneath a sky so wide it felt as if it could swallow the world. The stars flickered above us, and for a brief moment, it was easy to forget that death lived in this land- that just beyond the hills, bombs were carving grief into the earth and a genocide was unfolding in real-time miles away. The wind carried the scent of olive trees, of dust, of something ancient and unmovable. We began to pray Taraweeh, our voices rising and falling in quiet unison, the rhythm of faith moving through us like a pulse. Then, the drones came. Their buzz sliced through the night, an ever-present reminder that even in prayer, we were never truly alone. But no one stopped, no one looked up. Our foreheads touched the ground, and in that moment, I did not think of death. I thought only of the men beside me, of the way they stood unshaken, their hearts tethered to something greater than fear.

A year ago, I stepped onto the soil of Palestine, and the land itself seemed to breathe beneath my feet. I had heard its stories, carried them in my heart like old, weathered prayers—the occupation, the resistance, the endless losses. I thought I knew what awaited me, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Ramallah, encased in concrete and steel, its people moving through streets lined with soldiers, their lives dictated by the barrels of rifles. In Bethlehem, the apartheid wall rose like a scar against the sky, swallowing the city whole, dividing families, severing history from itself. The checkpoints turned roads into battlefields, reducing men to numbers, to bodies that could be searched, detained, or disappeared. Yet in the midst of it all, I saw something unbreakablesomething the occupation could not touch. A quiet defiance, not in the form of weapons or words, but in bowed heads, in whispered prayers, in the unwavering belief that God had not abandoned them.

In Masafer Yatta, where settlers moved through the night like shadows setting fire to homes and cars, I saw women hold their children close, murmuring verses of the Qur’an into their hair.

Their voices were steady, their hands firm, as if reciting these words could build walls around their sons and daughters, could shield them from the flames that swallowed their past. In Nablus, I stood with men in the middle of a dirt road, their bodies forming rows of prayer beneath the watchful eyes of soldiers perched on stolen rooftops. Rifles pointed at our backs, fingers on triggers, waiting for an excuse to spill blood. Yet no one wavered. They bowed, they pressed their foreheads to the dust, they called upon God with the kind of certainty that turned the very ground beneath them into something sacred. It was at that moment I understood: faith was not just belief here—it was resistance, it was

The occupation does not only steal land—it seeks to unravel the soul. It does not settle for checkpoints and soldiers; it wants to take the very ability to hope, to believe, to dream of a life beyond this one. I saw it in Khalil, where an old man who had been forced from his home three times still clutched his prayer beads with unwavering fingers. I saw it in the faces of children who recited Qur’an on the steps of homes that could be demolished at any moment, their voices loud enough to drown out the hum of drones. I saw it in the hands of women who prepared iftar with the same care they would for a feast, as if the simple act of feeding one another was itself an act of defiance.

There was something in them the occupation could not reach, something even the threat of death could not touch. Their faith was not just a comfort—it was a weapon, a shield, a refusal to surrender.

When I left Palestine, I was not the same man who had arrived. I had come with the eyes of a journalist, seeking to document tragedy, but I left

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something even war could not steal.

Now, when I stand in prayer, I carry Palestine with me. My forehead touches the ground, and I think of the dirt roads of Nablus, of the rooftops lined with watching soldiers, of the wind moving through the olive trees like an old promise. I think of the voices that rose in unison, calling on God with a certainty that defied fear. And I know now that to have faith is not just to believe—it is to resist, to endure, to carve one’s existence into the fabric of the earth and refuse to be erased.

carrying something far heavier—the knowledge that faith itself was the greatest act of resistance. I had seen people whose prayers stood stronger than walls, whose hope outlasted every attempt to erase them. I had stood beside them, prayed amongst them, whispered “Ameen” beneath a sky that had borne witness to their suffering and still held their dreams. The world could turn away, could remain silent, but here, among the ruins and the roadblocks, they had not given up. They carried something deeper than grief,

Photo Credit: Shaniyat Chowdhury

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