War looks like the price of lentils going up again because the ships can’t dock in Gaza. It looks like my daughter calling from Berlin, crying, asking if we’re safe—while I watch the same bulldozers on Al Jazeera that I saw forty years ago leveling what’s left of a refugee camp. It looks like silence after the third prayer, when no one comes for bread and you know another strike hit near the crossing. I write names in the credit book of people who may never come back to pay. I’ve stopped believing in peace deals signed in hotel lobbies. My village was called Bayt Mahsir. I say it every evening before the news. Let them hear it once before the world forgets.
0