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CRY FREEDOM.net
formerly known as
Women's Liberation Front
MORE INSIGHT MORE LIFE
Welcome to cryfreedom.net,
formerly known as Womens
Liberation Front.
A website
that hopes to draw and keeps your attention for both the global 21th. century 3rd. feminist revolution as well
as especially for the Zan, Zendegi, Azadi uprising in Iran and the
struggles of our sisters in other parts of the Middle East. This online magazine
that started December 2019 will
be published every week. Thank you for your time and interest.
Gino d'Artali
indept investigative
journalist
radical feminist and women's rights activist
'WOMEN, LIFE, FREEDOM'
You are now at the section on what is happening in the rest of the Middle
east
(Updates
Oct. 12, 2024)
For the
Iran 'Woman, Life, Freedom' Iran news
Updated Oct 9, 2024
For the 'Women's Arab Spring 1.2' Revolt
news
Updated Oct. 10, 2024
CLICK HERE ON HOW TO READ
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Click here for an overview by week in 2024
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October 12 - 10, 2024
<<In the
Gaza Strip, four generations wiped out in seconds...
and more actual fact-finding
news |
October 10- 8, 2024
Food for thought?
Well, any word you'll read below
unveils more proof of netanjahus' never-ending lust for
genociding anyone not agreeing with him |
October 5 - 3, 2024
"The US's
lack of response on the humanitarian conditions for
Palestinians is not only ineffective and
counterproductive, but we are also being
accused of being complicit to potential war crimes by
remaining silent on Israel's actions against civilians,"
..., Bill Russo, usa state dept..
Dr. Feroze Sidhwa, a trauma and critical care surgeon. "Our
bombs are cutting down women and children by the
thousands. Their mutilated bodies are a monument to
cruelty."
"The best medicine is peace." Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus,
Director-General of the World Health Organization
Rawya Islim of Gaza: "We will struggle to survive"...
and more actual fact-finding
news
Click here to go throughout
September
and earler, 2024
|
When one hurts or kills a women
one hurts or kills hummanity and is an antrocitie.
Gino d'Artali
and: My mother (1931-1997) always said to me <Mi
figlio, non esistono notizie <vecchie> perche puoi imparare qualcosa da
qualsiasi notizia.> Translated: <My son, there is no such thing as so
called 'old' news because you can learn something from any news.>
Gianna d'Artali.
Al Jazeera - Oct 10, 2024 - By Maram Humaid
<<'We're dead alive': A year of living, reporting the war on Gaza
Maram Humaid interviews displaced people in a camp in Deir el-Balah,
Gaza, during Israel's war on the enclave
Deir el-Balah, Gaza - As I pass the tents in Deir el-Balah's Ard Shurab
camp, a boy shouts to his mother inside: "Mother, the journalist Maram
has come!" The children recognise me now, after a year of reporting on
this war. The women, too. People do not forget your face when you have
sat in their tent and they have opened up to you, sharing details of
their lives even as they insist apologetically that they do not want to
talk, that they do not like the media or even trust it. The women greet
me, sometimes shy to shake my hand because they do not look as clean as
they used to before this war, or even when I saw them last. In that
moment of discomfort - where they and I notice that their tent has grown
shabbier, their clothes more worn and their children's hair more
dishevelled - I use a phrase that has become more common here now:
"In God's eyes, people." With a long sigh, they respond: "In God's
eyes."
'Look at our lives'
Every time I visit this camp, the conditions have worsened. The people
here share their stories - about their problems, their pains and even
their personal quarrels. I speak to one resident, Umm Muhammad, as she
arranges her tent, making it as comfortable as she can. There are
problems between her daughter Ola and her fiancé, she tells me. He
insists on getting married during the war but she and her daughter
refuse. Twenty-two-year-old Ola stands in front of the entrance to the
tent and asks me: "Where should I get married, Mrs Maram? Don't you see
the situation?" I nod my head in agreement with her. "That's right,
never agree," I say. Umm Muhammad offers me the coffee she has just
boiled on the wood stove. I sip it as I sit on a stone that doubles as a
chair. I cannot stay long, I tell her, and as I get up to leave, she
wishes me success and then whispers shyly in my ear: "Keep me in mind."
It is a discreet reference to any financial or other form of assistance
I may be able to offer in the future. "God willing, there is good to
come," I try to reassure her. Elsewhere in the camp, people tell me how
many times they have been displaced and where they were displaced from.
"Tshantatna," they say, a word in the Palestinian dialect that captures
the suffering and hardship of continual displacement - of being forced
to move back and forth between the north, the south and the centre of
the Strip. People gather from the nearby tents to express what is on
their minds. "No one asks about us here, we are forgotten," one woman in
her 50s says. A man walks by. "Look at our lives, look at the rubbish
piled up there and the sewage," he says, pointing. "Insects have eaten
our bodies and the bodies of our children," a young woman tells me.
"We're dead alive," says one of the women who spends her days looking
for shade to escape the scorching sun.
"We're dead alive," her husband repeats.
The hairdresser's stories
In the first months of this war, life seemed almost paralysed. We were
not used to it then. We could barely get by, with so little food, no
internet, electricity, chargers or fuel. Cut off from the world, we
cooked over fire and wood, as the attacks continued all around us. After
about two months of the war, I decided to do something normal, ordinary,
necessary. I took my eight-year-old daughter for a haircut. Najla the
hairdresser greeted us warmly at her home. She was so kind that for a
few moments I felt as though we had briefly stepped out of this war,
even as the sounds of it could be heard all around us. "Do you get
customers during the war?" I asked her. "Of course," she laughed,
explaining that she’d had more work during the war than at any other
time. Her answer shocked me. I wondered what services women could have
been asking for. "Everything," she answered. "From facials and eyebrow
cleaning, haircuts, body hair removal, hair dye, highlights, some of
them makeup, and so on." Najla laughed at my surprise as she took a lock
of my daughter's hair to cut. "What's wrong with you? Does the nature of
women change in war?" she asked. For a moment, I felt joy at the thought
of these elegant, well-groomed women of Gaza who cared about their
appearance, just as any other woman anywhere else might.
Then I felt bitterness and sadness at how the war had wronged them, how
it tried to chip away at their lustre, and at the overwhelming burdens
and responsibilities they bore. Throughout this war, I have continued to
visit Najla. Each time she has told me new stories about her clients -
some of them painful, others funny. "Every day we have one or more
brides who come to beautify themselves for their wedding day," she tells
me as I ask her about what these women wear and how they prepare for
their weddings. Most war-time brides are satisfied with bridal makeup
and a simple hairstyle, she explains. Some insist upon wearing a white
dress after searching high and low for one; others make do with a simple
embroidered outfit. The ceremonies are quick, she says, then the groom
takes the bride and her family to his house or tent. She tells me of one
bride whose entire family had been killed in the war, while her cousin’s
whole family had been killed in another bombing. "They were both left
alone after their families were martyred, so the cousin decided to marry
his cousin to comfort each other," she says. I think about how marriages
elsewhere begin with joy and celebration, while in Gaza they start with
loss and loneliness. That bride had refused to wear a white dress,
despite Najla's attempts to persuade her. "The stories are many," the
hairdresser explains, as she sweeps the floor. "I saw many women and
heard many sad stories."
Every time I return from a visit to Najla, I take the longest route
back. It is as though I need time to absorb the stories she has shared -
the details of people's lives that rarely make it into news reports. I
think about how I could tell these stories, but it is so hard when there
are so many stories of devastation to be told. Should I rush to write
the story of the little girls who lost their legs when their home was
bombed or of the young woman who lost her entire family and her ability
to walk? This is a conflict where priorities conflict. And the priority
is usually given to those stories where lives are at stake, to those who
have lost everything - so the side stories, like those Najla collects,
stay untold by anyone other than the hairdresser.
Life that does not resemble life
When I return from Najla's or from any of my reporting trips, it is to
an address that is different from the one I had at the beginning of this
war.
My father has begun to call our displacement site "our home", the other
residents of the area "our neighbours" and the area itself "our
neighbourhood". The truth is that as much as we try to deny it, we have
grown used to this war, to this forced displacement, to this horror.
Over the past year, the names and places we were accustomed to, the
homes and habits, the daily routines and the routes home have been blown
away. Our personalities have melted and changed. We have experienced
things we never could have imagined. This war has changed us. We still
do not fully know how. Like the war, this change is still unfolding,
growing and expanding. We continue our lives: proof that humans live
normally even in abnormal circumstances. Whenever I ask, people tell me
that they are "going about their lives". People are used to this life
that does not resemble life but perhaps they are ashamed to admit it
because to get used to this injustice would feel like a defeat. But why
should we be ashamed to live?
A secret education
Before the war, my daughter attended a private school. All my hopes were
pinned on her getting a good education and excellent grades. But when
the war came, education stopped. The thought of her losing an entire
school year drove me crazy with worry. I tried everything I could to
resist it. When I learned that the Ministry of Education had developed a
distance learning programme for children who had been displaced to
Egypt, I knew I'd do anything to get her onto it - even though there was
no way for us to leave Gaza. My sister had left for Egypt months
earlier, so I sent her my daughter's documents and all the required
paperwork. After many attempts and using persistent circumvention
methods, I was able to include my daughter's name in the list of
students in Egypt. The next challenge was to get an internet connection.
The lines had been cut and the telephone exchanges were completely out
of order. So, I took a detour, enlisting the help of a relative who
works as a communications engineer. It took two weeks of trying until
the internet connection worked but when it did, I was overwhelmed with
joy and relief. I wanted to shout my gratitude to the relative who would
remind me every day not to tell anyone, lest they be held accountable.
Accountable for restoring one of our most basic rights. Accountable for
a secret internet connection that would allow my daughter to continue
her secret education. At 3pm every day, I’d declare a state of emergency
in the house so that my daughter could sit in front of my mobile phone
or laptop and connect to Microsoft Teams for her daily lessons. If I was
out reporting, I’d make sure that my sister or husband were there to
remind her. I'd worry constantly that the teachers would realise she
wasn't in Egypt but in Gaza. "Turn off the microphone so no one hears
the buzzing sound around you," I’d tell her. "If there is shelling and
sounds of gunfire, turn off the microphone and don't answer. Make
excuses about the internet connection," I’d remind her. Sometimes she
would ask me why. "We learn in secret, my dear," I'd respond. For five
months, she learned like this. Five months of learning amid the noise
and destruction of war as she pretended to be safely removed from it. We
printed each textbook at an exorbitant cost, and she handed in each
assignment via WhatsApp. Then, that most precious of things - a
completed school year and an official certificate advancing her to the
fourth grade. Everything here - from a handful of salt or a potato to a
nylon cover or an hour of internet - is rising in price; everything
except for the value of a person - their hopes, their limbs, their
lives. After a year of this war, we feel that the world has forgotten
that we are just like them - that we, like you, have family quarrels,
that we care about our appearance, and that we would do anything for our
children's futures.
SOURCE: AL JAZEERA>>
https://www.aljazeera.com/features/longform/2024/10/10/were-dead-alive-a-year-of-living-and-reporting-the-war-on-gaza
Women's
Liberation Front 2019/cryfreedom.net 2024
