~*~ The Filasteen Thread! ~*~

Here is a great link if you want to educate yourself about the essential truths behind the Palestine/Israel issue.

99% of the media out there about Palestine/Israel is nothing more than pro-Israel propaganda. Even the books which claim to give a more "balanced" analysis still hide so many things in order to make Israel look favorable.

This is Norman Finkelstein. He is Jewish himself. Both his parents were in concentration camps under the Nazi's and all of his relatives on his mother's and father's side were killed by the Germans.

Scholars like Him and Chomsky and a few others are about the only ones who actually speak the truth about Palestine and Israel.

In America the pro-Israel hit-squad did everything they could to discredit him. They even pressured the university he taught at to deny him Tenure.

Take the time to watch the talk. It is long but it is very interesting and HUGELY beneficial. If you do not know much about the issue it will give you the facts in a clear and straightforward manner. In the future if you are talking with a non-Muslim about Palestine and Israel you can elucidate why Palestinians are the victims very easily.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?d...ei=V2QISYfeH5nc-AHS_JyZCg&q=Finkelstein&dur=3
 
:sl:
^i like to call it reality :(
i mean it is sad, but its also important to educate beoble lol about whats happening out there :)
 
:sl:

Sabra and Shatila
imsad :cry: :skeleton:​

Sabra and Shatila- a refugee camp in Lebanon where Palestinians were forced to flee their land
-----
Sabra was a name of a poor neighborhood in the southern outskirts of west Beirut. Shatila, a refugee camp set up for the Palestinians in 1949. Over the years, the two areas ever more mingled and by the autum of 1982 their population had been swelled by Muslims fleeing the illegal occupation of south Lebanon by the Israeli army.
On septemper 15, 1982 the Israeli military completed surrounded and seal off the camp from the outside world. They set up observation posts on the roofs of nearby tall buildings to watch the events of the 16 17 and the 18.
In the evening of September the 16 1982, with persmission and guided by Israeli flares, a group of phalange malilta armed with guns knives and hatches, entered sabra and shatila. During the following 46 hours they murdered 3500 old men women and children. The figures are disputed. Its difficult to count the souls of those buried tangled in mass graves or crushed under the very houses they saught refuge from within or scattered face down on roads sides fleeing.
On witnessing the massacre, thet were told by journalists that their stories were written by the flies that would land on thoer note pads, wearing boots of blood. And the warlord responsible for this ultra violence was later rewarded by the proud priministarial colours of his nation (Ariel Sharon). To this day, no one has been prosecuted for this mass murder.
Click to expand...

Source: Some vid off youtube :-[ :hiding:

The result:
What we found inside the Palestinian camp at ten o'clock on the morning of September 1982 did not quite beggar description, although it would have been easier to re-tell in the cold prose of a medical examination. There had been medical examinations before in Lebanon, but rarely on this scale and never overlooked by a regular, supposedly disciplined army. In the panic and hatred of battle, tens of thousands had been killed in this country. But these people, hundreds of them had been shot down unarmed. This was a mass killing, an incident - how easily we used the word "incident" in Lebanon - that was also an atrocity. It went beyond even what the Israelis would have in other circumstances called a terrorist activity. It was a war crime.
Jenkins and Tveit were so overwhelmed by what we found in Chatila that at first we were unable to register our own shock. Bill Foley of AP had come with us. All he could say as he walked round was "Jesus Christ" over and over again. We might have accepted evidence of a few murders; even dozens of bodies, killed in the heat of combat. Bur there were women lying in houses with their skirts torn torn up to their waists and their legs wide apart, children with their throats cut, rows of young men shot in the back after being lined up at an execution wall. There were babies - blackened babies babies because they had been slaughtered more than 24-hours earlier and their small bodies were already in a state of decomposition - tossed into rubbish heaps alongside discarded US army ration tins, Israeli army equipment and empty bottles of whiskey.
Where were the murderers? Or to use the Israelis' vocabulary, where were the "terrorists"? When we drove down to Chatila, we had seen the Israelis on the top of the apartments in the Avenue Camille Chamoun but they made no attempt to stop us. In fact, we had first been driven to the Bourj al-Barajneh camp because someone told us that there was a massacre there. All we saw was a Lebanese soldier chasing a car theif down a street. It was only when we were driving back past the entrance to Chatila that Jenkins decided to stop the car. "I don't like this", he said. "Where is everyone? What the f**k is that smell?"
Just inside the the southern entrance to the camp, there used to be a number of single-story, concrete walled houses. I had conducted many interviews in these hovels in the late 1970's. When we walked across the muddy entrance to Chatila, we found that these buildings had been dynamited to the ground. There were cartridge cases across the main road. I saw several Israeli flare canisters, still attached to their tiny parachutes. Clouds of flies moved across the rubble, raiding parties with a nose for victory.
Down a laneway to our right, no more than 50 yards from the entrance, there lay a pile of corpses. There were more than a dozen of them, young men whose arms and legs had been wrapped around each other in the agony of death. All had been shot point-blank range through the cheek, the bullet tearing away a line of flesh up to the ear and entering the brain. Some had vivid crimson or black scars down the left side of their throats. One had been castrated, his trousers torn open and a settlement of flies throbbing over his torn intestines.
The eyes of these young men were all open. The youngest was only 12 or 13 years old. They were dressed in jeans and coloured shirts, the material absurdly tight over their flesh now that their bodies had begun to bloat in the heat. They had not been robbed. On one blackened wrist a Swiss watch recorded the correct time, the second hand still ticking round uselessly, expending the last energies of its dead owner.

On the other side of the main road, up a track through the debris, we found the bodies of five women and several children. The women were middle-aged and their corpses lay draped over a pile of rubble. One lay on her back, her dress torn open and the head of a little girl emerging from behind her. The girl had short dark curly hair, her eyes were staring at us and there was a frown on her face. She was dead.
Another child lay on the roadway like a discarded doll, her white dress stained with mud and dust. She could have been no more than three years old. The back of her head had been blown away by a bullet fired into her brain. One of the women also held a tiny baby to her body. The bullet that had passed into her breast had killed the baby too. Someone had slit open the woman's stomach, cutting sideways and then upwards, perhaps trying to kill her unborn child. Her eyes were wide open, her dark face frozen in horror.
"...As we stood there, we heard a shout in Arabic from across the ruins. "They are coming back," a man was screaming, So we ran in fear towards the road. I think, in retrospect, that it was probably anger that stopped us from leaving, for we now waited near the entrance to the camp to glimpse the faces of the men who were responsible for all of this. They must have been sent in here with Israeli permission. They must have been armed by the Israelis. Their handiwork had clearly been watched - closely observed - by the Israelis who were still watching us through their field-glasses.
When does a killing become an outrage? When does an atrocity become a massacre? Or, put another way, how many killings make a massacre? Thirty? A hundred? Three hundred? When is a massacre not a massacre? When the figures are too low? Or when the massacre is carried out by Israel’s friends rather than Israel's enemies?
That, I suspected, was what this argument was about. If Syrian troops had crossed into Israel, surrounded a Kibbutz and allowed their Palestinian allies to slaughter the Jewish inhabitants, no Western news agency would waste its time afterwards arguing about whether or not it should be called a massacre.
But in Beirut, the victims were Palestinians. The guilty were certainly Christian militiamen - from which particular unit we were still unsure - but the Israelis were also guilty. If the Israelis had not taken part in the killings, they had certainly sent militia into the camp. They had trained them, given them uniforms, handed them US army rations and Israeli medical equipment. Then they had watched the murderers in the camps, they had given them military assistance - the Israeli airforce had dropped all those flares to help the men who were murdering the inhabitants of Sabra and Chatila - and they had established military liason with the murderers in the camps
Click to expand...


Source
 
:sl:

im not sure who this poem is written by


فلسطينى انا اسمى فلسطينى
نقشت اسمى على كل الميادين
بخط بارز يسمو على العناوين
حروف اسمى
حروف اسمى تلاحقنى تعايشينى تغذينى
تبث النار فى روحى وتنبض فى شراينى
جبال النهر تعرفنى مغاورها وتدرينى
بذلت الطاقة الكبرى وقلت لامتى كونى
صلاح الدين فى اعماق اعماقى ينادينى
وكل عروبتى للثأر للتحرير تدعونى
وراياتي التى طويت على ربوات حطين
وصوت مؤذن الاقصى يهيب بنا اغيثونى
وألافٌ من الاسري وألافٌ المساجين
تنادى الامة الكبرى وتهتف بالملايين
تقول لهم الى القدس اليها قبلة الدينِ
الى حرب تدك الظلم تُزهق روح صهيون
وترفع فى سماء الكون اعلام فلسطين
وتهدر كلمتى تمضى
فلسطينى
فلسطينى
فلسطينى​
Palestine , My name is Palestine
I wrote my name at all fields
with a unique font greater than all titles
The letters of my name, the letters of my name, live inside me, feed me, spread the soul and fire inside my body
The mountains of the river, knows me well
I spent all my power and ask my nation help
And Saladin was calling, calling inside me
And my Arabic origin is asking me for freedom and revenge
And those flags which were folded at Hatiin (battle)
And the caller of Al Aqsa Masjid is calling for help
And thousands of prisoners are calling for help
Calling the greater nation and calling for millions
Go to Al Quds(Jerusalem),
to a war where the oppressed are, to stop the injustice of the Zionism, and raise the flag of Palestine
My words will remain the same
Palestine, Palestine, Palestine
 
 
Baby Martyr

I’m six and seven
And up to eleven,

Then I’m an adult
In an Israeli court

My hands tied in the back of my back
He comes to me with a punch and a sack.

He covers my head with a hood of Zionist stench
Though my belly is tough, it will not flinch.

The noise is loud and pierces my brain.
My pathetic shirt hangs proud with a fresh blood stain.

My poor mother is worried sick, I’m sure.
She burried my brother before me. She will endure.

And my dad too, depression got him in the end
With no home, no land, no olive trees to tend.

I’m in here for days on end
Or is it months or even years, I no longer comprehend.

The noise is too loud
And I can feel the shroud.

He beats me again today
Then its another’s turn to play.

I’m broken now, but I’ll not confess.
I’ll leave my body, let those murdering *******s clean up the mess.

A few more thoughts before I go
I am human. This you must know.
You’d never know it `cause I’m tough as the rocks I throw.

I had hoped to grow a mustache so fine.
Maybe marry Muna. I’d be hers and she’d be mine
Maybe be a father….our children free in Palestine

(writer unknown)
 
I am Israel

I am Israel - I came to a land without a people for a people without a land. Those people who happened to be here, had no right to be here, and my people showed them they had to leave or die, razing 480 Palestinian villages to the ground, erasing their history.

I am Israel - some of my people committed massacres and later became Prime Ministers to represent me. In 1948, Menachem Begin was in charge of the unit that slaughtered the inhabitants of Deir Yassin, including 100 men, women, and children. In 1953, Ariel Sharon led the slaughter of the inhabitants of Qibya, and in 1982 arranged for our allies to butcher around 2,000 in the refugee camps of Sabra and Shatilla.

I am Israel - carved in 1948 out of 78% of the land of Palestine, dispossessing its inhabitants and replacing them with Jews from Europe and other parts of the world. While the natives whose families lived on this land for thousands of years are not allowed to return, Jews from all over the world are welcome to instant citizenship.

I am Israel - in 1967, I swallowed the remaining lands of Palestine - the West Bank and Gaza - and placed their inhabitants under an oppressive military rule, controlling and humiliating every aspect of their daily lives. Eventually, they should get the message that they are not welcome to stay, and join the millions of Palestinian refugees in the shanty camps of Lebanon and Jordan.

I am Israel - I have the power to control American policy. My American Israel Public Affairs Committee can make or break any politician of its choosing, and as you see, they all compete to please me. All the forces of the world are powerless against me, including the UN as I have the American veto to block any condemnation of my war crimes. As Sharon so eloquently phrased it, "We control America".

I am Israel - I influence American mainstream media too, and you will always find the news tailored to my favor. I have invested millions of dollars into PR representation, and CNN, New York Times, and others have been doing an excellent job of promoting my propaganda. Look at other international news sources and you will see the difference.

I am Israel - and you Palestinians want to negotiate "peace!?" But you are not as smart as me; I will negotiate, but will only let you have your municipalities while I control your borders, your water, your airspace, and anything else of importance. While we "negotiate," I will swallow your hilltops and fill them with settlements, populated by the most extremist of my extremists, armed to the teeth. These settlements will be connected with roads you cannot use, and you will be imprisoned in your little Bantustans between them, surrounded by checkpoints in every direction.

I am Israel - with the fourth strongest army in the world, possessing nuclear weapons. How dare your children confront my oppression with stones, don't you know my soldiers won't hesitate to blow their heads off? In 17 months, I have killed 900 of you and injured 17,000, mostly civilians, and have the mandate to continue since the international community remains silent. Ignore, as I do, the hundreds of Israeli soldiers who are now refusing to carry out my control over your lands and people; their voices of conscience will not protect you.

I am Israel - and you want freedom? I have bullets, tanks, missiles, Apaches, and F-16's, to obliterate you. I have placed your towns under siege, confiscated your lands, uprooted your trees, demolished your homes, and you still demand freedom? Don't you get the message? You will never have peace or freedom, because


- I am Israel -
 
"State of Siege"

Here on the slopes before sunset
at the gun-mouth of time
near orchards deprived of their shadows
we do what prisoners do
what the unemployed do
we nurture hope

A country on the verge of dawn
we have become less intelligent
because we stare at the hour of victory.

There is no night in our night that shines with artillery
Our enemies stay up at night and light the darkness of cellars

Here, after Job's poetry we waited for none
this siege will last until our enemies have been taught some of our Jahili poetry

Here
there is no "I"

Here Adam remembers his clay.

Full poem:

http://www.arabworldbooks.com/Literature/poetry4.html



news080406_4_g.jpg


Mahmoud Darwish, one of the well-known Palestinian poet, passed away on Saturday 9 August 2008. More about his works and life from:

http://www.mahmouddarwish.com/english/
 
I am Palestine


I am Jenin
and my heart aches with the the taste of fear, the smell of vanquishing hatred, blood spilled and smeared in the toy-strewn rubble, puddled in the dust of where I used to live.

I am Nablus
and I still hold in my hand
the keys to my father's empty ransacked home.

I am Gaza, crowded, teeming with life,
but my childrens' bellies are distended with hunger,
their eyes huge with anger and fear.

I am Jaffa and Acra, the stones of ancient arches now crushed underfoot.

I am the sunswept hillsides and beloved valleys no longer grazed.

My orchards and olive groves have been plowed under and destroyed,
my shrines desecrated, my women raped, my men humiliated and killed,
my children, -- oh my children!

I am Jerusalem, the radiant beloved Bride,
raped, waiting on her once-golden hillside
for The One who speaks of Justice and Love.

Abandoned, alone, I speak out
but the world hears neither my screams, nor my cries
nor my reasoned pleadings for justice
and common sense if not Mercy.

Desperate, enraged, I strike out
and am further condemned.
My soul is battered but not broken,
my hope is shaken but not shattered.

(I watch heartsick from afar
helpless, tearfully, endlessly pleading
that the rulers of my beloved country
would do the right thing
which they refuse to do.)

(Jenin, I share not your blood,
and dwell in the land of your oppressors
but my soul, oh my soul,
is of you, Jenin, is broken for you, Gaza.)

(I look out on my hillside,
lush, verdant, alive --
and I see the scars
where once was your world.)

Our Lord, the same Lord,
Whom we worship in different ways,
has not forgotten you, Palestine.
He does not abandon His own.
Your crowded multitudes will persevere
and will yet prevail!

I am Jenin
and my birds shall sing once more,
my orchards and flocks will rise from the ashes,
and my cities will hum with the bustle of many peoples.

Our God, God of the Oppressed and the Oppressors,
will bring Justice, and Peace,
His Love will prevail and I shall return to my home



I am Palestine
and my birds shall sing once more,
my orchards and flocks will rise from the ashes,

The birds never leave Palestine, and they will not stop singing the song of victory and martyrdom, and one day will come, I hope that a day will come soon, when Muslims unite, and the sun of Islam rises again and shines on the ways of darkness.​
 
sister harb said:
I am Palestine


I am Jenin
and my heart aches with the the taste of fear, the smell of vanquishing hatred, blood spilled and smeared in the toy-strewn rubble, puddled in the dust of where I used to live.

I am Nablus
and I still hold in my hand
the keys to my father's empty ransacked home.

I am Gaza, crowded, teeming with life,
but my childrens' bellies are distended with hunger,
their eyes huge with anger and fear.

I am Jaffa and Acra, the stones of ancient arches now crushed underfoot.

I am the sunswept hillsides and beloved valleys no longer grazed.

My orchards and olive groves have been plowed under and destroyed,
my shrines desecrated, my women raped, my men humiliated and killed,
my children, -- oh my children!

I am Jerusalem, the radiant beloved Bride,
raped, waiting on her once-golden hillside
for The One who speaks of Justice and Love.

Abandoned, alone, I speak out
but the world hears neither my screams, nor my cries
nor my reasoned pleadings for justice
and common sense if not Mercy.

Desperate, enraged, I strike out
and am further condemned.
My soul is battered but not broken,
my hope is shaken but not shattered.

(I watch heartsick from afar
helpless, tearfully, endlessly pleading
that the rulers of my beloved country
would do the right thing
which they refuse to do.)

(Jenin, I share not your blood,
and dwell in the land of your oppressors
but my soul, oh my soul,
is of you, Jenin, is broken for you, Gaza.)

(I look out on my hillside,
lush, verdant, alive --
and I see the scars
where once was your world.)

Our Lord, the same Lord,
Whom we worship in different ways,
has not forgotten you, Palestine.
He does not abandon His own.
Your crowded multitudes will persevere
and will yet prevail!

I am Jenin
and my birds shall sing once more,
my orchards and flocks will rise from the ashes,
and my cities will hum with the bustle of many peoples.

Our God, God of the Oppressed and the Oppressors,
will bring Justice, and Peace,
His Love will prevail and I shall return to my home



I am Palestine
and my birds shall sing once more,
my orchards and flocks will rise from the ashes,

The birds never leave Palestine, and they will not stop singing the song of victory and martyrdom, and one day will come, I hope that a day will come soon, when Muslims unite, and the sun of Islam rises again and shines on the ways of darkness.​
Click to expand...

imsad
 
Assalamu 'Alaykum Warahmatullahi Wabarakaatuh,

Eye to Eye

Look into my eyes
And tell me what you see
You don't see any thing,
'cause you can't possible relate to me.

You're blinded by our differences.
My life makes no sense to you.
I'm the persecuted Palestinian.
You are the American red, white and blue.

Each day you wake in tranquility.
No fears to cross your eyes.
Each day I wake in gratitude.
Thanking God he let me rise.

You worry about your education
And the bills you have to pay.
I worry about my vulnerable life
And if I'll survive another day.

You biggest fear is getting ticketed
As you cruise your Cadillac.
My fear is that the tank that just left
Will turn around and come back.

American, do you realize,
That the taxes that you pay
Feed the forces that traumatize
My every living day?

The bulldozers and the tanks,
The gases and the guns,
The bombs that fall outside my door,
All due to American funds.

Yet do you know the truth
Of where your money goes?
Do you let your media deceive your mind?
Is this a truth that no one knows?

You blame me for defending myself
Against the ways of Zionists
I'm terrorized in my own land
And I'm the terrorist?

You think that you know all about terrorism
But you don't know it the way I do.
So let me define the term for you.
And teach you what you thought you knew.

I've known terrorism for quite some time,
Fifty- four years and more.
It's the fruitless garden uprooted in my yard.
It's the bulldozer in front of my door.

Terrorism breathes the air I breathe.
It's the checkpoint on my way to school.
It's the curfew that jails me in my own home,
And the penalties of breaking that curfew rule.

Terrorism is the robbery of my land.
And the torture of my mother.
The imprisonment of my innocent father.
The bullet in my baby brother.

So American, don't tell me you know about
The things I feel and see.
I'm terrorized in my own land
And the blame is put on me.

But I will not rest, I shall never settle
For the injustice my people endure.
Palestine is OUR land and there we'll remain
Until the day OUR homeland is secure.

And if that time shall never come,
Then you will never see a day of peace.
I will not be thrown from my own home,
Nor will fight for justice cease.

And if I am killed, it will be Falasteen.
It's written on my breath.
So in your own patriotic words,
Give me liberty or give me death.

Author Uknown​

Wa'Alaykumus Salaam.
 
spring-552x356.png


Almond Blossoms in Palestine


Thinking of spring in Palestine
By Mike Odetalla

What benefit or joy if,

I were to gain the world,
But lose the almond blossoms in my land?

Drink a cup of coffee, everyplace
But my mother’s home

Journey to the moon,
But not to the graves of my ancestors

See the world’s wonders,
But not the setting sun as it dips behind ancient olive groves

Tour the world over,
But lose the flowers on the hills of my native land

Nothing but lethal silence…

No need to gain the world

Just a cup of coffee
In a familiar place and
An end to the lethal silence

Within the hearts of the living…

Mike Odetalla, thinking of spring in Palestine! 3-27-2005​
 
European children donate Eid/Christmas gifts to Gaza children
[ 08/12/2008 - 06:13 PM ]


LONDON, PARIS, (PIC)-- Children in the UK and France have been donating toys and other gifts for Palestinian children in the Gaza Strip to be presented to them on the occasions of Eid and Christmas.

The campaign was organised jointly by the UK based Justice for Gaza (JFG) and the French-Palestinian Friendship Society amidst calls on the Egyptian President to open the Rafah border for the donated gifts to be delivered to Gaza.

JFG has already tried to deliver, in August, donated medicines to the Gaza Strip when they sent a van loaded with medicines which passed through 12 European countries on it route to the Rafah crossing, but the van was stranded for a month at the Rafah crossing and the Egyptian authorities would not allow it in.

A truck carrying the donated gifts left London on Friday and arrived in Paris where it was received by a huge rally in support of Gaza children. It will continue on its route through Italy, Slovenia, Hungary, Romania Bulgaria, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Egypt and finally the besieged Gaza Strip.

JFG appealed to President Husni Mubarak to open the Rafah border crossing to allow the truck into the Gaza Strip.

Justice for Gaza:

http://www.thegaza.org/gaza/
 

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