On the evening of June 11, downtown Cairo was filled with participants of the Global March to Gaza, easily identifiable by their large backpacks and camping gear.
The atmosphere was both tense and joyful; tense because news had already spread of participants being deported at the airport, but joyful because these individuals had cleared a major obstacle by passing through Egyptian security.
They came from more than 80 different countries, united by a shared sense of urgency and frustration. The Global March to Gaza represented something unprecedented — not just another protest, but a convergence of voices that had grown tired of watching from the sidelines.
These were people who had exhausted traditional advocacy channels, felt their governments had failed both them and the people of Gaza, and were willing to elevate their activism.
The march was scheduled to begin on June 12, with participants travelling by bus to Al-Arish, located 48 kilometres from Rafah, before continuing on foot to the border crossing.
Their goal was simple — to peacefully break the Israeli blockade and provide humanitarian aid to the millions suffering amid Israel's brutal genocide.
However, Egyptian authorities moved decisively to prevent the march from proceeding.
Activists were stopped during the first leg of their journey. Many were then violently forced onto buses and returned to Cairo, while others faced hotel raids, arrests, deportations, and intimidation from plainclothes security operatives.
Despite being unable to get the much-needed aid into Gaza and facing violence at the hands of authorities, the activists remain resilient in their willingness to continue fighting for the cause. The New Arab speaks with some of these activists about what motivated them to join this global solidarity movement.
'Everything centres on Gaza'
At the heart of the movement was Saif Abukeshek, a Spanish-Palestinian organiser whose personal connection to Gaza drove his relentless determination.
For Saif, this wasn’t about politics or activism in the abstract — it was about breaking a siege that had been relentlessly strangling his people for over 20 months.
“This is why we are here. This is why people from so many different countries came. Because we are fed up with the complicity of our own governments,” Saif explained, his voice carrying the weight of months of planning and years of frustration.
His message was singular in its focus: everything had to centre on Gaza.
“Gaza has to be the centre of every action we are talking about. Our presence here is as relevant as discussing the situation in Gaza. If we are not talking about Gaza, it is irrelevant. We mean nothing if the focus is not on Gaza,” Saif tells The New Arab.
The Egyptian authorities’ response was swift and decisive. At a checkpoint 45 minutes outside of Cairo, security forces began confiscating passports and encircling all delegates, effectively preventing them from reaching Ismailia, after getting to Arish failed, and continuing toward Rafah from there.
Even as this crackdown unfolded around him, Saif maintained perspective about the relative nature of their hardships.
“What is this compared to what people in Gaza face? We are standing in the sun. They are living under bombs twenty-four hours a day.”
For Saif, this march was merely the beginning of a longer campaign.
“It’s not going to be the last step. We will continue to organise globally, we will continue working together, and next time we will join the Flotilla. We will bring our own ships and we will break the siege by the sea.”
The connection between the two movements was deliberate — members of the Freedom Flotilla had provided direct endorsement to the Global March to Gaza and would later call for the participants and organisers to be released.
'We're shouting, we’re screaming, we’re walking, we’re marching'
If Saif represented the Palestinian voice, Uzma embodied the international solidarity movement that had converged in Cairo.
At the age of 13, Uzma had already begun dedicating her time to fighting injustice. “I started protesting at the age of 13 and that was against corporal punishment and then anything that has come up since then,” Uzma recounts whilst sitting in Cairo’s Cafe Riche.
“I was there for Iraq, Palestine, Syria — very active with different charity groups with the Syrian refugees. I used to go to Calais quite a lot.”
This march represented the culmination of her lifelong dedication to justice — a chance to be part of something truly global.
“What we have here is a global event, and we have over 80 different countries, and that speaks volumes,” she said. “There have been lots of different marches in lots of different countries, but they’ve sort of done it independently, and this is just bringing everybody together.”
For Uzma, the march wasn’t just about the immediate goal of reaching Rafah — it was about sending a message to governments that had failed to act to stop the ongoing slaughter of Palestinians.
“We are the people for the people, and we believe that if we can all gather in one place, that actually maybe the governments might wake up and take action because this is a very strong message that’s going out.”
The relentless stream of images from Gaza had taken a psychological toll.
“Every single day since October 7 is an event that is sketched into people’s minds," Uzma adds.
"And you think it’s not going to get any worse, and then it does. So every single day since October 7, in fact, since before October 7,” she said, her voice trailing off as she recounted the number of atrocities she had witnessed through the screen of her phone.
The overwhelming sense of failure had driven activists like Uzma to partake in these increasingly risky shows of solidarity and activism.
“We failed Gaza. We have failed the people of Gaza,” she admitted with evident emotion.
“If we had an ounce of the strength that they have and the perseverance, then… all I can say is we’ve failed, but I just want them to know we are here, we are shouting, we’re screaming, we’re walking, we’re marching.”
'Liberating the world, liberating every human'
Sam, a member of Student Justice for Palestine and Queers for Justice, embodied the intersection of identities that made this movement particularly meaningful.
“I’m a Palestinian activist and artist. We’re here to make a statement to everybody. We have multiple people here. So many people come in to protest their fundamental right for Palestine and stand for people in Gaza,” Sam explained, his voice carrying both gratitude and determination.
As Egyptian authorities tightened their grip, Sam’s frustration was palpable. “The problem is the Egyptian government, how they’re blocking us, escalating, taking us, intimidating us. They’re always trying to intimidate us and try to silence us when we will not be silent.”
His connection to Gaza wasn’t abstract — it was immediate and personal. “There is a genocide in Gaza, people are dying in Gaza, and this government is part of this problem,” he said, his anger directed not just at Israeli policies but at what he saw as Egyptian complicity.
For Sam, the people in Gaza served as inspiration rather than objects of pity. “The people in Gaza are sacrificing their lives for us to stand, they’re motivating us, they’re liberating the world, liberating every human," he told The New Arab.
"So people are showing that Palestine matters to them. Palestine is important to them. Palestinian people are not a number, and we will fight to the end.”
In the end, these voices illustrate the lengths people will go to when they feel their voices aren’t being heard through conventional channels. They came from several countries, not as tourists or casual observers, but as individuals who had reached the limits of traditional advocacy.
Their stories demonstrate that when people feel powerless within existing systems, they will find ways to make their voices heard — even if it means crossing continents, risking detention, and facing the consequences of an oppressive security apparatus.
Liam Syed is a freelance journalist currently based in Amman, Jordan
Follow him on Instagram: @liamlaiii