Our Father who art in heaven, What did I do to deserve all this pain? Was it a sin I don't remember, Or a promise I left unclaimed? The nights are long, filled with questions, Each tear a silent prayer. Is there a lesson in this sorrow, Or a burden too heavy to bear? Our Father who art in heaven, I seek your light in the darkness, Yet shadows are all I find. Am I forsaken and forgotten, Or is this the path you designed? Our Father who art in heaven, What did I do to deserve all this pain? Was it a sin I don't remember, Or a promise I left unclaimed? I turn to those around me, To the lands that touch my own, But their walls are high, unyielding, And I stand here all alone. My neighbouring countries, do you see me? Can you feel this heavy strain? Your silence cuts like blades, Your indifference fuels my pain. You speak of peace and brotherhood, Of borders that should unite, Yet here I am, forgotten, Lost in an endless night. Do my cries not reach your mountains? Do my tears not touch your shores? Or have you grown so distant, That my suffering you ignore? Where is the hand of friendship, The solace of shared kin? Instead, I find cold shadows, And the walls keep closing in. I turn to those around me, But they don't see the weight I bear. They smile, they speak of sunshine, While I'm lost in my own despair. Their words feel hollow, distant, As if we're worlds apart. They talk of joy and laughter, But they can't hear my breaking heart. I wonder if they notice, The shadows behind my eyes, Or if they even care to see, The truth behind my lies. I've mastered the art of smiling, Of saying "I'm fine" with ease, But inside I'm screaming silently, Begging for someone to see. I reach out, but it feels like nothing, Like I'm grasping empty air. Is anyone out there listening? Does anyone really care? Our Father who art in heaven, do you really care?

In this land where my ancestors' footsteps still echo, I find myself growing like a seed in the soil - a soil soaked with stories, tears, and the weight of endless time. Time isn't a soft companion but a fierce adversary, a blade that slashes through dreams, counting life in the blows that tear us apart. In every flower that blossoms, there’s a story - a story of resilience, of refusing to be silenced. As I grow, I think of those who came before me, who dreamed of a better tomorrow, who planted seeds of hope in a land that often feels heavy. I am their continuation, their voice, their dreams pushing through me. When I blossom, it’s not just for myself, it’s for every person who has ever fought for freedom, of a life without fear, of a future where we can flourish, not just survive. We grow, not because we choose to, but because life here demands it. Everything can vanish in an instant, leaving us to rebuild from the rubble of our shattered ambitions. Life here feels like a puzzle with missing pieces, a dream slipping further away with each day of confusion, each moment of instability that turns our world upside down. Yet, as long as there is soil, life insists on renewal. Even when the petals fall, when the blossom withers, it is not the end but a new beginning. A return to the earth, a way to grow anew From the ashes, from the dust of our bones, life will emerge, for death in this land is never final. It is a transformation, a passage into something deeper, a story that will continue, no matter how often it is silenced. For every flower that falls, another seed is planted, carrying our hopes, our memories, and the promise of a new beginning. So, we honour those who have fallen, not as victims, but as part of this eternal cycle. They are the soil that nourishes the seeds of tomorrow, the roots that hold us steady as we continue to grow. And as we grow, we remember: We are not just the survivors of this story, but the storytellers, the dreamers, the ones who will rise again. In every end, there is a beginning, in every death, there is life waiting to bloom. The sky will not always be dark. Life will go on, and time will move forward, but we will never forget. As long as we are made of dust, why shouldn't flowers bloom from our wounds?

Since I’m a Palestinian from land taken in 1948, I live and work amongst Israelis. This is the reality I was born into; an Israeli entity, government and state. In light of the war, as a Palestinian with Israeli citizenship, I cannot do anything. Anyone calling for its end is accused of supporting terrorism. If I post on social media, I will be arrested. If I march in protest, I will be arrested. If I go to pray, I will be assaulted or arrested... So I have become just a viewer, watching the news and images of the annihilation of my people. As the lives of children, women and the elderly are taken, I have become ashamed and disgraced as a human being - feelings that come before being a Palestinian. The Israeli occupation has annihilated an entire people. Not only shedding blood, but wiping out thought, laughter, safety and freedom. I cannot express my overwhelming anger, and the only reaction I am allowed is silence. As I watch the desecration and violation of holy places, I remain silent to the point I feel ashamed before God our Creator. As a Muslim from 48, I have become afraid of publishing Qur’anic verses calling for love and humanity and praying for our innocent martyrs. Even if I go to Al-Aqsa Mosque, there is a checkpoint with occupation forces at the gates. When I decided to become an actor I was interested in history, culture, politics… But inside 48, I do not feel patriotism or belonging to Palestine. How can I express myself when our freedom has so many limits? When I cannot use my Arabic language first? So I choose The Freedom Theatre in Jenin Refugee Camp, and to live the life of a Palestinian who directly faces the violence of the occupation forces. An oppression that is not hidden. Where we are not divided. A pure real Palestinian feeling. Because of The Freedom Theatre, I saw the apartheid wall for the first time and experienced the checkpoints... I saw the life and alleyways of Jenin Camp... The tired walls riddled with bullets. I saw with my naked eyes everything the Israeli army does with all brutality and barbarism. And it increased my belonging. The repeated aggression on The Freedom Theatre aims to disrupt art and entertainment... To erase our culture and take away a safe space for our skills and dreams. I always feel anxious and afraid. But despite this, we will continue to nurture ourselves so that we can flourish in the gardens…Our civilisation. Oh world, do not extinguish the sunlight from our flowers... let them grow and grow.

Jenin lives in my memory as a bright name, special in my heart. Any violation of Jenin’s features, especially artistic places such as The Freedom Theatre, are a direct distortion of my ambitions, dreams, and the personality that I am forming. I consider theatre and acting a safe environment to express myself. It is where I feel freedom and a sense of belonging. Where my goals transform into reality.Every invasion ends with changes to our reality, an attempt to end our stories and eliminate our talents. But the blossoming details and memories will not change their features, even once the places that held them are destroyed. Everything that happens reminds me of a bitter reality, putting dreams on a waiting list that may be doomed to death. As for my feelings: hidden fear, raging anger, renewed sadness, and despair searching for hope. I do not deny that anxiety accompanies me constantly. I think about the people I love. I think about my life and my uncertain future. Even the worst nightmares we have not yet dreamt are part of our reality. I am unable to read what I am looking into. To understand what fire is burning, unaware when it is my turn. The feather on my desk does not help me fly. I have no pen to recount my feelings. No musical instrument to move its strings in anger and despair. No colours so that I can paint the truth. I close my eyes... I go into my imagination trying to create a better world, a world where I do not need a mask. I draw words freely without restrictions or laws, where there are no ghosts without features and no crimes without fingerprints. A world in which I feel peace and security without anything frightening me. Finally; To all the children and to all the people who want to fly but wake up every day to an unchanging reality... To all the stories that end before they should, and to all the dreams on the waiting list... We deserve life. We deserve our dreams to be realised. Despite everything, hope knows exactly how to creep into our hearts. For the sake of Palestine; we create, write, draw, act, sing, and witness.

In the peculiar sitcom that is life in the Gaza Strip, we've found ourselves caught in a cosmic joke, living what can only be described as the worst stand-up routine ever. Picture this: invaders deciding to spice up their home invasion game by turning it into a dark comedy special. Spoiler alert: it didn't end well for the families, especially when they added explosive baby grenades to the punchline. Talk about a surreal baby shower that left everyone in stitches – quite literally. But hold on, the hospital drama takes a mysterious turn. In a crowded hospital filled with displaced people and more tents than a circus, the invaders thought they were auditioning for a fire-dance routine. They threw bombs on the tents, turning it into an unintentional barbecue party with a gruesome twist. And just to make sure the audience was thoroughly perplexed, they walked over the bodies as if rehearsing some bizarre dance of the dead. In a subplot that's stranger than a conspiracy theory, they invaded houses in the north, turning it into an unconventional reality show where they mistook it for a sinister dating event. The twist? It involved heinous crimes and a shocking family reunion with bullets and kidnappings. It's like they stumbled upon a script from the twilight zone. And in a migration tale that would make Hitchcock proud, they allowed people from the north to migrate south. But at the enemy checkpoint, they turned it into an impromptu scavenger hunt, forcing everyone to leave possessions behind, including money, gold, and even official papers. Move over, treasure island – this is a real-life dark comedy quest. In a bizarre twist of body-snatching escapades, they stole the bodies of martyrs from hospitals, only to bring them back sans organs and with mysteriously faceless features. It's a horror-comedy mix that even Tim Burton might find perplexing. In the grand finale, a house in Jabalia became the setting for an otherworldly disappearing act. A girl went out the window to call for help, but the missiles turned it into a magic show gone wrong – not a trace of the house left. Abracadabra, or in this case, abra-gone. All of this is just a mysterious snippet of the surreal sitcom currently playing in the Gaza Strip. Cue the laugh track... or maybe the X-Files theme music.

We are still living in our flourishing past, caught in our imagination, dreams and thoughts. We are still denying this desolate, dilapidated, corroded reality even as its torments engulf us. Denial is another enemy that oppresses us, restricts our thoughts and paralyses our senses. It prevents us from shaking off the dust of sadness and oppression that has piled on our shoulders, and from which we are no longer able to stand… I am not suggesting that our dreams should coexist with reality. We must save ourselves from memories of a flourishing past. We must shed off dreams that have become deadly, so we do not drown in our present, immersed until we have lost the reality of our existence.

Today, a major invasion began in Jenin. A child was killed while riding his bicycle, a teacher lost his life on his way to school, and the head of surgery at Jenin Hospital was also killed near the hospital. It hurts to see children leaving their schools, screaming and running to embrace their mothers in fear. The look of pain in the mother’s eyes and the anguish they feel for their lost children is heartbreaking. I feel a deep agony that I cannot do anything to prevent this injustice from happening. This situation fills me with anger and a painful sense of helplessness. I feel like all my dreams are crumbling in moments. The places I love are being destroyed and targeted, collapsing before my eyes. It's painful how everything breaks and changes so quickly, with the city's rhythm turning tense, colours changing, and people's faces transforming. Amidst all this torment, I am astonished to see how many people are trying to help each other in these circumstances.

OPENING THOUGHTS I am afraid of expressing myself freely, as I hold an Israeli passport. These statements may endanger me, as more than ever during this war, Palestinians from the '48 territories are prevented from expressing their opinions, principles or even the pain we endure. University students are fearful even to attend classes due to racism, workplaces have become unsafe, and streets as well. Many places of employment have dismissed workers simply because they are Arab, causing significant economic damage to our community. We have suffered greatly; our mouths, even our eyes and hands, are unable to express anything we experience. They are attempting to erase who I am. When I dance, I feel as if they are holding a rope, trying to bind me, while I strive with all my strength to break free. ACKNOWLEDGMENT AND GRATITIDE As an acting student of The Freedom Theatre, I deeply appreciate the chance to share our collective experiences and sentiments from my homeland during these turbulent times. Thank you for acknowledging the widespread impact of recent events on all Palestinians. SAHRED EXPERIENCES AMIDST HARDSHIP In recent months, the challenges faced by all Palestinians have been profound and all-encompassing. The attack on The Freedom Theatre echoes the broader struggle we face daily—an assault not just on a building but on our collective cultural heritage, aspirations, and Palestinian identity. ON THE THEATRE BEING ATTACKED The Freedom Theatre stands as a beacon of Palestinian resilience and cultural expression. Its attack reverberates beyond its walls, symbolizing a larger threat to our right to express our Palestinian ancestry, history and stories through arts. CONCERNS AND SOLIDARITY The fear of repercussions, whether through arrests or other forms of oppression, is a shared concern across our community. We stand together; artists and non-artists alike, in our unwavering commitment to preserving our Palestinian heritage and voicing our shared experiences. DESIRES FOR UNITY AND RECOGNITION We yearn for global recognition of our struggle and for unwavering solidarity with the Palestinian cause. We seek a world where the resilience and richness of our Palestinian culture are acknowledged and respected, our creativity thrives amidst adversity, and our collective voice is heard and valued. Closing Thoughts Navigating this challenging journey, our determination to preserve our Palestinian identity remains unshaken. Together we strive to amplify the voices of resilience, defy oppression through our collective strength, and inspire hope in the face of adversity.

In the name of God, the most gracious, the most merciful. From Jenin, greetings to Gaza and its flood. Peace, peace, peace from the sweet scent of the blood of our martyrs on the soil of the homeland, from Rafah to Jenin. As for Jenin, Jenin is no stranger to sacrifice. Its might and its full hornets’ nest, standing in the first line of fire in the West Bank. We were born into the battle of Jenin in 2002. Born into what our fathers and mothers taught us. We are the children of this history. It lives today in our present. Our reality is a series of weekly invasions in Jenin City and its steadfast camp. In every incursion, our hearts pound in fear for our loved ones and our families from the harm that befalls them from this barbaric enemy. A constant feeling of insecurity haunts us, in our own country. Nothing gives us immunity, not if you are an actor, an artist, a doctor, or a cleaner. We are in a large prison… In fact, if you are the detainee, it is a narrow prison - not a detainee, a big prison. Nowhere there is freedom “on our own land.” We are threatened with arrest or death at any moment for the simplest things. So what freedom is this? And what life is this, for God’s sake? We are a people who do not like death and love life as long as we can find a way to it. A decent life as a natural right. We asked, demanded, and appealed for this. But history is written and the lines are filled with your shameful, despicable, and unjust positions. You who claim law and freedoms. So where are you? We do not want anything from you. We do not want anything from the world, nor do we ask for it. We will continue the journey until freedom.

I am twenty years old and until now I have mixed feelings about what's happening... They say the beginning of your twenties is the beginning of youth. The time when dreams for a better tomorrow and a happy future, blossom and shine. The time to try and succeed in your ambitions without worrying about failure. To begin planning and cultivating with all your strength and energy. I am now at this age. I will start my day tomorrow as I dream. I plan to wake up early and go to the theatre. After training is over, I will film a party, and later return home to do my university homework. Tomorrow is an important day. I finish planning ...Good night ... At 1:30 am, sirens sound in the city of Jenin… The official pages announce: The Israeli occupation forces are storming Jenin city and the camp! The aggression will continue until nine or ten in the morning, depending on how long the occupier wants to stay and keep us under curfew! Shot, shot, shot Clashes and terrifying sounds I can not sleep Everyone is tense Tonight is very difficult... I’m scared for my family The neighbourhood I live in surrounds the camp. I am afraid that a bullet will hit the wall of my house or a member of my family. I hear the news of my neighbour's martyrdom. Explosions Arrests Shouting Bombing It was a night full of terror and I could not sleep. Then the morning came, and all my plans were gone because of the martyrdom of my neighbour, the announcement of a strike and mourning across Jenin. This is how they end all aspects of our life. It is the scenario of my daily existence. This is how we are deprived of our most basic rights. One night of attacks was enough to end everything I planned as if they were saying to me: We are the ones who control your life. You just have to remain silent and accept living in humiliation. Sometimes, they come to my house, placing their snipers there to steal lives. Other times, they attack the symbol of my dreams, The Freedom Theatre. Located behind my home, I see them from the window of my room, exchanging positions around the theatre, their laughter pushing me down, and a voice saying: Forget the theatre; we have turned it into our military barracks. Will the place that produces freedom, security, thought, expression, and a generation that believes in art as resistance, turn again into a place where people are killed? Robbing their freedoms and their families? I want to scream: Stop! Silence of unknown Arab leaders. Silence in the presence of genocide in Gaza, ugliness, destruction, killing of children, elderly, women and men. How can our souls return to a normal life after witnessing all of this? A continuous and hideous nightmare. The feeling of helplessness is heavy, and the feeling of silence in the presence of death is painful, but the means of resistance will not end, and we will not leave, nor will we despair. Jenin is here as if it were little Gaza. How can a mother lose four of her children in one night and remain steadfast and hopeful, refusing humiliation and submission to an arrogant occupation? This is Jenin, and this is real. Twenty years of my life and seventy-five years for the Palestinian people. Our people deserve life, love in its sweet and bitter, and to meet their enemy with pride, honour and dignity. It is either freedom and life or death with dignity. On this land, the occupation will not survive. It is either us or us. A moment of silence ... It's okay, I will go again. Tomorrow is an important day, a theatrical performance, filming of a ceremony, and an exam at the university. Minutes pass... I hear the sirens again. The pages announce the entry of the Israeli occupation army, an invasion of Jenin and its camp. The army is close to us this time. I am afraid a fatal bullet will penetrate the wall of my house and destroy my dreams. I'm back to zero... I am twenty years old, and until now, I have lived in a maze called the occupation, which controls me, my life, my feelings, my dreams and my plans. But for how long?!

Among all the previous raids, this raid was the hardest, because the leaders of freedom, those who taught me what freedom means, were imprisoned. Despite the pressure we are going through, the phrase 'freedom under siege' came to mind. I recall what Ahmad Tobasi said, quoting Juliano Mer-Khamis, “The theatre is my AK47”. With all this internal struggle and feelings of revenge, a sense of strength emerges, the strength of the theatre. Suddenly, an armed Israeli force storms right next to my house, arresting a group of young men and women, my neighbours. As I look out the window, a mix of emotions floods over me. Looking at my family, I feel fear. Looking at the soldiers, I feel strength and the will to resist. A Zionist commander calls to me, issuing a threat, “You're causing a lot of trouble. Watch out for yourself.” Meanwhile, amidst the gunfire, the local news network composed of mothers reports, “The Freedom Theatre has been raided, its property completely destroyed.” I remember one of the plays that required an actor to portray an Israeli soldier... Now, the real soldier is in the theatre, and the actor, Jamal Abu Joas, is imprisoned. The occupying forces are trying to suppress all cultural and historical landmarks in Jenin, raiding theatres and demolishing our important landmarks. I call upon the entire world to take to the streets, wear Palestinian attire, and sing Palestinian songs. I call on you, to express our culture worldwide.

Chessboard. 365 square kilometres, white, black, chessboard. The Knights, they liberate; our Pawns, can we forget them? Our Rooks protect, but our King sold us, and our Queen left us to our enemies. October 7th, after a siege of 17 years, a wall fell. The path of return reopened; our resistance entered by the thousand. Missiles are launched, and the settler flees. Everyone's on the news. From the window of the house, you hear the sound of an explosion. Airplanes, raids, bombing, warplanes. We took their prisoners, to free our prisoners. Until liberation demolishes, our prison walls completely. We teach life, sir. Our life is different. I am at my door, after they killed my loved ones. But when I called out, they returned to my country and spoke of me as a terrorist. They did not see who was holding the weapon, who killed my children and grandchildren, or who took the land of my ancestors. The history of the Nakba is long, but there is nothing new about its story. No matter how many homes are bombed, the voice of truth will not die. We teach life, sir. Our life is different. The siege and shooting returned. The sound of explosions, and the sound of explosions, did not stop this time, even in the hospital. There was a small hope. This is what the doctor told me about my son. I went and came back, and did not find my son, the doctor, or the hospital. Without conscience this heinous occupation, killed my little son. And still it goes on, each day the same events occur. We will remain steadfast, until there is power in our own hands, to make a change. This country needs persistence. We will break the siege and rebuild destruction. My old grandfather returns. We teach life, sir. Our life is different. They still call me a terrorist, and the stone in my hand is my weapon. They did not ask me who started it, but this is my country, and they still call me a terrorist. From the north to the south, my country, and they still call me a terrorist. From the sea to the river, my country, and they still call me a terrorist. From Jenin to Gaza, my country, and they still call me a terrorist. Whatever you want to listen to, hear my words a machine gun, and my voice a cannon. We teach life, sir. Our life is different. This bird is free, in a free Jerusalem, a free homeland. In a liberated heart. Checkmate.

During the Jenin invasion, I felt nothing but strength. With every sound of an explosion, every bullet, every martyr, I grew stronger. The occupation's attack on The Freedom Theatre was nothing but an attempt to obliterate Palestinian culture. Culture is how I convey my voice to the world. Not the voice that cries, or the voice that screams, nor a voice in which I am weak. Instead, a voice filled with determination, strength and challenge. Despite everything that is happening in Jenin, I want the world to know that we remain strong, that we demand you stop calling our youth terrorists, and that we have a right to stand up. We are killed, we are burned, we are bombed. No person in the world agrees that his son be murdered. How do you think a Palestinian person whose entire family was killed should respond?! Who does not want to stop his child's killer? Go to every house in Jenin, it’s impossible not to find at least one martyr in every house! Can you imagine this?! In every home! I want to be a storyteller and speak about the young people who defend us. Those the world claims are terrorists. Does terrorism defend art? Does terrorism defend its brother? Does terrorism defend its mother and father? Does terrorism defend its religion? As an actor, I fear that I will be imprisoned, and by becoming so, I will become a disappointment to my family. Or maybe I will become a martyr like the young people who are defending us. Jenin and Jenin Refugee Camp are a source of energy and strength for every free person in the world. That is why we will not be afraid, despite the strength of the occupation and its barbaric killing of us all.

In the heart of adversity, where shadows of injustice loom large, your voices rise like beacons of hope, piercing through the darkness with unwavering determination. With every step taken, every word spoken, you embody the spirit of solidarity and defiance. You are the architects of change, the defenders of truth, and the guardians of freedom, in your country. From the halls of universities to the streets filled with chants, your actions echo the resilience of a people yearning, for justice and liberation. Your solidarity knows no bounds, crossing borders and bridging divides, uniting hearts in a common struggle, for dignity and equality. As Palestinian students learning amidst the challenges of The Freedom Theatre in Jenin Refugee Camp, we are moved by your unwavering support for our cause. Your solidarity transcends distance, breathing life into our hopes, and dreams for a better tomorrow. Together, we stand against oppression, injustice, and the forces that seek to silence our voices. With every demonstration, every act of solidarity, we affirm our shared humanity and our commitment to building a world where justice reigns supreme. Thank you, dear students, for your steadfastness, your compassion, and your unwavering support. Together, we march forward, undeterred, towards a future where freedom and peace prevail. With gratitude and solidarity.

What is the meaning of time? And what is its reality in our lives? Time here is like a dagger; time here means slow death. I believe that our lives are not measured by numbers but by the number of shocks we have experienced. As we go through life towards our dreams and ambitions, we are forced again to return to less than zero. Everything we plan for can disappear in a second or less. Time may retreat, advance, or suddenly stop in a way that physics and science cannot explain. What about life? What is life, if the sun hides under the rubble? Is life just a puzzle or a distant dream amidst the challenges we face? Our days repeat, becoming harder; we live in constant confusion and insane instability. Since the start of the latest invasion until this moment, I constantly think about my life. I feel huge anxiety about myself, my friends, and the people I love. I'm afraid to watch videos or news, and I sleep for many hours, as an attempt to stop thinking. I get tense when I receive any notification, hoping it's not news of more loss or destruction. With each invasion, I feel that I lose a soul from my souls! Perhaps I need something more than life to feel that I am still living, and perhaps I do not understand how life can be because I have never really lived it. I am still looking for a window that looks out on life, as all the windows I look through threaten me with bullets piercing through. I think about the fate of my dreams on the waiting list. Dreams here require great courage. Even the nightmares we did not dream, are a reality we live constantly, with a wide smile and a lot of "I am fine." We sleep for hours but they are not enough for a bird that wants to fly. We accept any trivial hope thinking it will save us from our prison. When we say "life is hard," we mean it. Every letter in this sentence carries many stories and meanings. I'm scared to look at myself in the mirror; all the mirrors are shattered, and I speak loudly to reassure myself that I haven't lost my voice yet. I live in a constant state of alert, anticipating the worst. I cannot feel safe anywhere. Here, the student, the teacher, and the doctor are killed. Here, the journalist becomes the news, and instead of conveying the picture, he becomes the picture. Everything on this land can be killed. We live on hope or perhaps pain, and everything repeats all over again. In such a life, to be or not to be, there are no options in the middle. I know that our shattered streets, olive trees, the walls of our homes, and the stories and resilience of people, all these things carry a defiance that inspires the world. But to those who want us to always remain strong, and to those who wait for heroic stories... I am sorry, sorry because I am human and I feel sadness, resentment, anger, helplessness, loss of the meaning of life, loss of the meaning of time, and doubt in my worth. Sorry because I speak without masks. The sky will not be obscured by a curtain, life will continue, and time will change, but we will not forget. And as long as we are of dust, why should not flowers sprout from our wounds?