Gaza City is a ghost town. Darkness, smoke, and shadows hang over it, illuminated only by the red glow of explosions. The city resembles scenes from apocalyptic films—stories of the end of the world, of human catastrophe, of global wars. Homes stand deserted, streets are emptied, and death encircles us from every direction.
Every morning, new leaflets fall from the sky like snow, ordering us to leave and head south. Most residents ignore the leaflets. Some children collect them—not to read but to burn as fuel for cooking; to boil what little rice or lentils they may have. The irony is unbearable: the same papers that demand our departure now keep our small fires alive.