August 25, 2026 - Israeli settler attacks on Palestinians in the occupied West Bank are not just ‘clashes’ or ‘riots’, but fit the definition of pogroms: organised and often state-backed attacks on a targeted minority.
Thursday, August 27, 2026
Palestinian boy shot during Israeli raid on UNRWA centre
WARNING: Distressing Scenes
UNRWA chief: Israel seeks to eliminate agency and Palestinian refugee issue
August 26, 2026 - UNRWA chief Christian Saunders says the seizure of its training centre in occupied East Jerusalem is part of Israel’s efforts to eliminate the agency. He tells Al Jazeera that UNRWA is ‘not planning on going anywhere’.
Israeli settlers targeting Palestinian factories to force workers off land
Rising Israeli settler violence targets Palestinian industrial facilities across the occupied West Bank, aiming to paralyse the local economy and force mass displacement.
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| A bulldozer at the Ein Samia stone crusher shows severe damage after Israeli settlers infiltrated the site and set fire to heavy equipment [Screenshot/Al Jazeera] |
Economist Moayad Afanah said that industrial facilities in Area B and Area C of the occupied West Bank are being targeted “collectively and deliberately” by settlers. The recent attacks on the al-Junaidi dairy factories in the Tulkarem area appear to be part of this trend.
“The volume of financial losses is enormous, as burning a single bulldozer or excavator costs the investor hundreds of thousands of shekels [tens of thousands of dollars], which ultimately leads to exhausting the Palestinian economy and continuously depleting its resources and facilities,” Afanah told Al Jazeera. “Thus, these attacks succeed in creating an environment that repels investment and life.”
....the settlers’ deliberate sabotage of Palestinian industry is deepening the economic crisis in the West Bank where unemployment has already reached 29 percent.
More HERE
Palestinians demand return of 1,700 bodies held by Israel
August 26, 2026 - Hundreds of Palestinians held vigils across the occupied West Bank demanding the return of Palestinian bodies held by Israel, and information on missing people. The National Campaign to Retrieve Martyrs’ Bodies estimates more than 1,700 bodies are being held.
We Are Not Numbers: The genocide and a dream delayed
A young man’s dream of studying abroad and experiencing life beyond Gaza is shattered by war.
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| Filling water containers from the water truck that comes once a week to my neighborhood. Photo: Mohammed Basem Abu Qamar |
Mohammed Basem Abu Qamar (Gaza Strip) August 19, 2026
It’s 7 a.m. The sky is cloudy, with light coming through the clouds. I’m on Al-Rasheed Street, on my way to attend my first lecture ever as a medical student at Al-Azhar University. I’m riding an aqalaa — a cart being towed behind a car — an alternative that emerged during the war due to the lack of transportation. My eyes wander towards the sea. Relief fills my heart and I surrender to all around me: the jolts of the aqalaa, the buzzing sound of drones above us, the scattered homes along the way. I’m thinking about the last three years of my life, especially what happened to my long-held dream of studying abroad, a dream my brother Ibrahem has been able to fulfill.
I think back to that rainy day in October 2022. I woke up to the sound of Ibrahem packing his things to attend university in Turkey. I pulled myself out of bed and started to help him until the car arrived to take him to the airport. He stood at the door with tears in his eyes, hugging everyone goodbye, starting with my mother, then my sisters. When it was my turn, for a second we stared at each other, knowing we wouldn’t meet again for a long time. I hugged him while holding back my tears.
After a couple of days, he started to send me pictures and videos of his new life. One of the videos was a simple shot of him walking through his university campus. It was full of greenery and was so quiet that I could hear his footsteps. As simple as the video was, I felt as if it were from a different world, a world I wanted desperately to experience. Since then, my desire to travel abroad has grown even more passionate. I wanted to study abroad, try new experiences, meet people from different cultures.
Trying to hold on to hope
Just a year after Ibrahem left, my dream of studying medicine abroad — fed by watching YouTube videos of medical students from different parts of the world — was shattered. As I was settling into my second year of high school, the war began.
Even before October 7, 2023, I had been feeling anxious about my third and final year Tawjihi (high school exams). I had watched my brothers go through it and was aware of the enormous weight it carried. If I wanted to fulfill my dream of studying medicine, and possibly earning a scholarship, I knew I would have to keep my grades up.
In the beginning, I thought the war would last only a couple of months, and I would be able to continue my education as normal. But as time passed studying became harder and harder. At first, I decided to keep up with basic subjects like physics, mathematics, and chemistry with the help of my older sister. However, as the year drew to a close and the war only grew fiercer, it was confirmed that exams would be held electronically. I did my best, but with a weak WiFi connection and a lagging phone, I grew more anxious every day.
Then came the evacuation. We left our home in Al-Nuseirat for a tent in Rafah, leaving behind, among everything else, all of my books. But I held tight to one idea: that one day I would be exhausted, not from chopping wood and pinning down a tent against the wind, but from chasing my passion. That thought was enough to keep me going.
Survival is taking over dreaming
Almost a year and a half into the war, I found myself facing Tawjihi, the exams I had been dreading.
I always woke up early to start studying. One day, I woke up at 5 a.m, prayed Fajr, and looked through the window at the sky. The air felt serene and full of life — it always does at dawn, right after Al-Fajr prayer. The sky was covered with mauve clouds. I took a deep breath to clear my mind for studying.
I opened my mathematics equations, played Fairuz’s morning songs softly on my phone, her angelic voice soothing the deep-seated sorrow of war, and started solving the problems one by one.
About two hours later, the horn of the water truck reverberated through the walls. Even though it always came at random times, it seemed much earlier than usual. I was still buried in my notebook. I dropped my pen, and glanced through the window to make sure it was the water truck. It was. I muttered to myself, “Grab all the water containers,” and chased after the truck to have any chance of filling them. I chased the truck for about 200 meters.
As I joined the line, I spotted two of my friends and Tawjihi classmates, Hamed and Ahmad, already in line. They too had been studying when the horn pulled them away. The scene was complete chaos: water splashing everywhere, children screaming, old men carrying heavy containers filled with water. I looked at Ahmad with a small smile on my face; he smiled back, nudging Hamed to look at me, too.
After we’d filled our gallons, I carried mine back up to the third floor. Later, we walked together under a sky that couldn’t decide between clouds and light, accompanied by a cool, gentle breeze.
“How is your studying going?” Hamed asked.
“It’s going well,” I replied, in a tone too dry to be convincing. We both knew what the answer really meant, but perhaps he only asked to break the strange silence. Then I went off script. “But you know what the hardest part is?”
They both looked at me, waiting.
“It’s creating motivation when nothing allows for it. It doesn’t make sense to study harder than before the war, without school, without tutors, where every day I have to prioritize chasing a water truck over studying. None of us even know the date of our Tawjihi exams, or whether we’ll be able to sit them at all. And you know my dream of studying abroad — now it’s less likely than ever.”
After a moment of resigned silence, they agreed with what I’d said, even though it was devastating to state out loud how cruel the reality is. But they seemed relieved, maybe because there was a sort of companionship in sharing the weight of suffering together.
Then Ahmad added, quietly, “But keep your trust in God, and keep hope high.”
Hope, a double-edged sword, is getting heavier to carry
In the midst of war, ambition becomes a luxury. When you are reduced to mere survival, there isn’t much room for dreams. The first six months of war were my hardest, not due to worse circumstances, but to hope. Hope the genocide would end. Hope the borders would open. Hope food would enter Gaza.
Hope keeps you waiting for something better and makes you deny the harshness of reality. It’s a dangerous tool, one that can burn you from within. Dreams almost stopped entering my mind. Not because they lost their purpose, but because it felt useless and painful to hold onto them any longer.
Back on Al-Rasheed Street, the aqalaa still rattling beneath me, the sea to my right and nothing but rubble to my left, I realize I’ve never lost my dream of studying abroad. I am filled with regret and sorrow, almost to the point that I forget to breathe. My mind finally cools down; I take a heavy breath and exhale while the wind crashes against my face. My thoughts slip into words: I wish I had gone to study abroad before the war started.
During the war, my brother always called to check on us. On one of those calls, he asked me, “Why do you seem skinnier?”
I didn’t answer, but I understood the gap between us. It didn’t matter how much empathy he had — he was unable to truly understand the situation we were in without experiencing it himself. A part of me also wanted to be like him, to be unable to imagine hunger, to not know what fear is.
The other side of loss
But this time the wish feels different. This time it’s not to pursue ambitions or dreams, only to feel safe and stable again. Maybe my mind is redefining what’s possible. After many failures, my goals are much simpler now. Or maybe my mind is tricking me into moving forward and continuing to thrive. Many things could have led to this transition, but does it matter anymore?
This is life, and here I am, facing it. At this moment, it feels big and full of possibilities, and I feel I was limiting myself before, punishing and preventing myself from enjoying life by holding onto that dream. It may come true, or it may not — it doesn’t matter.
I haven’t lost hope yet. As I said, it’s a dangerous tool, but what do we live for without it? It’s what creates our story. I am thankful for the opportunity to study at Al-Azhar University, and am filled with hope that one day I will chase my postponed dream to study abroad.
I step out of the aqalaa, heading to my first lecture.
It’s 7 a.m. The sky is cloudy, with light coming through the clouds. I’m on Al-Rasheed Street, on my way to attend my first lecture ever as a medical student at Al-Azhar University. I’m riding an aqalaa — a cart being towed behind a car — an alternative that emerged during the war due to the lack of transportation. My eyes wander towards the sea. Relief fills my heart and I surrender to all around me: the jolts of the aqalaa, the buzzing sound of drones above us, the scattered homes along the way. I’m thinking about the last three years of my life, especially what happened to my long-held dream of studying abroad, a dream my brother Ibrahem has been able to fulfill.
I think back to that rainy day in October 2022. I woke up to the sound of Ibrahem packing his things to attend university in Turkey. I pulled myself out of bed and started to help him until the car arrived to take him to the airport. He stood at the door with tears in his eyes, hugging everyone goodbye, starting with my mother, then my sisters. When it was my turn, for a second we stared at each other, knowing we wouldn’t meet again for a long time. I hugged him while holding back my tears.
After a couple of days, he started to send me pictures and videos of his new life. One of the videos was a simple shot of him walking through his university campus. It was full of greenery and was so quiet that I could hear his footsteps. As simple as the video was, I felt as if it were from a different world, a world I wanted desperately to experience. Since then, my desire to travel abroad has grown even more passionate. I wanted to study abroad, try new experiences, meet people from different cultures.
Trying to hold on to hope
Just a year after Ibrahem left, my dream of studying medicine abroad — fed by watching YouTube videos of medical students from different parts of the world — was shattered. As I was settling into my second year of high school, the war began.
Even before October 7, 2023, I had been feeling anxious about my third and final year Tawjihi (high school exams). I had watched my brothers go through it and was aware of the enormous weight it carried. If I wanted to fulfill my dream of studying medicine, and possibly earning a scholarship, I knew I would have to keep my grades up.
In the beginning, I thought the war would last only a couple of months, and I would be able to continue my education as normal. But as time passed studying became harder and harder. At first, I decided to keep up with basic subjects like physics, mathematics, and chemistry with the help of my older sister. However, as the year drew to a close and the war only grew fiercer, it was confirmed that exams would be held electronically. I did my best, but with a weak WiFi connection and a lagging phone, I grew more anxious every day.
Then came the evacuation. We left our home in Al-Nuseirat for a tent in Rafah, leaving behind, among everything else, all of my books. But I held tight to one idea: that one day I would be exhausted, not from chopping wood and pinning down a tent against the wind, but from chasing my passion. That thought was enough to keep me going.
Survival is taking over dreaming
Almost a year and a half into the war, I found myself facing Tawjihi, the exams I had been dreading.
I always woke up early to start studying. One day, I woke up at 5 a.m, prayed Fajr, and looked through the window at the sky. The air felt serene and full of life — it always does at dawn, right after Al-Fajr prayer. The sky was covered with mauve clouds. I took a deep breath to clear my mind for studying.
I opened my mathematics equations, played Fairuz’s morning songs softly on my phone, her angelic voice soothing the deep-seated sorrow of war, and started solving the problems one by one.
About two hours later, the horn of the water truck reverberated through the walls. Even though it always came at random times, it seemed much earlier than usual. I was still buried in my notebook. I dropped my pen, and glanced through the window to make sure it was the water truck. It was. I muttered to myself, “Grab all the water containers,” and chased after the truck to have any chance of filling them. I chased the truck for about 200 meters.
As I joined the line, I spotted two of my friends and Tawjihi classmates, Hamed and Ahmad, already in line. They too had been studying when the horn pulled them away. The scene was complete chaos: water splashing everywhere, children screaming, old men carrying heavy containers filled with water. I looked at Ahmad with a small smile on my face; he smiled back, nudging Hamed to look at me, too.
After we’d filled our gallons, I carried mine back up to the third floor. Later, we walked together under a sky that couldn’t decide between clouds and light, accompanied by a cool, gentle breeze.
“How is your studying going?” Hamed asked.
“It’s going well,” I replied, in a tone too dry to be convincing. We both knew what the answer really meant, but perhaps he only asked to break the strange silence. Then I went off script. “But you know what the hardest part is?”
They both looked at me, waiting.
“It’s creating motivation when nothing allows for it. It doesn’t make sense to study harder than before the war, without school, without tutors, where every day I have to prioritize chasing a water truck over studying. None of us even know the date of our Tawjihi exams, or whether we’ll be able to sit them at all. And you know my dream of studying abroad — now it’s less likely than ever.”
After a moment of resigned silence, they agreed with what I’d said, even though it was devastating to state out loud how cruel the reality is. But they seemed relieved, maybe because there was a sort of companionship in sharing the weight of suffering together.
Then Ahmad added, quietly, “But keep your trust in God, and keep hope high.”
Hope, a double-edged sword, is getting heavier to carry
In the midst of war, ambition becomes a luxury. When you are reduced to mere survival, there isn’t much room for dreams. The first six months of war were my hardest, not due to worse circumstances, but to hope. Hope the genocide would end. Hope the borders would open. Hope food would enter Gaza.
Hope keeps you waiting for something better and makes you deny the harshness of reality. It’s a dangerous tool, one that can burn you from within. Dreams almost stopped entering my mind. Not because they lost their purpose, but because it felt useless and painful to hold onto them any longer.
Back on Al-Rasheed Street, the aqalaa still rattling beneath me, the sea to my right and nothing but rubble to my left, I realize I’ve never lost my dream of studying abroad. I am filled with regret and sorrow, almost to the point that I forget to breathe. My mind finally cools down; I take a heavy breath and exhale while the wind crashes against my face. My thoughts slip into words: I wish I had gone to study abroad before the war started.
During the war, my brother always called to check on us. On one of those calls, he asked me, “Why do you seem skinnier?”
I didn’t answer, but I understood the gap between us. It didn’t matter how much empathy he had — he was unable to truly understand the situation we were in without experiencing it himself. A part of me also wanted to be like him, to be unable to imagine hunger, to not know what fear is.
The other side of loss
But this time the wish feels different. This time it’s not to pursue ambitions or dreams, only to feel safe and stable again. Maybe my mind is redefining what’s possible. After many failures, my goals are much simpler now. Or maybe my mind is tricking me into moving forward and continuing to thrive. Many things could have led to this transition, but does it matter anymore?
This is life, and here I am, facing it. At this moment, it feels big and full of possibilities, and I feel I was limiting myself before, punishing and preventing myself from enjoying life by holding onto that dream. It may come true, or it may not — it doesn’t matter.
I haven’t lost hope yet. As I said, it’s a dangerous tool, but what do we live for without it? It’s what creates our story. I am thankful for the opportunity to study at Al-Azhar University, and am filled with hope that one day I will chase my postponed dream to study abroad.
I step out of the aqalaa, heading to my first lecture.
A note from the owner of this blog: I have read the book "We Are Not Numbers" and highly recommend it. One thing I noticed however, which was glaringly obvious, was that all the young authors who contributed to the book had either managed to leave Palestine or were trying to leave Palestine. This tells me that, unfortunately, the Zionist campaign of genocide against the Palestinian people may be working.
Israeli Court Makes OUTRAGEOUS Ruling In Nun Attack Case
August 26, 2026 - Yona Schreiber, an Israeli settler who brutally assaulted a nun in Jerusalem, has been acquitted of his charges. Ana Kasparian discusses on The Young Turks.
Thursday, August 20, 2026
Funeral for 50 Palestinians recovered from Gaza rubble
A funeral has been held in Gaza for 50 Palestinians whose bodies were recently recovered from the rubble of Israeli attacks. Israel continues to block heavy machinery needed to clear debris, despite its entry being a condition of the ceasefire deal.
Israel’s Escalating Tactic of Dispossession in the West Bank
Israeli settlers and soldiers are besieging three families in their homes in the village of Qusra as part of a growing attack on Palestinian communities in Area B of the occupied West Bank.
August 20, 2026 - For the 12th consecutive day, three Palestinian families, comprising 10 people, including two young children, have been trapped inside their homes in the occupied West Bank, besieged and terrorized by dozens of armed Israelis—both settlers and soldiers. The family members have been stuck in separate homes, unable to shelter together or attend to their basic needs, with food supplies running dangerously low and without access to cooking gas or a fridge.
The latest Israeli siege targeted a small cluster of Palestinian homes that sit atop a hill on the edge of the village of Qusra, in the southern part of the Nablus governorate in the northern West Bank.
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| Israeli soldiers and settlers have been besieging three Palestinian families in their homes in the village of Qusra in the occupied West Bank since August 9. Photo on August 14, 2026 by Issam Rimawi/Anadolu via Getty Images. |
While the siege on the three families has garnered international media attention and statements of condemnation, the attack is not the first of its kind, but rather a more prominent example of a growing tactic by Israeli settlers and soldiers working in tandem to dispossess Palestinians from their homes in the West Bank. The attacks are increasingly focused on Palestinian communities in Area B, a designation under the Oslo Accords where the Palestinian Authority is nominally in charge of civil administration while Israel retains security control.
More HERE
Thursday, August 13, 2026
Israel Removes Genocide Evidence
August 13, 2026 - Israel is removing evidence of its genocide in Gaza, says UN Special Rapporteur Francesca Albanese. She says it needs to stop before it’s too late.
A new Euro-Med Human Rights Monitor report found that nearly 100 Israeli trucks are leaving Gaza every day filled with tonnes of rubble from Israel’s bombardment.
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