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WHY THE WORLD WATCHES GAZA STARVE

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Gaza and the global double standard: Grief is selective

We are led to believe that the silence around the suffering of Palestinians is passive. They might pretend to maintain neutrality, but the truth of it is purely ideological. It’s the result of decades of cultural conditioning that have taught audiences, especially in the West, to view Muslim life as “other,” as disposable, as permanently positioned outside the frame of empathy. This is deeper than geopolitics or media bias. It’s about representation. Or rather, the lack of it.

Here is my attempt at answering the question that’s keeping us up at night: why does it feel like the suffering of Palestinian children doesn’t evoke the same collective grief that tragedies elsewhere do?

But before I do, I need you to reflect for a minute on this question: When was the last time you saw a beloved Muslim character on screen? One that wasn’t a stereotype, a terrorist, or a token? Where are the Muslim equivalents of Monica and Ross from Friends, Howard from The Big Bang Theory, or Ted from How I Met Your Mother?

This goes beyond a PR issue.

Audiences have grown up with Jewish, Christian, and secular characters who have been humanized to the point of becoming family. But Muslims? We rarely make it past the security checkpoint in the script.

Representation matters for visibility. Because pop culture is more powerful than we would think. It shapes who gets mourned, who gets rooted for, who gets saved. When Muslims are only seen through headlines about war and extremism, it’s easy to look away when their children die.

The camera has taught the world not to feel for us.

Islamophobia doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes it shows up in the form of who gets empathy and who doesn’t. Representation creates familiarity which then builds empathy and leads to action, or at least attention. When Muslims are erased from pop culture, it becomes easier for the world to stay silent when they’re erased in real life.

When literature, cinema, and art are known to mirror real life, it’s no surprise that the global absence of Muslims in these spaces reflects something deeper.

The world needs more mirrors than news. More stories that show Muslim joy, Muslim grief, Muslim complexity. Stories that dare to humanize, to complicate, to center. Until then, the silence will remain because people were never taught to care.

Let’s not forget cinema has been used to justify horror before. Hollywood made Pearl Harbor to romanticize the violence that led to the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Nazi Germany produced films to dehumanize Jews and legitimize their extermination. 

So no, we don’t need to wait for anyone to recognize the genocide in Gaza. We need to keep writing, filming, painting, creating. Let our art speak the truth they keep trying to bury. Because in the face of silence, creation becomes our loudest weapon.

By Nourhene D., PhD

English Literature | Manchester Metropolitan University

Folklore

THE GIFT-GIVER WITH A TWIST: UNPACKING THE MYTH OF الرهبان

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In Algerian oral culture, الرهبان stands as a peculiar kind of MYTH. PART FOLKLORIC HERO, PART CAUTIONARY VILLAIN, الرهبان walks the line between giver and punisher.

While some recall stories of him granting wishes or appearing with unexpected solutions, others remember him as a shadowy presence tied to fear, secrecy, or even punishment. And unlike the Western fairy godmother or the morally neutral djinn, الرهبان is never just one thing. He exists in tension between need and consequence, between hope and suspicion.

From a moral standpoint, الرهبان is frequently seen as a test of human character and intention. The person who asks for something modest or virtuous may be rewarded, while one who is greedy or shortsighted suffers unexpected consequences. This aligns him with the broader archetype of moral adjudicator in folklore.

Critically, the figure of الرهبان lends himself to the stranger motif in folklore. This taps into regional fascinations with the unknown, the outsider, and the possibility of transformation. As a folkloric device, الرهبان tale becomes a way for communities to explore trust, caution, and longing in uncertain or shifting social landscapes. His presence marks the threshold between the ordinary and the uncanny, the familiar and the threatening.

What version of this myth have you heard? We’d love to know it.

Drop your story in the comments, DM us on Instagram @dzcoded, or email us at dzcodedmag@gmail.com.

Let’s archive our folklore together before it disappears into whispers.

Voices

The Algerian Surrealist They Don’t Want You to Know, But We Do: Baya Mahieddine (1931 – 1998)

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At just 16 years old, Baya Mahieddine burst onto the Parisian art scene. No schooling. No formal training. Pure art.

Musiciennes (Musicians) by Baya Mahieddine

She stunned critics, collectors, and even artists like André Breton, the founder of Surrealism. A year later, she met Pablo Picasso in Vallauris. Traces of her influence appear even in Picasso’s work.

Born Fatma Haddad in 1931 not far from Algiers, Baya lost both parents at the age of 5 and was raised by her grandmother. Already at 11 years old, she caught the attention of French intellectual Marguerite Camina Benhoura, who first took her in as a maid, but soon became her protégé. Marguerite later used her connections to introduce her to the Parisian art scene and the rest is History.

Baya Mahieddine, Vogue, 1947

Her debut solo exhibition at Galerie Maeght at 16 years old ended up causing waves across Europe.

After her marriage to the musician El Hadj Mahfoud Mahieddine at 19 and returning to Algeria, Baya took a long hiatus from painting which coincided with the Algerian War of independence. Soon after the independence, she is recognized for her art as an Algerian icon in 1962. Some of her paintings were even turned into stamps by 1969, proof that her work travels far even though her name remains somehow hushed.

Baya Mahieddine, photographed by Bernard
Lesaing, 1989

Why do they immortalize their artists while we ghost ours? How is it that we remember Picasso and forget the girl who inspired him?

It makes you wonder about all the talent and the genius that never got the chance to be seen… All the brilliance that we’ve lost, not to time, but to neglect.

I paint what I feel. It bothers me when people ask what I’m trying to express through my paintings. I give you the freedom to find whatever you want in them. I paint. It’s up to you now to feel.” Baya Mahieddine 1986

Femmes Portant des Coupes (Women Carrying Bowls) by Baya Mahieddine

Sources

Uncategorized

Stop Romanticizing Suffering: Pain is not Proof of Strength.

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They say “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger,” but why must I break to prove my worth?

Sacrifice is always praised.
The minute you take a little space, they say "you changed."
So you shrink a little. You breathe quiter.
“You’re so strong.”
We hear it when someone survives
heartbreak, loss, burnout,
or a life that constantly asks for too much and gives too little.
But here’s the thing: strength shouldn’t only be measured by how much pain you can carry.
Pain is not a badge of honor.

On Unlearning the Struggle Aesthetic

We’ve Been Taught That Enduring Is Noble. Especially in Algerian culture; and honestly, across much of the world, we’re raised to believe that bearing pain quietly is a sign of character.

  • Your mother did it.
  • Your grandfather did it.
  • Your great grandparents? They’ve seen worse.

And maybe in some cases, it really is a sign of character, but not always.

And the thing is: it doesn’t have to be!

What If This Isn’t Strength at All?

Here’s one thing nobody wants to hear when they burn out, cry in silence, or stay in toxic situations longer than they should:

You’re strong, you’ll get through it.

Where does

that strength

come from,

and at what cost?

What if it’s just learned numbness?
What if it’s generational silence dressed up as courage?
What if we’ve confused resilience with repression?

You don’t need to bleed to be believed.
You don’t need to break to be worthy.

Suffering Isn’t the Only Story We Should Tell

We’re not glorifying the struggle anymore.

  • Not the sleepless nights.
  • Not the toxic relationships.
  • Not the “I-had-it-worse-so-you-can’t-complain” Olympics.

Pain might shape us, but it shouldn’t define us.

So here’s your reminder:

You don’t owe the world your suffering to prove you’re strong.
Joy can be just as powerful.
Softness can be radical.
And healing? That’s revolutionary.

How often have you stopped a person to say “that hurt me” in a room where no one ever says that out loud? To a friend, a teacher, a family member, or even a stranger?

Uncategorized

Welcome to DZ Coded

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A Magazine About the Unwritten Rules, the Unspoken Tensions, and the Loud, Beautiful Mess of Being Algerian Today.

From the slang you use, to the music you play in your car, to what time you get married (or don’t), to how often you smile in public; there’s a code. A DZ code. It’s not written, but it’s everywhere.

There’s no rulebook for being Algerian, but you still get graded like there is.

Unspoken Rules
#376 Always double-check the price. Bargaining is an art.
#1288 Nobody likes a midnight snack thief.
#97 Silence ≠ agreement. It's usually a side-eye.

It dictates who gets listened to and who gets hushed, who gets praised and who gets judged. It tells you what makes you authentic, what makes you too modern, what makes you a good girl, a respectable guy, a disappointment, a rebel, an inspiration. Sometimes it contradicts itself. A lot of times, it makes no sense. But it’s real and it runs deep.

DZ Coded was born to decode all of that. To crack open the aesthetics, behaviors, jokes, and myths that hold up the mirror to our society. Not to judge it, but to understand it. To laugh at it. To make art from it. To challenge it where it needs challenging.

We are not here to sell you perfection. We’re here to talk about the tensions of growing up in a place where every street has history, every grandmother has a myth, and every family has secrets. A place where tradition and rebellion live next door to each other, and sometimes share a coffee.

This magazine isn’t just about fashion, language, music, or memories. It’s about how they all come together to shape us. The creative ones. The ones who stay. The ones who leave. The ones who never felt fully at home anywhere… until now. Welcome home! Share with your friend who thought this could never happen!

The ones who never felt fully at home anywhere… until now.

DZ Coded is a platform. A rebellion. A mirror. A moodboard. A confession. A digital town square.

For the ones scrolling at 2 A.M. hungry for something real.

We’re not here to play it safe or keep it polished for the sake of palatability. DZ Coded is for the curious, the expressive, the ones asking questions no one else dares to voice. It’s for the ones scrolling at 2 A.M. hungry for something real; funny, smart, unapologetically local, and globally sharp.

From deep dives to side-eyes at pop culture, from serious think pieces to unserious memes, we serve content with depth and attitude. Expect editorials, interviews, hot takes, and the occasional poetic spiral.

If you’ve ever felt too DZ and not DZ enough, too outspoken, too soft, too angry, too dreamy; you’re exactly who we made this for.

Welcome. Decode with us.

Ready to decode more?