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A person becomes a warrior when he fights.
Against the rot that gnaws away at the life.
Tearing in long suffering.
Igniting burning anger amidst despair and helplessness.

Bitterness is too bitter to swallow.
Humiliation is too humiliating to hold.
Misery is too miserable to bear.
Pain is too painful to feel.

Tiredness is too tiring to force.
Emptiness is too empty to lament.
Futility is too futile to regret.
Confusion is too confusing to ponder.

That's all that's left when life is gnawn away.
Losing life is the same as dying.
Waiting for a slow painful death.
Drowning in self pity for an unfair fate.

Deciding to fight against rot is courageous.
To regain the life that was gnawn away.
To regain the honor that was trampled away.
To be able to live fully again with honor.

A person who fights has honor.
Fulfilling the nature of a warrior because of self respect.
When dying in the struggle means gaining the honor of a warrior.
When living in victory means gaining the life that was fought for.


August 2025

By Alvian Eleven
What does " Free Palestine " mean when too many deaths to count ?!..
Tell me what does it mean about the liberation of Palestine ?!..
Maybe it doesn't mean anything anymore.
But maybe it is still very important to achieve.
So that whoever is still alive can remember whoever has died.
Carrying them to the free life they could never achieve.
Then the old history written in blood can be rewritten with gold ink.
To become a new history of imperfect glory.


August 2025

By Alvian Eleven
Alvian Eleven Aug 12
Anas Al Syarif who passed away on August 10 2025.
You never lost hope for Gaza , neither did I.
I have always held fast to the hope that Gaza will remain the land of the Gazan people.
So when one day I can come to Gaza.
The first thing I will do is visit your grave.
I will sit quietly to pay my respects and bless your soul.
While I sprinkle whatever flowers are sold in the market.
Know that I am honored to have known a brave journalist like you.
The great honor is yours Anas Al Syarif.


August 2025

By Alvian Eleven
Alvian Eleven Aug 11
For nearly two years Gaza has been in chaos.
Every day I used to watch relentless coverage by Anas Al Syarif.
The toughest and bravest journalist from Jabalia northern Gaza.
But now he is no longer appears in front of the camera as usual.
His strong voice is gone.
His resolute face is gone.
His charming smile is gone.
Because he had painfully ended his duty.
It was too painful to see his body wrapped in a shroud buried in a grave.
With a headstone made from broken floor tile written with blue marker.
While his helmet and blue jacket were lying shabby.
No longer worn as usual.

A bitter reality that is too hard to accept.
That Anas had become a martyr following hundreds of other Gaza journalists.
Ismail Al Ghoul , Hossam Shabat , Hassan Hamad , Omar Elderawi , Moamen Abu Al Ouf , Ayman Al Gedi...
Too many Gaza journalists fell one by one.
They had fulfilled their duties as fighter journalists.
Fighter journalists who were not afraid of any threats.
Fighter journalists who were accustomed to hardships , difficulties and limitations.
Fighter journalists who were forced to endure fatigue , hunger , thirst and stress.
Fighter journalists who only wanted to convey the truth from the ground.
That big crimes cannot be covered up with big lies.
Big lies spread massively by major media.

Anas was ready to sacrifice himself in his duty.
He breathed his last breath holding great honor as a journalist fighter.
I still feel sad and deeply mourn his loss.
But I also feel admiration for his courage , steadfastness and resilience.
His charismatic figure will always be eternal in my heart.

Farewell Anas Al Syarif.
Your shining soul is now heading towards a shining realm.
Let other Gaza journalists continue your duty.
Take over your role appearing in front of the camera every day.
Until Palestine is liberated.


August 2025

By Alvian Eleven
‎There lies a land behind the smoke,
‎Where silence screams and hearts are broke

‎Where lullabies drown in bombs and drones
‎And cradles turn to shattered stones

‎Babies cry with lips so dry
‎No blood, no milk, no tear left to cry

‎No schoolbell rings, no hospital stands,
‎Just bones and ruins buried in the sand

‎They queue for crumbs and bleed for rice
‎A bottle of water, the price of life

‎Each has lost _ be it a child or spouse
‎a parent, a sibling or a shattered house

‎Then phosphorus rains on wrecked-out souls
‎To burn their skin to elevate their pains

‎And we the modern civilized race
‎Watch stage 5 famine take its place

‎What further war-crimes must I define
‎Palestine bleeds while the world stays blind

_______
Paghunda Zahid
Ken Pepiton Jul 23
"Every first issue
of the womb is Mine,
from all your livestock
that drop a male as firstling,
whether cattle or sheep.
But the firstling
of an *** you shall redeem
with a sheep;
if you do not redeem it,
you must break its neck."

Adored words, taken holy
out of any context, save time.

Today, we have wars, where once,
certain ones of us were told peace
is impossible, madness lies below,

all we were required to know,

numbers in sequence,
letters on blocks, stiches on
***** that roll, flatten
into wheels,
squared away, to
cubes that don't, but
do crystalize polygenic
univalent angulate orthogonic
planes, tied at the edges framing empty
solids, using science used
for stomachs,
and gourds,
hollowed solidities
growling distracting rattlings
Hunger apathy perhaps, I grieve in Gaza, from a distance, meandering and making peace with sowing seed of my own kind of same ol' same' ol' another day in paradice.
Alvian Eleven Jul 23
Amidst the sound of bombardment explosions and gunfire.
Screams and cries are heard.
Also heard the sound of hungry stomachs.
Stomachs tied with stones to suppress hunger with nothing to eat.
Besides drinking water mixed with salt.
Hoping to silence the stomachs that are making increasingly loud noises.
That is the sound of slow painful death.
From thin and malnourished bodies.


July 2025

By Alvian Eleven
Alez Jul 5
Deathly Silence
from the sky
the trumpets
do not cry

while all around the world
children
are torn apart by bombs unfurled

And the parents
must dig
the graves

if the remains
from the rubble
they manage to save;

While their weeping
vanishes in the void,
many still believe war
it's just a toy.
In Gaza’s hush, the night ignites,
With fire that falls from foreign heights.
No lullabies, no peaceful skies
Just sirens' wail and mothers’ cries.

The olive trees, once full of grace,
Now bleed in every sacred place.
A child clutches a broken toy,
Still searching for a taste of joy.

Walls close in where hope once grew,
Beneath the dust, the sky turns blue
But no one looks, or dares to see
The lives erased so brutally.

The sea is near, but not for play,
It mirrors smoke by light of day.
And prayers rise up through shattered glass,
For peace to come, for war to pass.

O world that watches, cold and still,
Why must the blood of dreams be spilled?
How loud must grief begin to scream
Before you fight for more than dreams?

In Gaza’s heart, they still resist
Each breath they draw is a quiet fist.
And even when the nights are long,
They sing the truth in trembling song:

“We are not rubble, we are the roots,
We are the echoes in the flutes.
We are the dawn you’ll one day see
A people’s pain, a people free.
This poem is the testimony of time witnessing the criminal silence of the world towards the Genocide in Gaza. We all heard the story of the Wolf and the Lamb in our childhood, today we are witnessing it with our own eyes.
Mariah Jul 5
How lucky am I
That my skies explode with pride
Hiding genocide
Free gaza! I am extremely upset with "my" country.
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