Living in a tent and surviving rocket attacks was my ordinary a year ago, but now ordinary is a lovely day in West Cork, while my family endures the daily horrors of life in Gaza

We are like children in the dark, feeling for another being made of flesh and not just a ghost. We tell each other without words: You are still here, writes Abdallah Aljazzar

In Ireland, I am alive and safe. But survival feels hollow without the people, places, and routines that once sustained me.

Hunger in Gaza isn’t accidental — it’s managed. It’s enforced. And now, aid is being militarized.

Gaza is birthing a new kind of masculinity — based not on militarism or stoicism but on moral clarity and dignity, even in starvation.