Alive or Martyred: The Masked Man Is Greater Than Assassination and Louder Than the World’s Silence

NYN | Articles 

By Dr. Ameera Fouad Al-Nahhal

The question is no longer about the body: has Abu Ubaida ascended as a martyr or does he remain behind his mask? The masked man has grown beyond flesh, more eloquent than bullets, and truer than all the silence that conspires with the crime. For two years, he has been calling out to a nation asleep behind the wall of silence, exposing its betrayal with the ring of his voice more than he exposes the occupation through his statements. This assassination is not just the targeting of a man—it is a desperate attempt to assassinate the living memory of resistance and to break a compass of consciousness the enemy cannot extinguish. Between the despicable silence of the world and the voice of the masked man, the battle of symbolism is defined: will the world continue its complicit silence, or will Abu Ubaida’s messages remain alive—whether he is alive or martyred—to prove that symbols cannot be assassinated?

The mask worn by Abu Ubaida was not merely a veil hiding his features—it became a symbol of identity that transcends the individual, embodying the resistance itself. The masked man here is not just a human being, but a living emblem speaking on behalf of a people besieged by geography yet overflowing with meaning. From behind that mask, his voice became a mirror of awareness exposing the world’s hypocrisy and double standards. Every word he spoke unraveled the occupation’s narratives and revealed the silence of the complicit.

The masked man has become the embodiment of the vocal memory of resistance—not a memory confined to a commander or a spokesperson, but a collective voice that redefines heroism in an era of defeats. Abu Ubaida is no longer just a person, but a symbolic icon that confuses the enemy, inspires the nation, and affirms that a symbol is greater than the body, and that a mask is more honest than the thousands of unmasked faces who betrayed their cause.

When the occupation announces the assassination of Abu Ubaida, it does not merely target a body—it targets the meaning that has outgrown its bearer. Every colonial experience proves that the moment of military failure quickly becomes a moment of symbolic assassination—a futile attempt to kill meaning when the voice cannot be silenced. Thus, the announcement itself is an implicit admission of the failure of a war machine that could not extinguish the impact of the masked man on the battlefield.

The most dangerous form of killing is not what happens in battlefields, but that which targets collective consciousness by dismantling symbols and disrupting popular memory. The occupation practices what can be called the assassination of collective awareness—trying to plant doubts in the credibility of symbols, attempting to turn the mask from a source of inspiration into an existential question. But what escapes its awareness is that a symbol is not defined by a body, but by the imprint it leaves on collective imagination, and the certainty it embeds—that resistance is greater than assassination, and more enduring than the world’s silence.

This assassination is not a sign of strength—it is a sign of failure. A failure of an army with the world’s most advanced arsenal, trembling in the face of a voice that shakes its internal foundations and overturns its political and media equations. This is why the occupation seeks symbolic victories where it has failed on the battlefield, forgetting that the masked man has become a compass of awareness passed down from generation to generation, and that resistant consciousness cannot be killed by missiles—it grows and multiplies from the womb of threats and assassinations.

For two years, the masked man has been knocking on the doors of the nation with his voice, raising his call in the face of abandonment. But what he encountered was a thick wall of silence—not a momentary indifference, but a systematic condition that legitimizes betrayal. While the occupation mobilized its war machine in the field, the nation—both states and people—recycled the same rhetoric of helplessness, leaning on the illusion of waiting and hanging the obligation of support on the hook of political impotence.

The Western world practiced complicity through silence, believing that remaining silent preserves its interests with the occupation—ignoring that such silence translates into political cover for genocide. The Arab world, on the other hand, practiced betrayal through silence—turning silence into a tool of evasion and a form of implicit alignment with the crime. Thus, silence ceased to be a neutral option and became a cold weapon used to kill the victim twice: once through bombing, and once by ignoring the call.

The greatest threat to the nation is not just an enemy with a destructive arsenal, but a nation that remains silent even toward its own voice—content to watch the massacre through television screens. The irony is that Abu Ubaida, the masked man who hid his face, has become the clearest mirror revealing the unmasked faces of betrayal. With his voice alone, he was more eloquent than thousands of politicians who removed their masks to stand with the perpetrators.

In the equation of liberation, the presence of leaders is not measured by appearances, but by their ability to leave a legacy that transcends their time and physical being. Abu Ubaida—whether still in the field or martyred—has proven that symbolic impact cannot be assassinated. The masked man is no longer a fleeting voice, but a compass of awareness directing the nation’s perception toward its enemy, reminding it of the true nature of the struggle: a besieged people in an existential battle against a colonial project backed by global powers.

With his voice, he has placed the occupation in a political and media crisis. Each word he uttered redefined the colonial equation and posed an open question to a world drowning in hypocrisy. The target now is no longer the body—for the body, no matter how strong or vulnerable, remains exposed to attack. But the symbol that emerged from that body is more enduring than bullets, and more articulate than the silence of the world.

The deeper lesson lost on the enemy is that resistance is not confined to one person, but is a constantly renewing message. If the body is assassinated, the symbol is born; if the voice is targeted, the echo multiplies. In this sense, Abu Ubaida no longer belongs to himself—he has become a collective memory and a pillar of awareness, ensuring that the occupation remains in constant confusion, and that the nation—no matter how prolonged its silence—continues to face a harsh mirror exposing its impotence and betrayal.

Whether Abu Ubaida remains behind his mask or has ascended as a martyr, the core truth remains: the body may be targeted, but the symbol cannot be assassinated. The masked man has become the living memory of resistance, a compass of awareness exposing the occupation and revealing the betrayal of Arab silence and the complicity of Western silence. With every assassination attempt declared by the enemy, it only wounds itself with further failure—for the symbol it fears is greater than its bullets, more eloquent than its statements, and higher than the world’s vile silence.

Abu Ubaida—alive or martyred—is no longer just a local voice from Gaza, but a global icon reminding humanity that there is still a nation calling out, and an occupation that will not be resolved through assassination or betrayal. This is the irony: the masked man who hid his features is the very one who exposed the world and revealed the fragility of its humanity.

Palestinian writer specializing in political affairs