This Is Not Silence

They were not soldiers,
but journalists—
Anas al-Sharif, Mohammed Qreiqeh,
Ibrahim Zaher, Mohammed Noufal—
names that should have been spoken
only in the context of stories they told,
not in the finality of obituaries.

They sheltered near al-Shifa Hospital,
beneath a tent that offered shade by day
and the illusion of safety by night.
Their cameras rested for a moment,
but their work never truly stopped—
every glance, every breath
still recording the siege around them.

When the strike came,
it tore through more than fabric and ground.
It silenced voices that had carried
the dust, the grief,
and the stubborn hope of Gaza
to the world beyond its borders.

They said the bombs were meant for others,
but the ones who fell
were holding nothing but the truth.

Anas was twenty-eight,
and his last broadcasts felt heavier than grief—
not just news,
but the raw weight of reality
captured in the midst of falling rubble.

Now their absence is another shadow in the city,
yet the truth they carried
still moves through the world,
like light that refuses to go out.

It broke my heart to write this. It was so hard to even sit down and begin, and somehow I couldn’t breathe while doing it. With everything happening around us, it feels like this is the portal for hell to descend on Gaza like evil has won. Even though I know they haven’t, and never will, Gaza and Palestine will be free. But right now, in this moment, I’ve lost hope in this world. And I stand by what I say: every person who stays silent is a Zionist by now. What more proof do you need?

Let me tell you this: those who are silent about genocide are the same people who stayed silent when they saw abuse, whether in their family, among friends, or out in the world. Silence is never neutral; it has always been a choice that sides with the oppressor. It’s the same silence that allowed harm to grow in the shadows, the same silence that pretends not to see because speaking would be inconvenient.

So in a way, this shouldn’t be a surprise. And if your heart aches with this, if you feel the weight of these words pressing on you the way they press on me, then know this there are ways to stand with those who suffer:

• Emergency Aid for Palestine with Khaled Beydoun (Human Appeal USA)
  Supporting families facing one of the worst humanitarian crises providing urgent food, medical supplies, and shelter.
  Donate here »

• Orphanage in Gaza by Human Appeal
  Providing shelter, care, and education to thousands of children who have lost one or both parents in Gaza’s largest orphan crisis in modern history.
  Donate here »

• Gaza Relief: Deliver Urgent Food & Water (Human Development Fund)
  Supplying essential baby formula, hot meals, clean water, and medical kits to families living amid devastation and famine.
  Donate here »

Even if you cannot give money, your voice matters. Share this poem, talk about what you’ve read, and refuse to let their stories be swallowed by silence. Every act of awareness is a step toward justice.

Thank you for opening your heart.
Thank you for refusing to be silent.

With hope and fire,

A Ikram