The military escalation of these hours between Iran, Israel and the United States reopens a wound we know all too well. The parallel with 2003 and the invasion of Iraq is not just rhetoric. Once again there is talk of a 'pre-emptive strike', once again regime change is evoked - more or less explicitly - as a solution. And once again a spiral is set in motion that threatens to ignite an entire region.

Regional war is not a fatality, it is a political choice. A choice rooted in a vision of power and domination that, in the name of security (whose?) produces permanent instability. We have already seen this in Iraq, Syria, Libya, Afghanistan. External interventions that have destroyed entire countries and populations, weakened civil processes, and stifled transformations from below.

Today we are witnessing dramatic contradictions: in Iran and in the diasporas, there are those who rejoice at the death of the Supreme Guide, those who mourn her, and those who are astonished. But eliminating leading figures does not mean dismantling a pervasive political system that has lasted almost 50 years. It means exposing millions of people to unforeseeable suffering as well as completely denying their self-determination.

As an organisation that has been working in the region for over 30 years, we strongly condemn this new military adventure promoted by the US-Israel axis. It is a choice that dramatically weakens the paths of emancipation and change from below, the same ones that in 2011 and 2019 had animated the Arab springs against authoritarianism and injustice. Rights are not exported by bombing. Democracies are not born from rubble.

At the same time, we stigmatise the dominant media narrative, which uncritically repeats the formula of the 'preventive attack' and struggles to pronounce simple and necessary words: girls, civilians, families. In these hours, there is general talk of 'victims' in a girls' school hit in Iran, but the terrible toll tells of over one hundred girls killed. Words count.

We also denounce Italy's political irrelevance in this scenario, reduced to a logistical tool of a war that has not been publicly discussed or deliberated. Bases on Italian territory, such as Sigonella, cannot and must not be used to fuel regional conflict.

Our concern is greatest for the countries in which we operate and with which we work every day: in addition to Iran and the Gulf monarchies, the crisis is already affecting Lebanon and Iraq. And while international attention is focused on this new front, violence by Israeli settlers and military operations are intensifying in Gaza and the West Bank. The risk is that one war will overshadow the other, multiplying impunity.

We share some testimonies collected in these hours.

IRAN. VOICE FROM THE DIASPORA

One of our Iranian diaspora activists, who has always been critical of the regime in Tehran, tells us about the complexity of these hours

"I am experiencing mixed feelings. Iranian society is much more complex than how it is described in the West. There are those who celebrate, those who mourn, those who are afraid. But it is not by 'eliminating' senior religious and military officials that one dismantles a system rooted in 50 years. The risk is to plunge into a scenario of endless instability, as in Iraq or Syria. And in the meantime, the victims are civilians. There are already so many. They are children."

IRAQ. 'WE DO NOT WANT ANOTHER WAR'.

One of our Iraqi colleagues recounts:

"I was sitting in a bar when two rockets went over our heads. Everyone panicked. My wife called me, terrified. The war will only bring death and collapse. We absolutely do not want another conflict in Iraq. What is happening is a violation of international law: destruction of infrastructure, intimidation of civilians. To all parties involved: stop the bombing immediately. We must learn from the wars we have already endured. Iraq and its people deserve peace."

LEBANON. ESCAPE IN THE NIGHT

Dramatic news comes to us from Lebanon. After rockets were launched from the south towards Israel, the Israeli army's response hit the south of the country and the southern districts of Beirut. Dozens of civilians were killed along with Hezbollah exponents.

The highways were immediately stormed by fleeing families. Our colleague Zaynab, who lives in the south, fled in the night in shock, taking hours to reach a safer area in Mount Lebanon. Local partners, such as the organisation Amel, have some staff stranded in the south awaiting evacuation. An Israeli communiqué called for the total evacuation of 53 villages (!) in the south, while the shelling continues. Shelters have been reopened in Beirut and other areas of the country to accommodate displaced families. The scenario evokes that of 2024, with the fear of an Israeli ground operation. One of the schools supported by our Qalam project has been declared a shelter for displaced people. We are conducting rapid assessments to respond to the emergency.

Un Ponte Per strongly condemns the ongoing military escalation and any war strategy aimed at redrawing political balances by force.

We also condemn the total disregard for international law, now reduced to waste paper. We had built the legal instruments to avoid the omnipotence of the law of the strongest and today these instruments are trampled underfoot.

We demand an end to the instrumental use of territories and populations as theatres of war for imperialist and colonial interests. The people we work with - activists, teachers, health workers, local communities - ask for one simple thing: to live in peace, without being pawns in conflicts they did not choose.

We have already seen where this road leads. We cannot accept history repeating itself, yet again.

For eighteen hours, I stayed outside the tent. Rain fell on my friends and me during the night, and during the day we stood under the sun. All of this just to activate a bank account that, two years ago, I could have opened in less than thirty minutes.

In Gaza, accessing money has become a journey in itself. Every number on the screen tells a story of endurance and struggle, and every step toward reaching it teaches you what life means under the hardest conditions.

It all began when I heard that banks in central Gaza City had started allowing people to access their accounts again after being closed for more than two years.

I decided I had to go, no matter what, because we no longer know what tomorrow might bring. Three friends agreed to come with me. We arrived at 10 p.m., thinking we would be among the first. Instead, dozens of people were already there. My number was 50. Some people were sleeping at the bank’s entrance.

We waited in the street. One of my friends said, “Maybe we should come back tomorrow. This is too exhausting.” But I had made up my mind not to leave without activating my account. We all held our IDs in our hands, looking for anything we could lean on. There were no seats, no shade from the sun, and no clear system to know when our turn would come.

In the first hours, we talked to pass the time. Around 2 a.m., the cold became unbearable. Each of us tried to find a corner to shield ourselves from the wind. Our bones ached from the cold. At sunrise, the street grew even more crowded. Some people slept directly on the ground, covered with thin blanckets or pieces of cloth. Others searched for a small space to sit, resting slightly on the sidewalk. Conversations were quiet, mixed with the sound of cars arriving from time to time. Every minute felt heavy. Every hour increased our exhaustion. But we had no choice except to wait.

As time passed, I felt the weight of waiting on my body and spirit. My hands stiffened from holding my ID and water bottle. My feet swelled from standing so long. My eyes stayed fixed on the closed door that felt like a gate to another world.

Ahmad, one of my friends, whispered, “Do you think we’ll be able to activate our accounts?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, “but I’m not leaving without mine.”

As morning approached, my anxiety grew. Would I get my turn before the bank’s working hours ended? Would number 50 still count? Moments like these reveal a part of daily life in Gaza, where something as simple as accessing a bank account requires enormous effort.

At 8 a.m., the bank gates opened. By then, more than 200 people stood behind me. Two hours after the bank opened, I finally stood at the door, waiting for someone inside to come out so I could go in. It felt like a small victory, and a clear sign of the crisis we live in.

Inside, activating my account took less than 29 minutes. But that did not make the situation any less severe. For years, banks have not regularly paid out salaries or transfers. Accessing cash has become a daily struggle, even for those with bank accounts.

The money exists on the screen. The numbers are clear. But turning those numbers into physical cash is a daily battle.

For the past two years, and even now after the ceasefire on paper, many people have been forced to rely on liquidity seller. They sit in small places or narrow corners with their phones, offering one service: turning your bank balance into cash for a high commission. Sometimes this commission reached 40% or more. People lost a large portion of their own money just to access what was rightfully theirs, while prices of goods continued to rise dramatically.

The challenge did not stop there. Small change and worn-out banknotes had become another daily problem. Coins were nearly nonexistent. I had a nearly worn bill, so I took it to a place we call the "Money Clinic" to get it fixed. Later, I tried to buy bread with it. The seller looked at the bill carefully, and in the end, he refused to take it, and I walked away hungry, unable to buy bread. In moments like these, money itself feels unstable.

As a result, the salary or balance shown in the banking app becomes more of an idea than a reliable amount you can plan your month around. The number shrinks at every stage: during transfer, during withdrawal, and during purchase because of high prices and shortages. What reaches your hand is not what you actually earned. Turning digital money into tangible goods becomes an exhausting, mentally draining process.

What makes this even more complex is that this daily financial crisis is not just about numbers. It creates constant social and psychological pressure. Thinking about money is no longer about saving or planning for the future, but about how to access it quickly to cover basic needs: bread, water, charging electricity, and perhaps a little gas for cooking.

And here lies the strangest contradiction of all: our dependence on an advanced digital financial system while living an extremely primitive life in tents.

Money arrives through phone apps. Transfers happen in seconds. Balances update instantly. The process feels as if we are living in a smart, modern city with advanced infrastructure. But the physical reality around us is far from that.

We live in tents without stable electricity, without running water, and without many daily necessities. No refrigerators to preserve food. No stoves that work consistently. No reliable lighting. Yet there is a digital wallet on the phone, a banking app, and constant transfer notifications. Financial technology arrived long before many of the basic elements humans need to survive.

When I received my first payment for an article I wrote, I felt relief for a moment. The number on the screen gave me a sense of financial security. But I quickly realized that this number meant nothing if I could not turn it into bread, water, electricity, or gas.

First, I had to find a broker who would accept the transfer. Then accept the commission deducted from the money. Then find a shop that would sell what I needed and accept the worn-out cash. All of these steps just to secure basic necessities.

At the end of the day, survival in Gaza does not depend only on how much money you have, but on your ability to access it and use it under harsh conditions. Digital money exists, but physical life is extremely fragile. Modern technology advances quickly, while the basic elements of survival are completely absent.

This contradiction between the digital and the primitive, between money on a screen and fragile life in tents, summarizes the experience of living in Gaza today.

It is a difficult experience filled with challenges, but it also reveals the resilience and daily creativity people rely on to survive despite everything.

In Gaza, the crisis has not stopped. Despite the announcement of a ceasefire, violations numbered in the hundreds and the entry of humanitarian aid remained grossly insufficient, irregular and unfair. The war continued to affect people's bodies and living conditions, while hunger, displacement and the destruction of infrastructure made survival a daily struggle.

In this context, thousands of families continued to live without stable access to food, without functioning markets, without income, without cash. Malnutrition rates - especially among childrenə, pregnant women, the elderlyə and persons with disabilities - remained dramatically high.

And then winter came.

Heavy rains flooded tents and makeshift shelters, destroying what little the families had. Living under an impervious tarp, in the cold and mud, has meant exposing oneself to enormous health risks, especially for the most fragile. In Gaza, even the weather has become a threat.

It is within this emergency within the emergency that Un Ponte Per, together with local partners UAWC and Al-Ard, and also thanks to donations that arrived at Christmas 2025, started the new distributions.

FOOD FOR 350 FAMILIES

The first objective was to respond to an immediate emergency: access to food.

To recently displaced families - often excluded from even the small amount of aid available - we delivered 350 parcels of fresh vegetables, reaching a total of 1,925 people throughout the Gaza Strip.

"The first thing I thought when I saw them was: they finally weigh the right amount," commented Sharif Hamad, Communication Officer of the Water for Gaza Campaign. "The food parcels distributed today weigh more. There is more food inside. And, finally, there are eggs. A simple, essential food, often absent for months. It is not a symbol of abundance, but of regained minimal dignity. It is the difference between surviving and feeding. Between enduring and still being able to take care of your children'.

WATER: A LIFE-SAVING ANSWER

Next to food, access to water remains one of the most serious emergencies. Bombardments have extensively damaged water systems , sewage networks, civil and agricultural wells, almost completely disrupting the water supply. In many areas, water only exists if it is transported by truck, often at great expense and with no possibility of storing it safely.

In response to this emergency, thanks also to donations received in recent months, we have distributed 200 500-litre tanks to 200 displaced families in the areas most affected by the conflict - Rafah, Khan Younis, Deir al-Balah and Nuseirat - where homes and infrastructure have been destroyed and access to essential services is extremely limited.

The tanks allow families to safely store water received through distribution or transport by truck, reducing dependence on unsafe sources and the need to travel long distances, in a context where every journey involves serious risks to people's safety. To ensure the effective use of the tanks, each family will receive drinking water for three months, with two refills per month.

Marwa is a young mother, displaced from the north of the Gaza Strip. Her words tell what it means not to have access to water:

"I have a five-month-old baby girl. I couldn't find a single drop of water. I went from tent to tent, morning, afternoon and evening, trying to fill a bottle.

I had been displaced from the north, on foot, and I had nothing with me. When this tank arrived, I was overjoyed, because now I always have water available. God bless all those who supported this project and gave us these water tanks."

Fadi also recounts a continuous fatigue of repeated and insufficient gestures:

"We suffered from a lack of water. We carried it in pots and buckets: I had three, but they were never enough. Water was scarce, my throat was always dry. Carrying it was a struggle, as was everything else, because we had nothing to store it in. Thanks to this tank, I no longer have any difficulties and I don't have to worry about water like before.

WINTER-PROOFING SHELTERS

But eating and drinking are not enough if you do not have a dry place to sleep.

Therefore, a major part of the donations was earmarked for making the makeshift shelters safer. Between November and December 2025, tendering and procurement procedures were started for materials and equipment needed to waterproof the tents.

The delivery of the materials took place in the last week of December 2025 and about 200 families benefited from these interventions.

TOGETHER WE CONTINUE TO ENSURE DIGNITY

Operating in Gaza means facing enormous obstacles: arbitrary restrictions on the entry of aid, collapsed markets, lack of functioning banking systems, constant forced displacement and security risks for staff.

Ensuring protection, equity and dignity is a constant challenge.

Water, fresh food, safer shelters: these are partial but fundamental responses. They keep a space of life, dignity and resistance open.

In Gaza today, nothing is taken for granted. Not even being able to drink, feed oneself or the winter that passes without losing everything.

Thank you for choosing to be there.

In the emergency department of the National Hospital in Hassakeh, Syria, generators hum, medical teams are at work, ambulances arrive non-stop. For hundreds of thousands of people, this public hospital is the only point of reference for specialised care and life-saving interventions. It is here that Un Ponte Per, together with local partners, has built a bridge between those most in need and a health system brought to its knees by years of crisis and sudden cuts in humanitarian funding.

By mid-2025, the situation in north-east Syria was dramatic: 68 health facilities were at risk of closure and only 1 out of 16 public hospitals remained fully operational. The consequences fell mainly on pregnant women, children and people with chronic illnesses, who were suddenly forced to forego essential examinations, medicines and operations. In the camps for displaced people, overcrowding and precarious water and sanitation infrastructure have multiplied the risks of epidemics.

The suspension of international humanitarian support to the National Hospital in Hassakeh, due to cuts imposed on USAID, had left over 333,000 people without access to public, free and specialist care.

'BRIDGE': AN ALLIANCE TO KEEP THE HEALTH SYSTEM ALIVE

Thanks to the solidarity of donors, we were able to supply the hospital with drugs, equipment and basic medical supplies, but the demands were growing daily. With the 'BRIDGE' programme, carried out together with ACTED and thanks to the invaluable support of the Syrian Humanitarian Fund (SHF), we were able to respond promptly to this emergency.

In 6 months of intervention, between Hassakeh, Deir-ez-Zor and Raqqa, we provided free integrated healthcare to over 137,000 people, supporting 7 facilities:

• 4 Primary care clinics in IDP camps
• 2 Off-campus clinics
• the Hassakeh National Hospital
• the Raqqa Ambulance Centre

We have provided drugs and medical devices, trained health personnel, strengthened maternal and child care and emergency services, and enhanced pathways for taking charge of and transferring patients to specialist care when necessary.

We have done this by strengthening local public structures: because the self-determination of a community also passes through the right to a free public health system.

THE HASSAKEH NATIONAL HOSPITAL AT THE CENTRE: THE 'BRIDGE' THAT CANNOT BE BROKEN

At Hassakeh Hospital, we were able to break down the economic barriers that prevented the most vulnerable people from accessing diagnostic tests, surgery and treatment. When a service was not available in-house, we provided transfers and reimbursements to external referral facilities.

To do this, we created the Health Equity Fund (HEF): a health equity fund that covers, on a case-by-case basis, the primary and life-saving care costs of displaced persons and refugees. The fund enables displaced persons to access specialist care that would otherwise be out of their reach. Most of them, in fact, are unable to afford even the capped fees of the public health system, let alone the much higher costs of private facilities.

"I cannot thank you enough for all the efforts you made to save my life. The cost of the surgery would have been impossiblefor me and my family tobear," said Amira, a 40-year-old woman who arrived at Hassake Hospital with angina and was promptly identified by health workers at our clinic in Washokani camp. Urgently stabilised, she underwent surgery and was able to return to her family.

But 'BRIDGE' was also able to provide long-term, non-emergency care, as in the case of Saleh, a 35-year-old man suffering from chronic pain due to hip joint problems.

"I was not able to bear the costs of the procedure nor the transport costs from the camp to the hospital. This operation gave me a new life, without pain," he told us after the surgery he was able to access thanks to the orthopaedic team at the Hassakeh National Hospital.

CONTINUE, TOGETHER

These months of work in Syria have allowed us to continue a long journey, undertaken alongside local communities more than 15 years ago, with the aim of supporting them in their efforts to build a quality, public and accessible health system, in defiance of the ongoing crises in the country.

As Dr Salar, medical coordinator of the Hassakeh National Hospital, recalled, "this intervention was instrumental in saving lives. We are proud of what we have built together, and I want to express my deep gratitude to the entire UPP team. Our hospital has become a landmark, strengthening the entire community.The legacy of what we have done will continue for a long time, and we hope to continue this journey together".

Leonardo spa ends up in the crosshairs of legal action: Italian and international laws on arms exports would render contracts with Israel null and void.

A group of important Italian associations joined with a Palestinian citizen to ask the Civil Court of Rome to declare null and void the contracts signed by Leonardo spa and its subsidiaries with the State of Israel for the sale and supply of arms. This initiative should be seen in the context of what has been going on for over two years in the Gaza Strip. And which many authoritative voices, including the UN Independent International Commission of Inquiry on the Occupied Palestinian Territories, claim is a genocide.

"IN THE NAME OF THE LAW LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS, LEONARDO"

'In the name of the law, lay down your arms, Leonardo' is the name given to the lawsuit filed in the Civil Court of Rome. A number of NGOs joined the complaint by Hala Abulebdeh, a Gazawi pharmacist whose entire family was exterminated by Israel: Assopace Palestina, A Buon Diritto, ATTAC Italia, ARCI, ACLI, Pax Christi, Un Ponte Per. The legal action also involves the Italian State, which with the Ministry of Economy and Finance is Leonardo's majority shareholder.

This is the second legal initiative in a short time targeting Leonardo in connection with what is happening in Gaza. In October, in fact, Leonardo's CEO Roberto Cingolani had been reported to the International Criminal Court, together with the heads of the Italian government, for 'alleged complicity in Israeli crimes'.

THE COMMITMENT OF A BRIDGE AGAINST WAR

Un Ponte Per (UPP) has been working for over 30 years in countries that are the scene of armed conflicts, such as Iraq and Syria. Or the Lebanon, 'where Israeli attacks have never stopped,' explains Giulia Torrini, president of UPP.

"We see the effects of war every day. To think that in some way Italy could favour the extermination of the civilian population does not sit well with us. Suing Leonardo is not an everyday occurrence for associations like us. But it seemed important to us to do so, especially in this historical period'.

The purpose of the legal action, Torrini emphasises, is not to attack Leonardo. But to ask for verification of whether the law is actually being applied. 'The questions we are asking are those that our members and the vast majority of Italian citizens are asking. If Italy repudiates war, as Article 11 of our Constitution states, why does it sell weapons to countries at war? Our aim is for the cause to be talked about as much as possible'.

Above all, Torrini is keen to distinguish the workers of Leonardo from the company.

"In Leonardo Square I have never seen it, the workers have. Like all the workers in the war industry, or the dockworkers forced to load weapons into ships, they are blameless because they are subject to labour blackmail and have no alternative'.

Representing the plaintiffs, together with his colleague Veronica Dini, is lawyer Luca Saltalamacchia, one of the lawyers who months ago sent a notice to the Italian government demanding the revocation of the Italy-Israel Memorandum on military matters. "The 2013 International Arms Trade Treaty signed by Italy, and Italian Law 185/1990, prohibit the export of arms to countries at war and countries that systematically violate human rights," Saltalamacchia explains.

"Italian law prohibits exports to countries whose policies conflict with the principles of Article 11 of the Constitution. International law prohibits the export of arms if at the time of authorisation it is known that the arms or goods may be used in the commission of genocide, crimes against humanity, serious violations of the Geneva Conventions of 1949. Attacks directed against targets or civilian subjects protected as such or other war crimes defined as such by international agreements to which the state is a party'.

The plaintiffs therefore turned to the court to ask whether the precise constraints of national and international laws were being respected. That is, whether it is legitimate for the Italian state to have allowed the export of arms to Israel, 'recognised for years as a state that systematically violates human rights and whose policy is certainly not in line with Article 11 of the Constitution. After 7 October 2023, with a genocide taking place, we wonder how it is possible that the State has not suspended the licences already granted and has not prevented Leonardo from selling arms, including through its subsidiaries or affiliates, to the State of Israel. Moreover, such a transfer is also contrary to Leonardo's Code of Ethics,' Saltalamacchia concludes.

THE NGOS AND LEONARDO WAITING FOR THE FIRST HEARING

In mid-May, Un Ponte Per was part of the solidarity caravan organised by AOI (Association of Italian NGOs), with numerous politicians in tow, which arrived at the Rafah crossing. But it was not allowed in. "We saw the trucks with aid stopped, the warehouses full of food and medicine. We heard the bombs falling only a kilometre away, killing people: it was terrible,' says Torrini.

The first hearing of the case is expected to take place early this year. "We will see what the judge decides and go from there," Torrini concludes. 'If he decides as we hope, it will become interesting. Italy and the world are moving towards rearmament and a passion for warfare, we are intransigent on this and we appeal to all Italian citizens and workers. We absolutely do not want public spending to go towards rearmament. Against war we are and always will be in the squares'.

Article originally published on Valori.it. Cover photo is by Massimo Lupo/UPP.

Our'Sahati' (My Health) intervention, financed by Otto per Mille funds from the Waldensian Church, was successfully concluded. It has been active since May 2025 in Jordan to improve the autonomy, mobility and social inclusion of adults and minors with disabilities in Syrian refugee and host communities in the governorates of Amman, Zarqa and Irbid.

Despite significant legal progress in Jordan for persons with disabilities, women, men, boys and girls continue to face obstacles in meeting their needs and exercising their rights due to both an underfunded public system and socio-cultural and economic barriers. The demand for health services has increased over the years for the Syrian refugee community, putting pressure on the national health system, and costs remain very high.

In this context, the provision of specialised services for people with disabilities therefore remains a major concern.

This is why we are particularly happy to have managed to reach 322 people in just a few months, exceeding by 120% the target that 'Sahati' initially set itself, thanks to home rehabilitation services, the provision of mobility aids and prostheses, and training sessions for people with disabilities and caregivers.

Un Ponte Per has been present in Jordan with projects aimed at people with disabilities for many years, and our activities include the deployment of a mobile unit composed of occupational therapists, physiotherapists and social workers, who again ensured regular interventions by reaching particularly vulnerable areas and maintaining continuity with the activities started in the previous project, "Masahat Aamina II".

In six months, 229 people - including a majority of women and girls - had access to specialised rehabilitation sessions (35 occupational therapy and 194 physiotherapy).

In coordination with the Ministry of Social Development, Un Ponte Per also updated and implemented the mobility aids distribution plan, delivering 114 devices to 100 people at the Zarqa rehabilitation centre. In parallel, the Mobile Unit conducted 229 training sessions on home rehabilitation exercises, use and maintenance of the aids, involving 159 people with disabilities and 70 caregivers, and was able to distribute another 208 mobility aids to a total of 112 people.

"Sahati" also enabled us to strengthen cooperation with national and international organisations through our participation in coordination groups for protection work in the country. Co-operation with the Ministry of Social Development enabled a targeted distribution of aids.

All our staff in Jordan have also received specific training on PSEAH(Protection from Sexual Exploitation, Abuse and Harassment) policies to prevent all forms of sexual harassment and abuse, confirming our organisation's commitment to protecting the people we work with.

By significantly exceeding the expected results, the 'Sahati' project confirms the importance of ensuring access to free, comprehensive and culturally sensitive rehabilitation services in improving the well-being, functional autonomy and social inclusion of persons with disabilities in refugee and host communities in Jordan.

Thanks to our long-standing collaboration with the Waldensian Church, and the support provided by Otto per Mille funds, it was possible for us to carry out this additional intervention, guaranteeing continuity in access to services for the communities we have been working with for years in the country.

Hassan Herzallah is a translator, writer and storyteller from Gaza. He collaborates with several international newspapers. For the "Water for Gaza" campaign, he chose to share with Un Ponte Per his direct testimonydocumenting his life under siege and displacement. She is in her third year of studies in English translation at the Islamic University of Gaza and continued her education online after the university was bombed.

Gaza, 21 January 2026

Only days had passed since we entered the new year.
I wasn’t counting the seconds, I didn’t check my phone, and I wasn’t expecting any greetings. I sat quietly, staring at the cup of tea I had prepared, no lights, no music, no familiar sounds around me.

Outside, the world was celebrating, but here, silence weighed heavier than ever.

The first moments of 2026 arrived, and with them, danger returned to our camp. The distant rumble of explosions from areas where the army still stationed, and occasional flashes of fire in the night sky, reminded me that our lives are still measured by survival, not by seconds. I wasn’t completely alone that night; Simsim, my little bird, sat silently beside me, my only companion in days filled with loss.

The nights of January began with sleeplessness, each one haunted by the random gunfire we endure almost every night.

I remember one night this week around two in the morning, when a hail of random shots rained down on the camps from occupation tanks and naval patrols. In that moment, my siblings and I stayed flat on the floor of our tent, unable to move at all for fear of being hit. I could hear bullets whizzing over our fragile tent, which offered no protection, and I even heard the sound of cups breaking from the gunfire.

The next morning, when we woke up, we learned that there had been more than seventeen injuries that very night in our camp and the surrounding camps. All of this still creates a constant feeling of instability, a sense that accompanies us every day here, even after the ceasefire exists “on paper.” From here, the truce does not appear to stop the danger; instead, it takes the form of a daily threat that the world does not see.

Beyond the immediate danger, there is the silent genocide we endure during the winter months.

This is the second winter for my family and me, and we are living under a fabric tent. The rain began early this year, and the force of the wind tore through everything in its path. Just two days ago, the storms ripped part of the tent where my siblings and I sleep, forcing us to quickly move our belongings into my parents’ tent. Some of my personal items, like my laptop, which belongs to a friend, were damaged that day. Even those who live in houses have seen parts of their homes collapse under the force of this winter’s storms.

We began to witness homes collapsing on their resident almost every day, and some even dying as a result. While I was talking to my friend Mahmoud, he told me how the house next to theirs had suddenly collapsed, turning every new day into another challenge in a life that never stops testing us.

The cold this winter is not just a normal drop in temperature, it is a constant, looming fear.

Every day we hear about elderly people or young people dying from the cold. Since the beginning of the year, seven people have died from the cold, including one infant, the child of the barber I go to, which keeps me constantly worried for the children around me and my younger siblings.

In the middle of this month, my family lost someone very close to us, my father’s neighbor, Mohammed. He was a close friend of my father when we still lived in our homes in Rafah. Whenever he spoke to my father, he would say he would come visit us in Al-Mawasi, always adding, “We will meet soon, once we return to our areas.”

But we have not returned, and that visit never happened.

In the middle of this month, Mohammed and his daughter were martyred while walking in the street, victims of Israeli shelling. When my father received the news, he kept repeating one sentence:

“We didn’t lose Mohammed during two years of genocide, and yet we lost him in the midst of a fragile ceasefire, while the world believes we are living under a truce.”

That moment was enough for me to understand that the danger had never left us, and that death here does not require an open war; sometimes, simply stepping outside is enough.

With prices unstable in the markets due to the irregular opening of the crossings, life feels heavier with each passing day. I look at my family, especially my mother, whose health has deteriorated severely as a result of the war. At times, she cannot even walk due to the pain in her head that extends down her back. We are still waiting for the crossings to open, which were supposed to be accessible months ago, yet the occupation continues to violate the terms of the ceasefire. Each time we try to contact institutions in Italy and other countries to enable my mother to travel and receive proper treatment, we are met with the same harsh reality.

The medications available are insufficient for her condition, and the specialized drugs she needs are not accessible in Gaza, as the occupation continues to obstruct the entry of essential medicines.

Amid all this, we are not searching for a new beginning as much as I am yearning for an ordinary day: a day when we can sleep without fear, when my mother wakes up without pain, and when people can walk the streets without risk.

We did not celebrate this year, yet I hold on to a small, stubborn hope, that the coming year will be less harsh, and that it will return to us what has long been take away.

By now, only a few days into the new year, the same quiet that marked its beginning still lingered around me. Life continued with its daily threats and uncertainties, yet amid all this, my little bird, Simsim, looked at me silently. He made no sound, nor sang as he usually does, as if he sensed the weight of everything we are enduring. In that moment, the silence between us felt like a shared language, a small anchor of presence and comfort in a world where even ordinary days are fragile.

Hassan Herzallah is a translator, writer and storyteller from Gaza. He collaborates with several international newspapers. For the "Water for Gaza" campaign, he chose to share with Un Ponte Per his direct testimonydocumenting his life under siege and displacement. She is in her third year of studies in English translation at the Islamic University of Gaza and continued her education online after the university was bombed.

Gaza, 30 December 2025

It was midnight, and it was raining heavily. Strong winds threatened to tear apart the tent that shelters my family and me. I was exhausted and unwell, feeling the weight of every step and a cold that seemed to sink into my hands and feet, as if winter had entered every part of me.

I tried to sleep, but who could sleep in a camp during such rain? Every drop made the situation feel heavier, as if we were trapped with nowhere to hide. I stepped outside and could only see people dreaming of rights that had become so hard to reach. At the same time, messages from my friends appeared on my phone, talking about the approaching end of the year and plans for the next one. I remembered myself here in Gaza, where even holding onto basic rights feels like chasing impossible dreams.

By morning, around ten o’clock, it felt more like five, as thick clouds blocked any sunlight. I was waiting for the day to begin so I could buy a plastic canopy for our tent, which had become weak and no longer protected us from the rain that had fallen in the past days. My whole family was still asleep. I wanted to make myself a cup of tea while waiting for my friend Hamouda, whose tent had completely flooded the night before, and who needed to buy some wood, plastic sheets, or even a new tent.

There was no news about the cooking gas cylinder we had filled at the end of October, which was supposed to be refilled monthly. So, we were forced to use the last of it for absolute necessities, relying entirely on fire. I tried to light a fire using any paper or wood I could find, but the intense cold and the wet wood made it almost impossible.

I heard Hamouda calling, so we decided to get something to drink on the way from any nearby supermarket—juice or anything else. I asked him if his phone had any charge so we could pay through the banking app, since I hadn’t been able to charge my phone the night before due to the lack of sunlight, and his phone was dead too. I had six dollars in cash, so I bought juice and a biscuit for two dollars, but the shopkeeper didn’t have change. We returned the items, still frustrated by dealing with worn-out money, even after the ceasefire had been declared.

We arrived at the place selling tents. My friend bought a small tent for $500, while I bought plastic canopy at $40. Since we needed two, we quickly headed back using the available transportation, especially the donkey cart in Khan Younis. On the way, the weather suddenly changed, and the sky became heavily overcast, while Hamouda’s belongings were left outside, and his family was waiting for him to set up the new tent and arrange the rest of their things.

We arrived at the camp, and I first went with him to help set up the tent, since he couldn’t do it alone. I stayed until we finished, then hurried back to our own tent to cover it with the canopy. As soon as I got inside, I asked my mother to check the weather forecast - during winter in Gaza, the first thing we do every day is follow the weather. She said, “A strong wind is coming this time, but the rain isn’t too heavy.” The morning passed, and I managed, with difficulty, to charge my phone just enough for studying or writing this diary.

By midnight, there was no sound from anyone, and no light in the camp except the faint glow of my phone. I began to hear the rain and very strong winds. After a few minutes, voices came from outside - from neighbors. When I stepped out into the rain, I saw that some tents had been torn apart by the force of the wind, and people didn’t know what to do. I felt a deep pain inside from everything we were going through in the camp. Minutes later, the plastic canopy I had bought to protect our tent were ripped away - the wind was stronger than anything I could do.

I couldn’t sleep all night, trying to hold onto the canopy and tie them to anything I could find, but the wind kept tearing them away every time. My body was completely exhausted, and I felt sick from repeatedly going out into the rain to protect my family’s tent.

When I finally had a moment, I checked my phone to see what was happening in the rest of the world.

I saw people celebrating their achievements as the year came to an end - greetings being exchanged, brightly lit streets, people gathered together, continuing their lives as if everything were normal. Here in Gaza, however, we recognize the end of the year only through winter, a season we cannot withstand no matter how much we try to prepare for it.

What hurts most again is that all our dreams for the new year here in Gaza are simply basic rights that already exist elsewhere.

Un Ponte Per responds to the criminalisation of activism in Italy and around the world with two protection programmes for human rights defenders. Protecting democracy.

A worrying phenomenon is growing in Italy and Europe: the criminalisation of protests and dissent is eroding civic and democratic space. In recent years, new regulations have significantly restricted civil liberties and fundamental rights guaranteed by the Constitution. And these are not isolated incidents, but a structural process: from the Security Law, which affects all popular movements across the board through the introduction of new crimes and harsher punishments; to mass surveillance, such as the use of spyware installed on activists' phones that violates privacy, to gag lawsuits, which directly affect freedom of expression, and SLAPPs, intimidation lawsuits aimed at silencing activists, journalists and organisations. Finally, the recent 'anti-Semitic decree' which, if passed, risks becoming a further tool of repression, hitting those who demonstrate solidarity with the Palestinian population and fight against the ongoing genocide.

According to CIVICUS Monitor Watchlist (December 2025), Italy is among the countries where civic space is under serious threat (classification: "obstructed"). This is no longer just a perception: even non-violent protest actions are punished with disproportionate penalties. For a peaceful roadblock, for example, one can now risk up to two years in prison. The aim seems to be to limit political action from below, on the one hand by turning certain administrative offences into criminal offences, and on the other hand by abusing administrative measures, such as heavy fines, urban daspo, travel bans and participation bans, which do not require a trial but significantly affect freedom of movement and public participation. All this has a deterrent effect: many activists give up mobilising for fear of the legal consequences. Less protest, less dissent, less democracy. It is a process of authoritarian acceleration that threatens the very heart of European democratic life.

In this scenario, consistent with our commitment to the protection of human rights, we have chosen not to limit ourselves to political solidarity and denunciation, but to build concrete instruments of protection for those who defend human rights. "Shelter City Roma" and the "Protection Hub" embody our human, civil and social rights-based approach, putting justice, dignity and freedom at the centre of our work.

"SHELTER CITY: ROME BECOMES SHELTER CITY

The 'Shelter City' programme was born in the Netherlands in 2011, in response to the repression of human rights defenders outside Europe. In many regions of the world, defending fundamental rights is considered a crime: activists, journalists and members of civil society are exposed to threats, persecution, arbitrary arrests and systematic violence. 'Shelter City' offers them a period of protection and rest in cities perceived as safer. In just a few years, the programme has grown into an international network of 26 cities, spread across Europe, Latin America and Africa, with a simple but powerful idea: to make cities bastions of democracy, local spaces capable of guaranteeing global protection. In 2023, Rome officially joined the international network through the collaboration between Un Ponte Per and the In Difesa Di network, with the support of the 8th Municipality. Roma Capitale and Roma Città Metropolitana also signed a motion. Rome is officially a city of refuge, with the aim of developing a replicable model that can also become a reference point for other Italian cities.

The programme fully embodies our values of participatory democracy, decolonising international cooperation, and enhancing the aspirations of the activistə accoltə. It provides temporary shelter for human rights defenders at risk, offering a period of mental and physical rest from political activity. The first objective of the project is to guarantee protection, understood in a holistic sense, combining physical, medical, psychological, legal, social and digital support. Providing protection is not enough, but it is essential to avoid isolation and promote integration into daily life. Rome thus becomes part of a transnational network that builds social cohesion and defends democracy from below, fostering encounters between different cultures, languages, religions and traditions, in line with our vision of peaceful and equitable coexistence between peoples.

THE 'PROTECTION HUB': WHEN THE THREAT IS HERE

When 'Shelter City' was born, Europe and Italy were considered 'safe and democratic harbours'. Today the situation is different. What coherence would our commitment have if we only defended those who are at risk abroad without protecting those who are criminalised at home?

Out of this awareness came the 'Protecion Hub', a nationwide programme designed to support those who defend human rights in Italy and find themselves under attack. The Hub represents an evolution of our work: from an international cooperation organisation to a civic entity that protects those who defend rights in Italy as well. Createdas a reaction to the Security Decree, the Hub offers legal, psychological and digital protection to activists, organisations and movements under pressure, connecting existing networks without replacing them. The Hub is not a mere service provider, but a social laboratory to create exchange of expertise and experiment with new forms of concrete solidarity.

CONCRETE PROTECTION: THE CASE OF ROBERTO MALINI AND LISETTA SPERINDEI

An emblematic example of the Hub's intervention is the case of Roberto Malini and Lisetta Sperindei, activists affected by a EUR 2 million SLAPP (Strategic Lawsuit Against Public Participation) lawsuit brought by Fox Petroli, a world record for compensation demanded from individuals. SLAPP lawsuits exploit the disparity of resources between whistleblowers and large economic or political actors. It is the classic 'David versus Goliath' effect: for a company losing a case is irrelevant, but for activistsə or a small NGO it can mean years of stress, unsustainable legal costs and the end of a public engagement. The 'Protection Hub' intervened by offering legal support, but did not stop at the individual case: it initiated the creation of a dataset of repression cases followed, useful to monitor trends, document violations and produce reports for advocacy. The dataset is linked to a document database to share good legal practices, winning strategies and useful materials for advocacy.

TWO SIDES OF THE SAME FIGHT

"Shelter City" and "Protection Hub" are therefore not isolated initiatives, but parts of a common design embodying a strong principle: activists protecting activists . Building ever stronger links between local protection and transnational solidarity means concretely realising our mission: to prevent violent conflicts by building networks for social justice, fostering encounters between cultures and building cohesion. Because defending those who defend rights means, everywhere, defending democracy and promoting a vision of peaceful and equitable coexistence between peoples.

Hassan Herzallah is a translator, writer and storyteller from Gaza. He collaborates with several international newspapers. For the "Water for Gaza" campaign, he chose to share with Un Ponte Per his direct testimonydocumenting his life under siege and displacement. She is in her third year of studies in English translation at the Islamic University of Gaza and continued her education online after the university was bombed.

Gaza, 9 December 2025

I woke up before sunrise, the way I’ve learned to wake up two years. The tent was cold, and my hands were stiff as I tried to start a small fire to heat some water for taking shower. Winter had arrived silently this year—without warning, without mercy. The ceasefire had changed nothing.

My mother asked me again this morning, “Where will we go before the first rain begins?”

I didn’t answer. I looked at our tent—eight months old, thin, torn at the edges—and I knew she already understood.

Later that afternoon, I walked through a street in Khan Younis that I recognized from before the genocide. I used to go past this street by bus on my way to university, but now it was just ruins. The silence there is different… it’s the silence of places that no longer remember themselves.

I were searching for an apartment to survive the winter, but every place we entered felt like a reminder of what we lost. Some apartments were half destroyed, some too dangerous, some impossibly expensive. I kept walking, but inside I felt stuck between the weight of memories and the reality of the tent that awaited me.

That evening, I met two children from the camp—Adam, nine, and his little sister Bisan. They were using their hands to try to pile sand around the edges of their tent. I saw them as I walked by and gave them a shovel to help lift the sand more easily. Their little hands were red from the cold of the night and the chill of the sand.

Then Adam looked at me and said, “If it rains, our tent becomes a boat.” I didn’t know what to say. Sometimes silence is the only honest answer we have.

That night, on November 20, 2025, everything changed in just seventeen minutes.

There was no electricity in the camp. Everyone was already sleeping. I had just closed my eyes when I heard the first drop hit the tent roof. Then another. And another. My little brother Mohammad shouted, “Hassan, the water is coming in!” I jumped up.

The rain wasn’t rain—it was a storm. Water poured through the holes in the tent faster than we could stop it. My sisters Malak and Alaa tried to lift our blankets off the floor, while I pressed my bag against the largest tear in the roof, and my father was battling the flood in the other tent.

Outside, people were shouting. I heard Abu Adam shouting as water filled his tent and he wasn't know what to do. My friend Wasem was trying to carry his disabled brother to higher ground. I saw a little girl—barefoot—running behind her mother, holding a pot to catch the water falling on their belongs.

In the midst of it all, while I was trying to keep water out of our old tent, my young cousin Yosuf—an orphan—came running to me, his face pale with fear. “Come quickly… Our tent is flooded,” he said, referring to himself and his five sisters, who could not manage the flooding on their own. I felt torn between staying to protect our tent and going to help them, but my feet moved on their own toward their area.

When I arrived, I was shocked. All their belongings were almost ruined, soaked completely. Their small, modest kitchen was flooded. I tried to help them remove the water as much as I could, whispering in my head, “Please, Allah, let the rain stop.”

Those few minutes were enough to expose our weakness and helplessness in the first storm of our third winter of ongoing suffering. No one was sitting idly by—big or small, child, woman, or young man—everyone was struggling, fighting, and enduring.

Seventeen minutes.

That’s how long the rain lasted.

Seventeen minutes were enough to flood hundreds of tents. Enough to turn a quiet night into chaos. Enough to remind us that even after the ceasefire, survival is still a daily battle.

When the rain finally stopped, the cold became sharper. I sat awake for hours, waiting for another leak, another sound, another disaster. By dawn my body felt frozen, heavy with exhaustion, but I forced myself to write these lines—to remember, to record, to say that we are still here .

In the morning, I woke up to flooded streets. Water had nowhere to drain because of the lack of infrastructure, and a little boy was wading through the water in the street while we couldn’t move anywhere.

I used to love winter in Gaza. It was one of the most beautiful seasons of the year. Inside our homes, the air was warm, family gatherings were frequent, and children ran outside to play in the rain. Adults would sit by the windows, listening to the soothing sound of the falling water—a feeling unlike any other season.

But today, after more than two years of war, and even after the ceasefire “on paper,” everything has changed. We are now entering our third winter with no real solution in sight. Our tattered tents have become our only shelter, flooded from every side by rain and wind. Winter has become a season everyone fears, a witness to the suffering of Gaza’s people.

Yet, the dream of a normal life still lingers in my mind, even as the future remains uncertain. Once again, winter reminds us that Gaza continues to endure in silence, caught between the pain of the past and the uncertainty of what is to come.