©EMAN MOHAMMED
11:58 p.m. Dublin / 1:58 a.m. Gaza
Rain begins its slow invasion, first a whisper on my window, then a steady drum across the glass. On the late bus home, the city slides past in smudged yellow street lamps and the red smear of brake lights. The windows fog with our breathing, the air thick with wet wool and diesel. The wipers swipe, hesitate, and swipe again, cutting the storm into brief fragments of clarity before it blurs back into water. Dublin feels unsettled tonight, like the wind itself is carrying bad news.
At this same hour, far out at sea, the Sumud Flotilla had already been illegally intercepted. More than 40 civilian boats, carrying 450 to 500 people, were seized. International activists, parliamentarians, lawyers, artists. They boarded knowing they’d be kidnapped, beaten, deported by the Zionist army. They went anyway. That is victory. Every sail raised was a refusal. Every mile at sea proof that Israel’s walls are paper when people decide they are.
The boats weren’t just symbolic. They carried flour, medicine, insulin, lifelines. Israel didn’t just hijack people. It hijacked survival. Their system is designed to murder through hunger. The flotilla threatened to sabotage that plan, and Israel couldn’t stand it.
In tents across the south of Gaza, people whispered of the flotilla like they whisper of rain after drought. It wasn’t just theirs, it was ours. A lifeline of courage sent across the sea. The flotilla didn’t only carry aid, it carried Palestine’s story back into the world — proof that we write our own history, even when the world tries to erase it.
No TikTok buyout, no Western media silence can erase the sight of hundreds sailing against apartheid. Courage doesn’t vanish just because the kidnappers win the night. Because even when they close deals for apps, people were never for sale. That’s where Palestine wins, where humanity wins. Zionist money can’t buy the hearts beating for liberation.
Rain begins its slow invasion, first a whisper on my window, then a steady drum across the glass. On the late bus home, the city slides past in smudged yellow street lamps and the red smear of brake lights. The windows fog with our breathing, the air thick with wet wool and diesel. The wipers swipe, hesitate, and swipe again, cutting the storm into brief fragments of clarity before it blurs back into water. Dublin feels unsettled tonight, like the wind itself is carrying bad news.
At this same hour, far out at sea, the Sumud Flotilla had already been illegally intercepted. More than 40 civilian boats, carrying 450 to 500 people, were seized. International activists, parliamentarians, lawyers, artists. They boarded knowing they’d be kidnapped, beaten, deported by the Zionist army. They went anyway. That is victory. Every sail raised was a refusal. Every mile at sea proof that Israel’s walls are paper when people decide they are.
The boats weren’t just symbolic. They carried flour, medicine, insulin, lifelines. Israel didn’t just hijack people. It hijacked survival. Their system is designed to murder through hunger. The flotilla threatened to sabotage that plan, and Israel couldn’t stand it.
In tents across the south of Gaza, people whispered of the flotilla like they whisper of rain after drought. It wasn’t just theirs, it was ours. A lifeline of courage sent across the sea. The flotilla didn’t only carry aid, it carried Palestine’s story back into the world — proof that we write our own history, even when the world tries to erase it.
No TikTok buyout, no Western media silence can erase the sight of hundreds sailing against apartheid. Courage doesn’t vanish just because the kidnappers win the night. Because even when they close deals for apps, people were never for sale. That’s where Palestine wins, where humanity wins. Zionist money can’t buy the hearts beating for liberation.
©EMAN MOHAMMED
12:45 a.m. Dublin / 2:45 a.m. Gaza
The rain thickens, hammering the bus, streets drowning in their own reflections. News flashes in: protests in London, Madrid, Berlin, Rome. Morocco stood almost alone in the Arab world, siding with Palestine. Meanwhile Italy’s navy folded its escort at 150 nautical miles from Gaza. Civilians left to face a military alone. If that’s not betrayal, what is?
In Gaza, families clung to radio scraps of news, whispers that maybe, just maybe, one ship had neared the coast. The Mikeno reportedly brushed Gaza’s waters before being seized, the closest breach since 2009. For a moment, the impossible felt within reach.
States issued regrets. People issued rage. Rage is always more honest than diplomacy.
The rain thickens, hammering the bus, streets drowning in their own reflections. News flashes in: protests in London, Madrid, Berlin, Rome. Morocco stood almost alone in the Arab world, siding with Palestine. Meanwhile Italy’s navy folded its escort at 150 nautical miles from Gaza. Civilians left to face a military alone. If that’s not betrayal, what is?
In Gaza, families clung to radio scraps of news, whispers that maybe, just maybe, one ship had neared the coast. The Mikeno reportedly brushed Gaza’s waters before being seized, the closest breach since 2009. For a moment, the impossible felt within reach.
States issued regrets. People issued rage. Rage is always more honest than diplomacy.
1:30 a.m. Dublin / 3:30 a.m. Gaza
By the time I stumble home through the downpour, my phone is already ringing. Too late. I call back. It rings and rings. Finally, my aunt’s voice, thin and hoarse, hunger shrinking her throat. As always, she says “Alo” twice.
“I’m here, Auntie. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she says.
Her voice isn’t warm. Not her old self. I apologize instantly, for calling late, for missing hers, for the complicit world. What I mean is:
I’m sorry I left you to die.
I’m sorry you buried your grandchild.
I’m sorry you’re homeless, hungry, alone.
Behind her, I hear the shuffle of neighbors in tents, wind leaking through plastic. Even silence has a texture now, thin, temporary, breakable. She tells me people can hear the flotilla, almost see it by the shy rays of sunrise. For a second I believe: if it arrives, Gaza will know I’m coming home too.
Since they were forced south, our calls are rationed like food. We take turns. Some days the silence is heavier than words.
By the time I stumble home through the downpour, my phone is already ringing. Too late. I call back. It rings and rings. Finally, my aunt’s voice, thin and hoarse, hunger shrinking her throat. As always, she says “Alo” twice.
“I’m here, Auntie. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she says.
Her voice isn’t warm. Not her old self. I apologize instantly, for calling late, for missing hers, for the complicit world. What I mean is:
I’m sorry I left you to die.
I’m sorry you buried your grandchild.
I’m sorry you’re homeless, hungry, alone.
Behind her, I hear the shuffle of neighbors in tents, wind leaking through plastic. Even silence has a texture now, thin, temporary, breakable. She tells me people can hear the flotilla, almost see it by the shy rays of sunrise. For a second I believe: if it arrives, Gaza will know I’m coming home too.
Since they were forced south, our calls are rationed like food. We take turns. Some days the silence is heavier than words.
2:30 a.m. Dublin / 4:30 a.m. Gaza
Thunder rolls faint in the distance, the way artillery must sound when it’s far enough to let you breathe but close enough to remind you you’re not safe.
We’re lied to: genocides only happen in the dark, we’re told. That people “didn’t know” about the Holocaust. They surely know about this holocaust. Gaza proves genocide can be live streamed in daylight with the whole world watching.
Knowledge doesn’t guarantee justice. Some people are simply evil. Whether they claim God told them, God promised them, or that they themselves are God, it doesn’t matter. When you kill to live, you’ve chosen the shortcut to hell.
There are three genocides active today: Palestine, Congo, Sudan. No APAC lobby to explain away Congo or Sudan, and still the world refuses to act. Britain lit the fire, Israel fans it, America pours the gasoline. Every empire tied to this chain is collapsing under its own lies.
Thunder rolls faint in the distance, the way artillery must sound when it’s far enough to let you breathe but close enough to remind you you’re not safe.
We’re lied to: genocides only happen in the dark, we’re told. That people “didn’t know” about the Holocaust. They surely know about this holocaust. Gaza proves genocide can be live streamed in daylight with the whole world watching.
Knowledge doesn’t guarantee justice. Some people are simply evil. Whether they claim God told them, God promised them, or that they themselves are God, it doesn’t matter. When you kill to live, you’ve chosen the shortcut to hell.
There are three genocides active today: Palestine, Congo, Sudan. No APAC lobby to explain away Congo or Sudan, and still the world refuses to act. Britain lit the fire, Israel fans it, America pours the gasoline. Every empire tied to this chain is collapsing under its own lies.
©EMAN MOHAMMED
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