Gaza's Children asking

These are questions no one should ask. Yet, the children of Gaza are asking them, and we, the adults of the world, must face the answers.

I attempted to answer some questions :

"When I die, will they put me in a grave with my mom and dad?"

No. The bombs destroyed the graveyard, but all of Gaza is now a graveyard. A graveyard for humanity, for freedom, and for principles. You might join 30,000 other children and finally be free, leaving this cursed world. Hopefully, we'll be lucky enough to join you.

"When a missile hits us, do we feel pain or die immediately?"

The missile will first travel around the globe, gathering consent for the genocide, killing the humanity we thought existed but never truly did. Then, it will descend from a sky full of unanswered prayers, taking mere seconds to touch the ground. And yes, there will be pain—eternal pain for all of us—but you, my child, will finally find peace.

"I don't want to die in pieces."

You might, to join scattered humanity, to purify the land from the dirt of the invaders, to be evidence for a justice that will never come.

"Why do they always bomb us?"

Because they hate children. Because they hate humanity. Because they can.

"Do the pilots who bomb children have children?"

Maybe. This is a hard one. How can they look into the eyes of their own children and not see you, a child?

"When will we die and get rid of the bombing and the Israelis?"

Soon, maybe now.. 

my speech at the national march for# Palestine

As a British citizen, as a nurse, as a Palestinian — I stand here today with pain piercing through my heart.

I want to read to you the last words of Gazan paramedic Rifaat Radwan:

سامحيني يمة، هذا الطريق اللي اخترته، اساعد الناس.. 

> "Forgive me, Mum. This is the path I have chosen — to help people."

How noble.

How kind.

Yet the merciless Israeli killing machine did not hesitate to murder him — along with 14 of his colleagues.

They joined over 1,580 health workers killed by Israel.

My heros, my role models. I proudly call them colleagues.

I feel elevated to call them my colleagues — those who paid the ultimate price for caring.

I feel devastated to call them my colleagues — murdered in front of the world, in plain sight.

We listened to the outrage...

But the silence is deafening.

> "Forgive me, Mum. This is the path I have chosen — to help people."

Let these words resonate across the globe.

Let them expose the silence. Let them expose the complicity.

But this complicity isn't just distant — it's Here, in the UK — as we try to take a stand, to show our colleagues in Gaza that we care —

we find ourselves targeted.

Labelled.

Silenced.

But we will not be silenced.

When they support genocide, we choose humanity.

When they preach division, we create unity.

When they demand silence, we stand in solidarity.

They made the impossible real - what we thought never again, is a live-streamed genocide. We thought it impossible that we'd witness such horror and then be told we cannot even oppose it. 

They made it real.. 

But if they can make the impossible real, so can we. Soon this will also be real

 there will be Justice for the victims. 

We will see Netanyahu in the Hague. 

And 

We will see A free Palestine!

سامحيني يمة، هذا الطريق اللي اخترته، اساعد الناس.. 

Forgive me, Mum. This is the path I have chosen — to help people."

My hero, my role model.. Him and all the health workers in Gaza, giving it all to help people. 

Three of us, NHS workers, launched a legal case because we refuse to be silenced, we refuse to be complicit.

A Jewish doctor, Aarash, to say Jews stand against genocide, not in my name.

A Bahraini doctor, Sara, to say the complicity of Gulf states, not in my name.

And myself a Palestinian nurse to say, I have every right to say my name..

My name is Ahmad and I am Palestinian.
my speech at the national march for #Palestine

Do Not Despair

 

 

This is a message to myself, and to many who feel the same way.

 

Every day I wake up and the first thing I do is exactly what I did before going to bed - checking the news from Gaza. The death toll, learning about the new martyrs, witnessing the destruction, and confronting the silence, compliance, and denial of most of the world. It's depressing.

 

Yes, I am depressed. 

 

But I need to remember: this is not my battle. It is my war, but what is happening in Gaza is not my battle. I need to fight my battles here, and if I do everything I can - if we win the battle here - we will change reality to stop the battle there, and hopefully prevent it from happening again.

 

I know it's not easy. It's deflating. There's a sense of despair, a feeling that nothing we're doing is making a difference. But that's wrong.

 

The Balfour Declaration was in 1917 - that's how old this tragedy is. Today is only another chapter.

 

It's hard to ignore the reality on the ground in Gaza, but don't let their suffering inhibit you, defeat you, or make you surrender. If anything, let it be the fuel to raise your voice louder, to march further, to display solidarity stronger.

 

We are winning. Yes, in our battle, we are. Palestine solidarity is mainstream. BDS is mainstream. This is big - it took decades of work to get here. 

So don't feel despair. Feel proud.

 

 Stay calm, and carry on.

 

 

Ahmad Baker 

June 2025

Rule of law vs ruling by law : How we are descending into dictatorship

 

 

In June 2000, the Syrian parliament gathered for an extraordinary session. The constitutional age for a president was a minimum of 40. In a matter of minutes, they voted to change it, lowering the minimum age to 34. Why the sudden urgency? So Bashar al-Assad could become the new president, following his father's that very day.

 

This was perfectly lawful and constitutional – and a joke, perhaps, but undeniably within the legal framework. This is the essence of ruling by law: where those in power simply create or manipulate laws to suit their immediate needs and enforce them, regardless of principle or justice.

 

 

This stands in stark contrast to the rule of law, the bedrock of true democracies, where laws apply equally to all, without exception or manipulation. You would think such blatant perversions of the law could never happen in our democracies.

Yet, consider what we're witnessing today: the calculated silencing of pro-Palestine voices in these same democracies. This isn't happening through brute force, but through legal mechanisms – new legislation, old laws dusted off, or intricate legal contortions. We've seen local hospitals banning pro-Palestinian solidarity, introducing policies under various names claiming being apolitical to serve political means. We have seen parliamentary legislation passed to ban Palestine Action. Three hundred eighty-five votes approved this legislation, bringing to mind the images of the Syrian parliament changing the constitution within minutes. Later the courts have sanctioned it. 

 

It's all perfectly lawful.

 

So, are we truly living under the rule of law, or are we subtly shifting towards ruling by law?

I know some will dismiss this as far-fetched, arguing we're not descending into fascism or dictatorship. Maybe they're right, but maybe they're not. As Yuval Noah Harari wisely observed: "It is an iron rule of history that what looks inevitable in hindsight was far from obvious at the time."

Let's engage in a vital thought experiment: Imagine a dystopian future, then trace our steps back to the present. By understanding how we might arrive there, perhaps we can stop it now.

 

 

Ahmad Baker 

One tick and ‘anti-Semitic’ fruit: The curse of being Palestinian

It was a normal Teams meeting at the end of a busy week. Colleagues were discussing the hospital weekend plans. I was there too, nodding, half-present. My mind was elsewhere – on a message I’d sent earlier that morning to a friend in Gaza.

I glanced at my phone.

One tick.

WhatsApp users know the signs: one tick means the message was sent. Two ticks mean it was received. Two blue ticks, it was read.

For most people, it’s a minor delay. But when you’re texting a Palestinian friend in Gaza during a war, one tick carries a sense of dread.

Maybe his phone’s out of charge – normal in a place where power was cut off 20 months ago. Maybe there’s no service – Israel often cuts communication during attacks. But there’s a third possibility I don’t allow myself to think about, even though it’s the most likely outcome if you are living through a genocide.

Still one tick.

Back in the meeting. We wrap up. Plans are made and people start to think about their own weekend plans.

I glance again. Still one tick.

This is the curse of being Palestinian. Carrying the weight of your homeland, its pain, its people – while being expected to function normally, politely, professionally.

Then, I was told my Teams background was “potentially anti-Semitic.”

It was a still-life image: figs, olives, grapes, oranges, watermelon, and a few glass bottles. A quiet nod to my culture and roots. But in today’s climate, even fruit is political. Any symbol of Palestinian identity can now be interpreted as a threat.

Suddenly, I was being questioned, accused, and possibly facing disciplinary action. For a background. For being Palestinian.

Still one tick.

I felt silenced, humiliated, and exposed. How was my love for my culture, for art, for my people being twisted into something hateful? Why is my choice of virtual background more controversial than the devastating violence unfolding in real time?

This is not isolated. Many of us – Palestinians, or anyone else who cares about Palestine – are being challenged on our humanity across organisations, all driven by external pressure.

And then it happened. Two blue ticks.

My friend was alive. He messaged: they fled their home in the early hours of the morning. He carried his children, walked for hours, left everything behind. No food, no shelter. But alive.

How could I explain to him what had happened to me that day? That while he ran for his life, I was threatened with disciplinary action about a painting of fruit? That I was accused of racism for an image, while he was witnessing the destruction of entire families?

This is what it means to be Palestinian today. To constantly navigate a world that erases your humanity, silences your voice, distorts your identity. To be told your pain is political. Your joy is provocation. Your symbols are offensive.

I’ve worked in the NHS for 25 years. It’s more than a job – it’s part of who I am. And now, along with two colleagues, I’m taking legal action. Not for ourselves, but to protect the NHS from external political lobbying. To say, firmly and clearly, that our National Health Service should belong to its patients and its staff – not to those who seek to silence, intimidate or twist it into serving a toxic agenda.

What happened to me is not just unjust – it is unlawful. Speaking up against genocide is not only my moral responsibility as a human being, but also my right as a British citizen in a democratic society.

I don’t write this to compare my experience with my friend’s suffering. I write it to expose the absurdity, the cruelty, of how Palestinians are treated across the world. Whether under bombs or under suspicion, we are made to justify our existence.

It shouldn’t be this way.

Being Palestinian is not a crime. But too often, it feels like the world treats it as one.

Ahmad Baker

One tick and ‘anti-Semitic’ fruit: The curse of being Palestinian | Israel-Palestine conflict | Al Jazeera