Somewhere at the end of this half smoked cigarette, there is a sentence waiting. It will contain all the right quotes and statistics, all the histories and traumas. I will let it speak and then I will be silent.
It will place you in the living rooms of nervous mothers waiting to hear back from daughters and sons who still haven’t returned from a protest. It will slam you against the back of a military jeep and call you a whore in a language you never wanted to learn. You will feel choked with grief or loss or white phosphorus. Or all three.
After all, in Gaza, it’s always all three.”