The drones were intercepted (obviously) as the Palestinian observer has pointed out, There is 17 air defence batteries in and around the golan Heights and Galilee

الطائرات المُسيّرة تم اعتراضها (طبعاً)، زي ما أشار إليه The Palestinian Observer.
فيه ١٧ بطارية دفاع جوي في وحول الجولان والجليل.

—❗️🇮🇷/🇮🇱 Washington Post: 'Israel will only be able to maintain shooting down Iranian ballistic missiles for 10 or 12 more days, then they will need to start rationing munitions'

This could explain why Iran is opting to launch small but consecutive waves of missiles. Iran is likely using up some of their older, less sophisticated missiles to deplete Israeli defences, making way for the “real” stuff later on. This is attritional warfare.

In most cases, a small wave of 3-5 Iranian ballistic missiles is enough to prompt the launch of about 10-15 Israeli interceptor missiles, each costing at least $12 million dollars (in the case of THAAD).

In contrast, even Iran’s most modern missile, the Fattah-1, only costs about $200,000 to produce, according to the IRGC. If we assume 12 interceptors for one Fattah-1 missile (as seen in a video today), that means Israel is spending $144 million dollars to “intercept” (not always successfully) a single Iranian hypersonic missile.

This is simply not sustainable. Within about two weeks, if Iran continues at this pace, Israeli airspace will be at the mercy of Iran’s far larger and more destructive solid fuel ballistic missiles. Unless, of course, the U.S. intervenes directly.

@ThPalestinianObserver

ننتصر أو نموت

Top US senator Ted Cruz knows nothing about Iran but wants to topple the government

5 days ago Mahmoud Khalil wrote a letter to his newborn son from prison
May God give him, his wife and his baby strength

(Click to expand)

Yaba Deen, it has been two weeks since you were born, and these are my first words to you.
In the early hours of 21 April, I waited on the other end of a phone as your mother labored to bring you into this world. I listened to her pained breaths and tried to speak comforting words into her ear over the crackling line. During your first moments, I buried my face in my arms and kept my voice low so that the 70 other men sleeping in this concrete room would not see my cloudy eyes or hear my voice catch. I feel suffocated by my rage and the cruelty of a system that deprived your mother and me of sharing this experience. Why do faceless politicians have the power to strip human beings of their divine moments?
Since that morning, I have come to recognize the look in the eyes of every father in this detention center. I sit here contemplating the immensity of your birth and wonder how many more firsts will be sacrificed to the whims of the US government, which denied me even the chance of furlough to attend your birth. How is it that the same politicians who preach “family values” are the ones tearing families apart?
Deen, my heart aches that I could not hold you in my arms and hear your first cry, that I could not unfurl your clenched fists or change your first diaper. I am sorry that I was not there to hold your mother’s hand or to recite the adhan, or call to prayer, in your ear. But my absence is not unique. Like other Palestinian fathers, I was separated from you by racist regimes and distant prisons. In Palestine, this pain is part of daily life. Babies are born every day without their fathers – not because their fathers chose to leave, but because they are taken by war, by bombs, by prison cells and by the cold machinery of occupation. The grief your mother and I feel is but one drop in a sea of sorrow that Palestinian families have drowned in for generations.
Deen, it was not a gap in the law that made me a political prisoner in Louisiana. It was my firm belief that our people deserve to be free, that their lives are worth more than the televised massacre we are witnessing in Gaza, and that the displacement that began in 1948 and culminated in the current genocide must finally end. This mere belief is what made the state scramble to detain me. No matter where I am when you read this – whether I’m in this country or another – I want to impress upon you one lesson:
The struggle for Palestinian liberation is not a burden; it is a duty and an honor we carry with pride. So at every turning point in my life, you will find me choosing Palestine. Palestine over ease. Palestine over comfort. Palestine over self. This struggle is sweeter than a life without dignity. The tyrants want us to submit, to obey, to be perfect victims. But we are free, and we will remain free. I hope you feel this as deeply as I do.
Deen, as a Palestinian refugee, I inherited a kind of exile that followed me to every border, every airport, every form. Borders mean something to me that they may not mean to you. Each crossing required me to prove my docility, my identity and my very right to exist. You were born an American citizen. You may never feel that weight. You may never have to translate your humanity through paperwork, countless visa applications and interview appointments. I hope you use this not to separate yourself from others, but to uplift those who live under the same circumstances that once constrained me. But I won’t pretend this citizenship protects you. Not completely. Not when you have my name. Not when those in power still see our people as threats.
One day, you might ask why people are punished for standing up for Palestine, why truth and compassion feel dangerous to power. These are hard questions, but I hope our story shows you this: the world needs more courage, not less. It needs people who choose justice over convenience.

(Part one of the letter, its too long for one message)