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

a Palestinian child

His crime—he's Palestinian.

The pain runs deeper than the cracks in his dry skin, a century of suffering carved into every line. Salt tears have traced the same paths down his cheeks so many times, like ancient creeks cutting through stone.

He will never surrender.

His body—injured, scarred, hollow-cheeked from hunger—yet his soul remains unbroken. His roots tunnel so deep into the holy land that olive trees sprout from his palms, their branches fed by his own blood. Each drop waters the memory of what was, what is, what must be: free Palestine.

He sees his killer's face, knows the hands that loaded the weapon, recognizes the voices that cheered when the trigger was pulled. Their names will be shamed and forgotten.

Nineteen months without real sleep, dreams interrupted by the thunder of bombs. His stomach longs for the weight of bread, his throat for the coolness of clean water. Home exists now only in the scent of dust he carries on his clothes, his school desks scattered like broken teeth across rubble that once was a children's playground.

Everything taken—walls, windows, family photos, the tree his grandfather planted, the key to doors that no longer exist. Everything except the one thing they cannot touch: his dignity, worn like an invisible crown, passed down through generations like a sacred flame that refuses to be extinguished.

His crime—he's Palestinian. His sentence—to remember. His verdict—to endure. His appeal—to the conscience of the world.

And still, he is just a child.

Ahmad Baker 

May 2025

14 miles

I walked back from Central London after the march, tracked the first 22.5 km, which is the distance from Jerusalem to Beit Nuba, my village that was demolished and wiped off the map after 1967 war

14 miles..

 

 just 14 miles from Jerusalem, once stood My village Beit Nuba. Not only were homes and lives erased, but even the olive groves, why do they hate our olive trees, our history markers. 

Fourteen miles, or 22.5 kilometres – a distance measured not merely in steps, but in the immeasurable pain of 58 years of walking through dispossession, and diaspora. It is the vast distance between the ghostly outlines of a demolished village, and the fervent dreams of a brighter tomorrow.

This path stretches to eternity, a reflection of l years of occupation, of refugees, and the silent ruins of towns and villages holding untold stories. Each footfall echoes the steps of my people, Palestinian people. 

Yet, even here, on these clean London roads, my eyes strain to decipher a different narrative. To look beyond the headlines of loss and despair, finding instead the tenacious green shoots forcing their way through cracks in the pavement, a testament to a resilience that blossoms in each solitary, defiant flower.

 

Our hearts bear the crushing weight of what has been stolen: the profound anguish of thousands of martyred children, the ceaseless torment of daily bombardments, the indignity of queuing for water to quench thirst, food to stave off hunger, even a patch of earth for a decent grave. 

Oh Gaza, 

Oh Gaza, 

Oh Gaza.. 

And yet, still, we walk.

 

Unlike the ephemeral dust on a path, the fleeting scribbles on a wall, or the worn markings on a road, what we carry is enduring. We hold within us olive groves, the scent of wild thyme, sweet watermelons, the unwavering determination reflected in the eyes of those children who remain steadfast. Each worn path, even those now lost, is a history etched not in cold stone, but in the very soul of this soil beneath our feet.

And so, we continue on this road. 

Long, long road.

 

We walk, reciting these chants of hope, planting the seeds of freedom, and spreading the call for justice. We find solace in the shared strength of our resilience, a collective spirit that refuses to be extinguished. For even on this seemingly endless journey, each step taken in solidarity reminds us of the destination we strive towards:

A time when we will no longer read the chronicles of suffering, but instead turn the vibrant pages of a free Palestine.

Ahmad Baker

17.05.2025

do something..

Don't be complicit,

Don't just accept the genocide. How many more images of blown up children do you want to see to be convinced that your silence is contributing to the onslaught of Palestinians.

You will say, what can I do? You will say I'm an individual, I can't change things... 6 or 7 billion people are thinking the same. That’s exactly what those in power want you to believe — that your voice doesn’t matter, that your actions are futile. And when millions think this way, injustice prevails. 

There is so much that can be done, silence is not an option. Here are a few suggestions:

1. Talk about it. Don't be shy, talk to friends, family, colleagues, neighbors and people you meet for the first time. Be the new media, the voice of the victims. 

2. Look for local grassroots movements, join them. Yeah, I know, you are busy, we all are. But surely there is an hour here or there in your week you can spare for some local action. Be the movement you wish it existed. 

3. Boycott products and companies complicit in what's happening. Money and income enable the violence. You don't need to buy these products or support these companies. Let them know you will not allow them to sponsor violence with your money. Be the economic force that hurts this colonial project most. 

4. Write to media outlets, to your local representatives, make supporting Gaza your central political issue. It is a just issue. If your MP doesn't support justice and an end to the violence, would they care about patients in A&E corridors, or inflation? Become political, be the new power. 

5. Show your support. Wear a badge, a symbol to show that you refuse to be silent while innocent children are being harmed. Stand up for injustice. "A man who stands for nothing will fall for anything" malcolm X

We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope. Do something, don't be complicit. Your silence is complicity.

#FreePalestine #CeasefireNOW #GazaGenocide #stoparmingisrael #SpeakUp