Missing my friends in Gaza
After seven weeks of hell, my heart goes out to the children an hour’s drive away whom Israel does not let me watch grow up.
The nightmare is in abeyance. No more waking up with a heaviness amid Ramallah’s morning sounds – the sesame-bagel seller hawking his wares, policemen in the distance finishing their training by singing the national anthem, the engine of a cement mixer owned by the Tarifi Ready Mix Concrete Company groaning outside the window.
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