Women cooking - Jerusalem 2026, Water Colours - Rawan Anani

Women cooking - Jerusalem 2026 Water Colours  Rawan Anani

 https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=1724246739705931&set=a.1461531485977459

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Painting "Playing for Return" (2020) from the "The Flute and the Goldfinch" series - by Palestinian artist Fayez Al-Hasani

Painting "Playing for Return" (2020) from the "The Flute and the Goldfinch" series - by Palestinian artist Fayez Al-Hasani

 https://x.com/Boudicca61AD/status/2102201352726220955/photo/1

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Israel deliberately starting wildfires in southern Lebanon, firefighters say: First responders, residents and environmental groups say [Israeli] military dropping flares to destroy forests and crops

Forest fires sweep through the outskirts of the southern Lebanon village of Kfar Shouba on 5 August after Israeli bombing, despite the ceasefire. Photograph: AFP/Getty Images

Firefighters and residents of south Lebanon have accused the Israeli military of lighting wildfires in the region, as forested areas burned down in blazes sparked by Israeli bombing.

Environmental groups said the fires in recent weeks were part of a longstanding Israeli practice of targeting Lebanon’s natural environment.

On Tuesday, the Israeli military dropped flares in a wooded area outside Khiam, in south Lebanon, sparking blazes. When firefighters attempted to extinguish the flames, a drone struck close by, forcing them to withdraw, the head of the civil defence in the Nabatieh region, Hussein Fakih, said.

“Most of our missions are now related to fires. There are enormous areas of woodland that have burned, I don’t have the exact figures, but in the areas close to the [frontline], around 30-40% of the land has been affected by fires,” he said.

The Israeli military has caused fires across south Lebanon, in particular in olive groves and agricultural land, in the nearly two-months since the 17 June ceasefire that mostly ended fighting between Hezbollah and Israel, according to videos and testimony from first responders.

The military was asked for comment on each of the wildfire incidents, but did not respond.

“They started doing this right after the ceasefire, and there have been incendiary bombs every day,” said Fakih. “Small drones come out and drop incendiary materials, [white] phosphorus shells are fired at the woodlands, in addition to illumination flares that they drop during the daytime so the vegetation catches fire.”

Firefighters and residents of other areas in south Lebanon describe similar blazes being started by Israeli munitions and drones in dry scrub and woodlands. On Friday, Israeli munitions created large wildfires in two heavily forested areas: in Kfarchouba, close to the border, and between Jezzine and the western Bekaa valley.

The civil defence station chief in the area, Samir Hardan, said a fire was started near Kfarchouba on Friday afternoon after a drone dropped a munition in woodlands. After battling blazes overnight and extinguishing them on Saturday, a second drone started another fire on Sunday, Hardan said.

Firefighters, who are required to coordinate their movements with the Lebanese army, which relays their request to a “deconfliction” group that includes the Israeli military, were given permission to fight the fires at only two spots, and not other areas where fires were raging.

According to environmental groups, the fires are part of a pattern of Israeli attacks against Lebanon’s environment, which threaten the country’s woodlands and the biodiversity they support, experts said.

“These are long-established woodlands, dominated by productive stone pine alongside oak. They perform critical functions. The wider area is also an important passage and resting ground for migratory birds,” said Hisham Younes, the founder of the Lebanese conservation organisation Green Southerners.... READ MORE   https://www.theguardian.com/world/2026/aug/12/israel-deliberately-starting-wildfires-in-southern-lebanon-firefighters-say

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My Sister Najah (AY) By Mike Odetalla of Beit Hanina, Palestine

Mike Hanini Odetalla

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My Sister Najah (AY)

By Mike Odetalla

 

As a small boy growing up in our village of Beit Hanina, Palestine, I was a mischievous child with an insatiable curiosity and an irrepressible desire to roam. The hills that encircled our village were my kingdom, and escaping the watchful eyes of my family became an art form that might well have made Harry Houdini proud.

 

I was the youngest of five children—two brothers and two sisters, all much older than I was. The sibling closest to me in age was my sister Najah, who was six years older. Because of that, and perhaps because she was the most patient, my mother often entrusted her with the daunting task of watching over me whenever she left the house.

 

My mother’s instructions were simple and direct: “Keep an eye on your brother and make sure he does not leave.”

 

Najah did her best, but I was determined.

 

I would wait patiently for the slightest distraction. Then, with my homemade slingshot clutched in one hand, I would slip outside, climb over the patio, leap onto the wall that separated our home from the neighbors’, and within moments I would be scaling the steep hill that rose behind our house.

 

Those hills were my paradise.

 

There, I flew homemade kites that danced against the blue Palestinian sky. I explored ancient caves that seemed filled with mystery and adventure. I stalked birds with my slingshot, imagining myself a great hunter. To a little boy, those hills were not merely part of the landscape—they were a vast and wondrous playground where I experienced some of the happiest moments of my childhood.

 

Eventually, my mother would return home and ask Najah the inevitable question.

“Did your brother give you any trouble?”

 

Unaware that I had vanished, Najah would answer confidently, “No, he is inside playing.”

 

But when my mother stepped into the house and found it empty, she knew immediately where I had gone.

 

Turning to my sister, she would scold her and issue a command she had repeated many times before:

 

“Go find your brother. And don’t hit him.”

 

Both Najah and I understood that the first part of the order would be obeyed. The second part was open to interpretation.

 

As Najah climbed the steep hill, her anger grew with every step. Not because she hated me, but because she knew she was the one who had gotten into trouble for my latest escape. Along the way, she would inevitably break off a thin switch from a nearby tree, preparing to administer justice.

 

At the top of the hill, she always knew exactly where to find me.

 

She would seize me by the ear, scold me fiercely, and swat me on the backside with the switch, paying little heed to our mother’s instructions.

 

The truth is, her punishment never hurt very much.

 

But I had learned a strategy of my own.

 

The moment she struck me, I would let out dramatic wails and sobs as though I were suffering unbearable agony. My exaggerated cries had the desired effect. Panic would spread across Najah’s face as she imagined what our mother would do if she believed that real harm had come to me.

 

In desperation, she would quickly begin negotiations.

 

“Please stop crying,” she would plead. “I will buy you a piece of Silvana chocolate if you promise not to tell Mother.”

 

Silvana chocolate was among the finest bribes a child could receive.

 

The tears would dry almost instantly.

 

We would then descend the hill together, our secret safely preserved between us, both of us knowing that the same adventure would likely be repeated again before long.

 

As the years passed, childhood gave way to adulthood. Life carried us to different places and eventually to different states. Yet distance did nothing to diminish the bond between us. In many ways, it strengthened it.

 

Whenever we were together, our conversations inevitably drifted back to those magical days in Palestine—to the hills of Beit Hanina, my daring escapes, and the cherished Silvana chocolates that sealed our conspiracies.

 

We laughed until tears filled our eyes.

 

What I did not fully appreciate as a child was that behind Najah’s scolding, her switch, and even her exasperation, there was a love as steadfast as the hills themselves. She protected me, worried about me, and carried the burden of responsibility placed upon her by our mother.

 

She was not merely my older sister.

 

She was my guardian, my accomplice, my confidante, and eventually my closest friend.

 

Ten years ago, my beloved sister Najah returned to her Creator.

 

With her passing, I lost far more than a sister.

 

I lost a treasured part of my childhood, the keeper of our shared memories, and one of the people who loved me most deeply in this world.

 

Yet whenever I close my eyes, I can still see her climbing that hill, a switch in one hand and determination in her stride, pretending to be angry while her heart overflowed with love.

 

And somewhere in that memory, I am once again a little boy in Beit Hanina—running free beneath the Palestinian sky, with my sister always finding her way to me.

 https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=10165969600031977&set=pcb.10165969600286977

Mike Hanini Odetalla with his beloved sister

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"In order for me to write poetry that isn't political I must listen to the birds and in order to hear the birds the warplanes must be silent" Marwan Makhoul

Marwan Makhoul is a Palestinian poet, born in 1979 in the village of al-Boquai’a, Upper Galilee, to a Palestinian father and a Lebanese mother.

 "Who knows what will be enough to end not only this war, but the slow-moving devastation of Palestine. No one can be sure what knock will bring down the wall, open a door. At the end of the day some of us, at least, know we have knocked (and knocked), when even hope fails inside this obdurate empire—by putting words on the page, by calling Congress, by boycotting, by demonstrating, by gathering over words; perhaps the knocking is all we have." Philip Metres in the May/June 2024 issue of Poets & Writers Magazine  https://www.pw.org/content/in_this_time_of_war_the_muses_refuse_silence

In This Time of War: The Muses Refuse Silence

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"... and birds shall return" The Deluge and the Tree poem by Fadwa Tuqan, written in 1967, right after the Naksa (ongoing israeli made Nakba) & remembered #Gaza 2024

 

Found online:  

 

"Eid Mubarak.

 

Let me offer you this poem, which has been my talisman during these six brutal months. By our glorious Fadwa Tuqan, written in 1967, right after the Naksa.

 

Translated by Naomi Shihab Nye and Salma Khadra Jayyusi"

Palestinian Poet Marwan Makhoul: "In order to write poetry that isn't politcal, I must listen to the birds; and in order to listen to the birds, the warplanes must be silent."

A Glimpse of Palestine's Beauty shared by Mazin Qumsiyeh of the Palestine Institute for Biodiversity and Sustainability

 

"Due to difficult circumstances, we are still doing weekly or twice a week field trips. Last ride was Saturday. Under difficult circumstance, we still did yet another field trip this past weekend. We had amazing discoveries "

Mazin Qumsiyeh

Palestine Institute for Biodiversity and Sustainability

Sunbird poem by Fady Joudah

 

Artist Fayez Elhasani of Palestine... full of hope

Painted by Artist Fayez Elhasani of Palestine

  

I painted this work “Return to Palestine 2” while I was in my besieged city #غزة , but I am full of hope and certainty that I will restore the lines and colors of the work again in the heart of the city #القدس , which was liberated from occupation and colonialism. . Artist Fayez Elhasani