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Everything in Gaza is crucified on the edge of loss: the air is broken, the sky is perforated, and mothers give birth to silence that has neither beginning nor end. Nothing here is born whole, even the stories come out truncated. And laughter, when it happens, seems strange, as if trying to escape madness and failing every time. The remains of the houses speak for themselves, telling tales of death and survival, whispering what has not been heard, and what will never be heard. Every window beneath the rubble preserves the image of an explosion, and every corner remembers those who left and never returned. The birds are silent, as if the sky itself is afraid to tell us what........

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