July 25 2025
Institute for Palestine Studies
AUTHOR: Donya Abu Sitta
BLOG SERIES:
“Language is not an innocent tool; it is used to shape the other, to arrange them within a system that facilitates control.” —Edward Said
Language has always been a weapon of power. In Gaza, the Israeli occupation wields it as a form of linguistic colonization and psychological warfare, using words to dominate both the land and the minds of its people. These phrases do not appear randomly; they are etched deliberately, incised upon the walls of resistance like scars. Every word is a declaration that even language, the most intimate of shelters, is no longer safe.
When Walls Speak Hebrew
After the Israeli army withdrew from Khan Yunis, I returned to the city with my father. We stood before the remnants of our home: roofs pierced by missiles, houses reduced to rubble, concrete columns standing like ghosts, and streets stripped of all familiarity.
But what unsettled us most were the words. The Hebrew graffiti sprawled across our walls weren't careless scribbles but calculated slogans, symbols of the Israeli army, and messages intended to wound the psyche.
Weaponizing the language
Alongside bombs and bullets, language served as yet another weapon. The graffiti was a deliberate act of psychological warfare; meant to instill fear, fracture collective memory, and deepen the trauma. Sometimes I wonder if the Israelis aim to conquer not only our land but our minds.
Palestinians are driven from their homes, displaced and scattered, yet Israeli soldiers are free to leave their signatures on our walls -walls often destroyed before their owners even return to read the words. Blue six-pointed stars, the emblem of the Israeli state, stain the doors of houses.
Near Yahya Sinwar's house, a chilling phrase read: “Judgment Day, Khan Yunis,” signaling the intent to annihilate the city. Another scrawl declared: “Instead of erasing the walls, let's erase Gaza,” leaving no doubt about the genocidal ambition behind such words.
Open Racism
The violence of language is not limited to graffiti. Former Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant said on October 9, 2023: “We are fighting human animals.” It was not a slip of the tongue, but a naked statement of dehumanization; a green light to target civilians with impunity.
Another message left by soldiers read: “We are all Goldstein,” invoking the name of Baruch Goldstein, the settler who massacred 29 Palestinians in the Ibrahimi Mosque in 1994. For Israeli far-right leaders like Itamar Ben Gvir, this atrocity remains a point of pride. Ben Gvir, who calls Goldstein his hero, hangsthe killer's portrait in his living room, decades after the bloodshed.
Love Letters on the Ruins
Some graffiti read like grotesque love notes, written by soldiers who had invaded people's private spaces. “Happy 19th birthday, Hanaa, from the angel man in Khan Yunis,” one soldier wrote, as if terror and occupation could be signed off with a smiley face. Amira, a mother of two, returned to her house in the Al-Amal neighborhood to find a message written with lipstick on her mirror: “This color is beautiful. Why didn't you take it with you when you fled?” It was sinister mockery dressed as intimacy, signing off on an appalling invasion of her home and dignity.
Other walls bore phrases like: “I miss you, my love. I will return to your embrace,” and “To my beloved, I'm in Khan Yunis now.” These messages, mixed with the names of fallen Israeli soldiers commemorated like saints, turned our ruined homes into shrines of someone else's grief and grotesque pride.
They looted personal belongings, burned furniture, and smeared walls with filth. They walked through our homes as though they owned them, leaving behind not just physical destruction but a cruel parody of “human connection.”
Another message urged: “Oh soldiers, complete your work in Khan Yunis to the fullest,” a call to destroy, to erase every remnant of life.
Childhood Amid Graffiti
When I walk with my students through Al-Amal neighborhood, where Hebrew graffiti covers every surface, they ask me: “What do these words mean?” I often don't know what to say. We try to translate, but each phrase feels heavier than the last, a reminder of our displacement, our loss.
A friend's aunt in east Khan Yunis refused to live in her house after finding it defaced with Israeli Graffiti. Her family chose to live in a tent in al-Mawasi instead. It was a decision that later saved them; the house was bombed to the ground. Those who remain repaint their walls not only to cover the words but to erase the stench of the occupation itself.
These writings are more than graffiti; they are weapons. They carry threats, contempt, and humiliation, imprinting the war on our psyches long after the soldiers leave. They deepen trauma and remind us that our homes, our last sanctuary, are no longer ours.
So, are these just words? Or are they another front in a war that never ends?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Donya Abu Sitta is a content writer, translator, and English language teacher. During her academic life, she has volunteered as a translator and writer for the Hult Prize, Youth Innovation Hub, Science Tone, Eat Sulas, and Electronic Intifada. These days, she is studying medicine at Al-Azhar university.
She is interested in culture, art, and stories. “For me, writing is freedom, and my dreams are limitless,” Donya says. “I believe in the power of words. I create my chances to pass my ideas to the world by writing and photography.”
Disclaimer:: The contents of this blog express the author's opinions and do not necessarily reflect the institution's views or position.
