The price of sugar is up again, and the man from the ministry came yesterday asking why I still write credit in a notebook instead of some digital system. I told him my customers are old and poor, not criminals or children, and we remember our debts without machines. Meanwhile, they sell Gaza in pieces on paper in Washington while Arab kings sip tea with men whose countries bombed my cousins into the sea. There is no honesty left in governments, only theater and blood. My daughter in Berlin asked me last night if her son should learn to fear flying the Palestinian flag—how do you answer that without breaking a child’s heart? I say nothing. I lower the shop shutter, pray, and wait for the next name to be added to the list of the dead.