Escape is a word young people use when they still believe in borders. I lived through three wars and outlived two passports. My father walked from Jaffa with nothing but a prayer book and my infant brother tied to his back. He never looked for escape. He looked for bread, for water, for safety. We are not free, and we are not meant to be free in their frame. But freedom isn’t somewhere else — it’s in speaking your name when they erase it, in raising your grandson with the map of a village he’s never seen. That’s not escape. That’s staying alive on your own terms.