An explosive roar shakes my home and my laptop goes flying, landing amid shattered glass and debris. Looking at its flickering screen, I sigh and brace myself to pronounce the death of another computer — and this essay. I collect it gently from the floor and coax it back to life. I keep writing. In Gaza, we have all been glued to the news for the last five days, watching in disbelief as strikes and counterstrikes have been exchanged and the death counts on both sides of the border mount.
In a silent exchange that spoke volumes, they assisted each other, orchestrating a trade that seemed as significant as any business deal, all through the unspoken language of empathy. They strategize about the most effective evacuation plans and areas to flee to, despite being acutely aware that we have nowhere, really, to run or escape to. The Gaza Strip has no shelters or bunkers for us to seek refuge from Israel’s bombs.