I formed my political worldview already in my youth—around the Friday table, in the need to confront and separate from my father, who held firm right-wing views.
My activism, and my identity as a human rights activist, took shape over the past six years, through a process of becoming an elder—a shift from an individual to a collective perspective.
And what is this political activism?
The “The Daily File” has no birth date, but rather a process of becoming: from a collection of reports about events in the West Bank shared in WhatsApp groups of anti-occupation activists, to a structured daily report at the end of each day, and eventually to a website.
For at least four and a half years, it has been a daily—verbal, numerical, visual—documentation of the oppressive routine of life in the West Bank. Every day.
Since October 2023, it has expanded to include Gaza, Lebanon, the 1948 territories, and since June 2025, Iran—what we call “the additional fronts.” This stems from the belief that everything is interconnected, and reporting on only one arena falsifies reality.
A concise, repetitive report, driven by the need to document what has happened—and to say: it happened.
To challenge the illusion that each event is exceptional or isolated, and instead reveal patterns. A true archive.
The project “Forcibly Involved”(a response to the cynical, militaristic term “uninvolved”) began in early 2024. It gives names and faces to children who were drawn into violence against their will—who were given no choice in their involvement—and who paid the ultimate price with their lives, across the entire region: Israel, the West Bank, Lebanon, and Gaza (especially Gaza).
On a personal level, the wish is to grant them identity—fragments of life. On a collective level, to create cracks in the wall of dehumanization. To say: they were, and they are gone.
Over time, the project became a silent demonstration with children’s photographs—thanks to extraordinary female leadership—and even a short documentary. Thus, it moved from the personal to the collective.
Between the project of “it was” (the daily page) and “Were and Gone” (Forcibly Involved ), I have become a bearer of testimony and a storyteller.
And how does one tell this story to an audience that does not want to hear?
Through shouting, accusations, confrontation?
Or gently, to the point of blurring—avoiding words that cannot be spoken: ethnic cleansing, Nakba, genocide?
Who is my audience?
Does the story produce change?
Who wants to hear a story that illuminates, in harsh fluorescent light, the murderous and oppressive parts within themselves?
How do I turn the Cassandra-like cry within me into a story that moves others—without falling again into the Cassandra complex?
How do I tell this story here and now, in a way that will have maximal impact?
And what is that “maximal impact”?
I have no answer. I have tried everything—rage and reconciliation, contraction and expansion.
I choose to remain with the question—or to turn it toward you, the listeners.
Sometime in August 2025, out of a desperate inner cry, and in remarkable synchronicity with others, the forum Silence is a Crime was established—a group of mental health and welfare professionals seeking to knock, perhaps even to kick, at the gates of silence within professional associations and among colleagues. Silence—and silencing—under the banner of being “apolitical,” “neutral.”
Here too I encountered the same dilemmas: how to tell the story to those who are not interested in hearing, and who the audience really is.
In this meeting, I choose to confront three assumptions:
First: “settler terrorism”—them, out there,—while ignoring us, who enable it; the fact that “they” are an extension of “us.”
Second: “let’s talk about the West Bank”—but not Gaza, Lebanon, or within Israel. A convenient separation, easier to digest, that reinforces the strategy of divide and conquer.
Third: that October 7 is the zero point of the current situation. It is not.
I want to begin with a vignette:
October 2021, the town of Beita, south of Nablus—near the turn before Huwara, on the way to the Za’atara checkpoint.
Residents protest the grabbing of their land by the Evyatar outpost on Jabal Sabih.
Every Friday they stood facing army forces—no settlers present then (the outpost was empty), were wounded, and some were killed (ten of them), without carrying firearms, without direct contact with soldiers. A struggle inspired in part by Bil’in.
My Fridays at that time were devoted to Beita.
That day, protesters finished Friday prayers in the recreation ground. Photos of martyrs hung on the fence; canisters of tear gas and rubber bullets formed a kind of installation. From there they moved toward the hillside. Children practiced with slingshots among olive trees; elders chanted.
On top of Jabal Sabih, opposite, stood the soldiers. Two hills, a valley between them—a breathtaking landscape hosting a cruel, asymmetrical drama.
The army began shooting—live fire, rubber bullets, tear gas. Through binoculars, one could see soldiers smiling in the shade.
The Palestinians stood with slingshots, clearly unable to reach them.
A biblical scene—David and Goliath. But who is David, and who is Goliath?
“Samira is coming! Run!”
“Samira” was the name given to a drone carrying tear gas canisters, chasing protesters and showering them with tear gas.
I began to run. Previous encounters with tear gas had been unbearable. In that moment, the soldier was my enemy; fear and anger drove me.
But Samira caught me.
I was engulfed in gas—disoriented, dissolving, unable to distinguish inside from outside, reality from fantasy.
A masked young man emerged from the cloud, reached out his hand, and pulled me—perhaps carried me—to the Red Crescent team.
Still masked, he asked them to translate:
“I think you are a mother. I love my mother. I respect her. We treat our mothers better than them”—pointing toward the soldiers.
Who are “they”?
And who are “we”?
Each Friday, returning home—from Beita, through checkpoints, to the Friday meal, to denial and intentional ignorance—was especially difficult.
That experience scrambled everything: who I am, who they are, who the soldiers are (sons of acquaintances?), who is the enemy, who is the one who loves.
All this—without a single settler present.
All this—in 2021, two years before October 7.
Since early 2026:
– 40 Palestinians killed in the West Bank, including 10 minors (8 by settlers, 32 by the army).
– About 650 injured, at least 270 in settler attacks often accompanied by the army.
– 1,500 displaced from 29 communities—96% due to settler violence backed by the army.
– In one year, 36,000 displaced due to military operations, camp clearances, settler violence, and demolitions.
– 9,500 Palestinians imprisoned in Israel, about half without trial.
– Military courts have a 96% conviction rate.
– Since 2020, no Israeli has been prosecuted for killing a Palestinian.
March 2026, A Masked Female Soldierorders a Palestinian shepherd (whose grazing lands were reduced to favor the expansion of settler grazing lands) to leave, to abandon his flock and go, now! Her finger is raised in a threatening gesture. “Why?” he asks, and she answers: “Because I said so, because this isn’t yours. Now.” “And what about the flock?” he asks. “I don’t care.” Afterward, the shepherd is attacked and detained; the flock is likely seized by settlers, unless protective activists were present on site.
Protective activists witness the involvement of security forces in the violent and cruel conduct of the occupation in the West Bank. “The soldiers cannot reach every incident,” the Chief of Staff will say. In practice, at best they stand idly by; more commonly, they are active participants.
More than once, representatives of these forces will lash out at the activists: “If you weren’t here, there would be quiet. You are agitators.” I recommend watching the report by the CNN team that was attacked in Tayasir on March 26 by a military force, and the ideology of the soldiers presented there. Despite the shocked reaction of many, these are things said often—only this time, the victim was an American team, the documentation got out, and the King’s nakedness is exposed. Uncle Sam is not pleased.
To say “Jewish terrorism” and focus it on settlers alone is equivalent to saying “the hand struck” without saying “I struck using the hand.” It is fashionable, it feels comfortable, but in fact, it is gaslighting designed to make us forget that this is a military occupation disregarding international law, under which it is obligated to ensure the welfare of the occupied.
To say “Jewish terrorism” is a form of splitting—they are the bad ones, we are the good ones. They are the aggressor, we are the victim. Splitting enables dehumanization, and dehumanization enables cruelty. “They” are Palestinians, or settlers, or Ben Gvir—whatever fits. And what about “us”?
In practice, for years, and under the “conflict management” policy that characterized Israeli governments until the “Government of Change”—at which point conflict management turned into a policy of annexation—the State of Israel has been conducting an ethnic cleansing enterprise. This is a continuation of the initial version of the Nakba and the sequel version in Gaza. This enterprise has accelerated over the last two and a half years, under the cover of the October 7 massacre.
The essence of ethnic cleansing is the expulsion of Palestinians from Area C into the central cities, which are encircled by a continuum of settlements. Recently, this has extended to Areas A and B. This ethnic cleansing has several arms: funding, media, language, education, law, the army, the Shin Bet, the police, and settlers.
The act of splitting also exists in the separation and division between the West Bank, Gaza, and the territory of the State of Israel. How does the “Harbu Darbu” (Israeli war cry) of Gaza differ from the Jewish terrorism in the West Bank? In essence, both are ethnic cleansing, except that in Gaza, it is raw, blunt, overt, and painted in colors of revenge. A revenge that gave legitimacy to the killing of approximately 72,500 people, including at least 22,000 children, leaving over 58,000 orphans, and 2,700 families completely wiped out—alongside starvation, ruin, and the destruction of any possibility to build or rehabilitate.
The Jenin camp, which has been emptied of its residents since January 2025, is composed of descendants of Nakba refugees from the Haifa area. The Abu Daqqa family, which lost hundreds of its members in Gaza, is the same Abu Daqqa family from Jaffa. Perhaps the separation between Gaza, the West Bank, and Israel allows for an organization—a hierarchy—whose goal is comfort, a certain mental well-being, and a separation between the “justified” and “unjustified” for most of us. Or, ultimately, it is “divide and conquer” for those leading the way.
M., a Palestinian activist living in the north, expressed significant criticism of Israeli policy. About a month ago, he was arrested on charges of incitement. He was stripped of his clothes, his head was forced into a barrel, and his hair was shaved while officers verbally humiliated and physically beat him. He was released after a few days unconditionally other than a two-week silencing on social media. The court criticized the lack of justification for the arrest.
A five-year-old child, a resident of the West Bank, suffers from leukemia. He cannot be evacuated for life-saving treatment because he was born in Gaza. A five-year-old child, sentenced to death by an Israeli judge—because he was born in Gaza.
Israel’s policy was not born on October 7, nor with the rise of the current right-wing government. It is the result of years in which the conflict was “managed”—meaning Israel avoided dealing with the Palestinian issue. The escalation of cruel oppression began sharply in 2021, during the days of the “Government of Change,” when Bennett began what was called the annexation policy. It escalated further when the right-wing government removed any mask of alleged humanity and openly declared its intention to cleanse, destroy, and kill.
I wish to conclude with two stories: one, the will of 16-year-old Ghaith, and the second, the story of the cruel death of 14-year-old Gadallah. Both are gone.
Ghaith Rafiq Yamin, 16, a resident of the Balata camp in eastern Nablus. On May 25, 2022, settlers secured by the army went up to Joseph’s Tomb located in the camp. Clashes broke out. Ghaith was shot in the head (shoot to kill); 75 other Palestinians were injured that night. At Joseph’s Tomb, they celebrated. After his death, his will was discovered:
“Do not put me in the freezer, because I do not like the cold. When you decide where to bury me, do it in a place where there are children, so I won’t be lonely. Keep my social media accounts open, and occasionally post something so they don’t forget me. My favorite bracelet is under the pillow; don’t lose it. Say verses of the Quran for my soul when my name appears on the first page. Come visit me every few days. Talk to me. I will listen. Don’t cry, I don’t like to make anyone sad. I don’t want anyone to cry because of me.”
Gadallah Jihad Juma’a Gadallah, “Gad” to his friends and family, 14, a resident of Al-Far’a camp, was shot dead on November 16, 2025. He is gone. Videos document how, for 45 minutes, he lay dying while pleading for help as a group of soldiers surrounded him—indifferent, filming, looking at their phones. He threw his hat, and they threw it back at him. He raised one hand, then two; they ignored him. Neighbors and relatives watched what was happening; the soldiers shot at the mother who tried to reach her son. Eventually, he died, and his body was taken to the freezers that Ghaith so feared. Gad is one of 55 children killed in 2025, one of 77 minors the army is holding in the freezer to prevent their burial.
They were—and are no more.
And there it is—my Cassandra voice.
A small measure of hope:
I do not believe in measuring the impact of my actions. It is minimal. Recognition, responsibility, and transitional justice will take generations.
Yet, in the act of doing, I demand of myself—daily—to look at all parts within me, to stretch the limits of comfort.
Perhaps, somewhere within, to prove to myself that I am not like them—that I spoke when others were silent.
But for change to occur, we must begin the difficult work of expanding the boundaries of consciousness.