Thank you from Gaza: The Freedom Flotilla reminded us that we're still human

It’s been two years since we, as Palestinians, last felt alive in Gaza. Since then, we’ve buried family, watched our dignity empty with our homes. The sound of mortar shells closing in haunts our dreams, while Israel grows bolder and 'leaders' cower in silence.

We scavenge for hope, as scarce as food or a signal to write these words. Last week, I was waving my laptop in the air, moving from corner to corner of a makeshift room that once held happy memories. The Israeli occupation only knows how to take: land, food, electricity, life itself.

Finally, I detected a faint signal. When I opened social media, my phone seemed to roar back to life. In this time of hopelessness, amid genocide, the images and voices reaching me said, "You are not alone. We see you, we're with you, we're coming to you."

Across the world, people were rising: streets in London, ports in Italy, another global flotilla sailing to Gaza. For us, this means something; it really does. Life here now revolves around one word: survival. But for a brief moment, as we watched the world rise, we felt our souls return. We felt ourselves again.

It’s a strange feeling knowing that someone who isn’t your family, your race, or your faith rises for you. For me, it felt as if the world was affirming our existence while another tried to erase it. Israel may believe that after two years of relentless genocide, we would accept humiliation and injustice. What they forget is that every voice raised for us brings us closer to liberation.

My Italian friend, Chiara, who works as a journalist at the ilManifesto magazine in Rome, kept writing to me, checking on me and my family. She sent me pictures and videos of a massive demonstration in Rome with over a million participants. She told me, "The world is moving for you." Honestly, I felt proud. I felt proud to be a Palestinian in Gaza.

Then I learned more about the Freedom Flotilla, a global act of sumud, a steadfast effort to bring aid to us, besieged by land, air, and sea in Gaza.

We knew what would happen. We knew Israel would violate international law and stop them before they reached us. But we also knew their message went beyond that: to tell us we are not alone.

The ship moved slowly through the waves, carrying activists, journalists, politicians and doctors from around the world. Different faces, different languages, but one purpose: to break Gaza’s isolation. The Freedom Flotilla became a symbol of resilience, a message to the oppressor that the siege is not destiny, and that when people unite, even the smallest act of defiance can echo powerfully in our hearts.

Even though the inevitable happened, today when we look out from Gaza toward the sea, we can still see it, the imprint of that ship, a shadow on the horizon. We hear the voices of those who protested across the world, who raised the Palestinian flag, who spoke a word of truth or sang a song in solidarity. In turn, they have built within us a strength to endure, to hold each other, to keep fighting for our right to exist. Occupation is never eternal.

So this is my message to you, the world, from Gaza. Thank you. Thank you for proving that humanity has no nationality, no religion.

Keep your voices loud. Keep speaking about Gaza. Do not let silence swallow the truth, or lies kill the victims twice.

Gaza today is not only a land under siege; it is a test of the world’s conscience, a story still being written, and everyone is part of it. Be the ink, the voice, the light. Because here we are, despite the pain, still believing that solidarity is stronger than bombs, and that justice, however long the night, will soon dawn. 

Lina Ghassan Abu Zayed is a Palestinian writer from Gaza and a graduate of the Faculty of Medicine and Health Sciences, Department of Ophthalmology.

Follow her on Instagram: @lina.zayed1

Have questions or comments? Email us at: editorial-english@newarab.com

Opinions expressed in this article remain those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of The New Arab, its editorial board or staff.