In the Al-Taghreba shelter in Khan Younis, the displaced refused to let the rituals of Ramadan die. They made their own decorations, recycling cola cans into radiant lanterns that hung between the tents.
In the film, Bronz's character is commissioned to compose a new national anthem for post-Oct. 7 Israel, and writes a warmongering ballad about destroying Gaza and 'love sanctified in blood.'
Textiles are a window into the communities that created them, with every motif and line signalling a different memory, tradition or identity. Often seen as folk art, these pieces of embroidery and weaving bring together dozens of narrative threads, from Japan to South America. But nowhere is it more fraught with meaning than in Palestine.
In the opening moments, Loznitsa, working with the Romanian cinematographer Oleg Mutu, plants the camera before the prison gates, which open with a loud creak, allowing a fresh batch of emaciated arrivals to shuffle into a work yard.
There is a scene in "Morgenkreis | Morning Circle" (2025), a 16-mm film by Berlin-based Palestinian artist Basma al-Sharif, that unfolds at the threshold of a daycare center. A young boy clings to his father, his fists locked into the fabric of his coat, his arms wrapped tightly around him. The father gently tries to pry himself free while a daycare worker crouches nearby, attempting to distract the child and coax him inside. It is an ordinary moment, one that anyone who has ever been a child - or cared for one - recognizes instantly, as well as the gut-wrenching feeling it provokes.
For a mayor who has become so closely associated with a foreign policy conflict thousands of miles away, Zohran Mamdani does relatively little to directly address it. Follow his public pronouncements, press conferences, and social media posts, and you'll find a relentless focus on the local: an executive order cutting fees for small businesses, a mayoral appointment to combat racial discrimination, a ride in a taxi to announce a new TLC commissioner.
Many Israelis see international condemnation as evidence of anti-Semitism, rather than a verdict on their government's actions. Defying a chorus of global condemnation and international law, Israel nevertheless proceeded earlier this month with the de facto annexation of the West Bank, home to more than three million Palestinians and a territory it has illegally occupied since 1967. The international criticism that met the announcement was hardly new.
But urgency should never become an excuse for illusion, spectacle, or political shortcuts. The contrast between rhetoric and reality could not be sharper. While United States President Donald Trump and a group of world leaders gathered in Davos, Switzerland, to sign the charter of the so-called Board of Peace and unveil glossy reconstruction plans, the killing in Gaza continued. Since the ceasefire came into effect on October 10, no fewer than 480 Palestinians have been killed.
The Byzantine-era church lies half hidden in the shade. Roman columns rise from among the olive trees, even older ruins linked to Israelite kings are overgrown. To the west, the Mediterranean is just visible on the horizon. To the north and south are the hills of the occupied West Bank. In the small town of Sebastia, a hundred metres or less east of the ruins, everyone is very worried.
A Chadian chemist and a British activist, both born in Jerusalem, vow to fight for Palestine by any means necessary even if it costs them death. Two men devoted their lives to the Palestinian resistance but paid the ultimate price. Bashir Jibril, born in Jerusalem to a Chadian family, joined the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP) after the 1967 Arab-Israeli war. He trained military cadres and took part in the 1970 airliner hijackings, before being killed in a car bomb explosion in Athens in 1978.