ISTANBUL (Türkiye): Late autumn light filtered into the corridors of Istanbul University’s historic Honor Hall as the Gaza Tribunal closed its final session. Behind the solemnity of its “moral judgment” lay the collective presence of survivors, witnesses, and citizens who refused to let Gaza’s story vanish into abstraction.
Over four days, the hall became part courtroom, part classroom, part memorial. Students stood along the walls as jurists, doctors, teachers, and journalists described life under siege. In one corner, a “Wall of Hope” collected handwritten messages and sketches in a motley collection of words of grief, defiance, and promise. In another, an exhibition displayed burnt notebooks, damaged cameras, and pieces of shrapnels retrieved from Gaza’s ruins.
The Istanbul session was designed not only to deliver judgment but to bear witness. Organisers from the Gaza Tribunal invited participants from three continents, as witnesses, human rights researchers, and international experts, to share what they had seen and lived.
For many, this was the first time their testimonies were heard in public. A doctor from Khan Younis described performing amputations without anesthesia as generators failed. A teacher spoke of children who refused to pick up pencils after their school was hit. A journalist recounted how his newsroom became a shelter, then a morgue.
Each story entered the official archive, a record that jurists say will serve as evidence long after governments change.
The hearings were organised thematically. Thursday’s session consolidated findings from earlier meetings in London and Sarajevo. Friday focused on starvation, ecocide, and domicide — the destruction of food systems, water networks, and homes. Saturday examined complicity and global systems, while Sunday brought solidarity and resistance, culminating in the reading of the final judgment.
What emerged was less a legal argument than a moral chronicle. Witnesses described the collapse of Gaza’s hospitals, the targeting of bakeries, and the “scholasticide” — a term that symbolizes Gaza’s shattered educational system. Health workers shared images of improvised surgeries and neonatal wards lit by flashlights. Teachers spoke of students who now attend classes under tents, their books reduced to ash.
The testimonies were interspersed with presentations from jurists and documentation teams. Witness Eye, a journalist-led project, demonstrated how its reporters preserve metadata and redundancy in storage to keep the records safe from digital erasure. MAZLUMDER, a Turkish human rights organization, presented field reports on the destruction of homes, schools, and hospitals, and reminded the audience that “an eyewitness record is the spine of future justice.”
Alongside the hearings, an exhibition drew steady crowds. Titled “The Living Archive,” it displayed photographs from Gaza’s ruins and artifacts that survived bombardment: a scorched violin, a cracked child’s toy, fragments of a university signboard. On one screen, short documentaries played continuously. Some were produced by young Gazan filmmakers before the war, others were recorded by families on mobile phones.
A memorial wall bore the names of hundreds of teachers and journalists killed since October 2023. Visitors pinned notes written in Turkish, Arabic, and English. “Your voices live in ours,” read one. “Truth will outlast rubble,” read another.
Organisers said the exhibition aimed to make evidence tangible, to link statistics to lived experience. “Every number hides a name,” said curator Leyla Celik. “And every name deserves to be remembered in light, not in silence.”
Public figures lent their presence, not as celebrities but as witnesses of conscience. Arundhati Roy called Gaza “a live-stream genocide.” American actress Marcia Cross described hospitals turned into graves and families erased “before the world’s indifferent eyes.” Islamic scholar Omer Suleiman urged the audience to “turn compassion into persistence.”
When musician Roger Waters took the microphone, his voice trembled with anger. “Silence,” he said, “is the collaborator of cruelty.” His words drew long applause, echoed later by jurists who said civic voice is the last defense when law is disabled.
Atmosphere Inside
Throughout the sessions, translators worked tirelessly in booths, relaying words into Turkish, Arabic, English, French, and Bosnian. The audience, comprising students, lawyers, families, activists, came and went, yet the hall rarely emptied. Many took notes; others simply listened, hands clasped, faces tense.
The mood alternated between sorrow and determination. At times, the testimonies left the room silent. At others, bursts of applause followed calls for solidarity. During breaks, participants gathered in the courtyard where tea was served under banners reading, “Conscience is a form of resistance.”
A young Istanbul University student said she had attended “to understand what genocide means beyond textbooks.” A Bosnian survivor of the 1990s war told reporters the hearing brought back “the smell and silence of Sarajevo” and a renewed belief that “memory is power.”
Not all who contributed were in the room. The Tribunal projected video statements from Gaza doctors and journalists who could not travel. Some spoke through crackling connections, surrounded by rubble. One, a surgeon, recited the names of colleagues killed while operating. Another, a teacher, held up the attendance register of her last surviving class.
Their words were met with quiet reverence. Organisers said these virtual testimonies underscored the urgency of building redundant, decentralised archives that could survive even as war destroys physical records.
Beyond the emotion, the Tribunal cultivated an unusual intimacy between experts and lay participants. Legal scholars sat beside artists, students beside survivors. One panel discussed how universities can divest from arms-linked research. Another examined how journalists can protect data under bombardment.
Workshops in adjoining rooms trained attendees in documentation ethics, metadata tagging, and international legal frameworks. “We are not just recording the genocide,” said a facilitator. “We are preparing for accountability.”
As the final statement was read, the stillness was broken softly by the clicking cameras, followed by an applause that was not triumphal, but solemn.
Outside, as the daylight dimmed, the courtyard became an impromptu forum. A teacher from Istanbul wrote on the Wall of Hope that she would assign the judgment to her students. A young medic pledged to volunteer with a relief mission. A child drew a kite and the word “steadfastness.”
Nearby, a projection looped Richard Falk’s closing words: “The struggle for legitimacy is won by those who tell the truth with patience.”
For many, simply being there mattered. “It was not just a tribunal,” said a Palestinian student from Lebanon. “It was a place where the world listened.” Others compared it to the Russell Tribunal on Vietnam, calling it the “moral echo” of that era, a reminder that conscience, when organised, can become history’s witness.
Organisers said attendance exceeded expectations. Delegations came from Africa, Europe, and Latin America. Religious leaders, feminists, trade unionists, and former diplomats shared the same benches. “It was not about agreement,” said juror Anis Kassim. “It was about recognition that genocide is not someone else’s problem.”
Art as Testimony
The Istanbul session blurred the line between legal inquiry and cultural expression. Poets recited verses from Mahmoud Darwish and local Turkish writers. A small ensemble played the oud and violin before the evening screenings. In the foyer, volunteers handed out leaflets quoting one line from the judgment: “To remember is to resist.”
Curator Celik said the decision to combine art and law was deliberate. “Art disarms indifference,” she explained. “You cannot turn away when you see what war does to a child’s notebook.”
As the gathering dispersed, participants spoke of continuity. The Tribunal plans traveling exhibitions, translations of the archive into multiple languages, and outreach to universities. For many attendees, though, the Istanbul session had already achieved its goal, turning empathy into action.
“The record will live because people will carry it,” said a volunteer archivist from Sarajevo. “This was not just a verdict. It was a vow.”
In the final hour, as copies of the moral judgment were distributed, the sense of collective resolve was unmistakable. The last line printed on the program captured the essence of the moment:
“When states fail to act, people must.”
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