Good morning Gaza

Because it is Gaza, imitating it in the brilliance of speech is something that arouses awe and astonishment, because it loves details, as it loves its inner peace that has been lost to the genocidal war that continues until today, something that requires you to have other knowledge to shorten the distance between a text that you write and a reality that writes you.

You say to her impulsively: Good morning, and she replies: Are you done with your coffee? And you don't see her scrutinizing what is behind the coffee. You won't find her asking you how many cups you had, nor will you see her counting the tobacco rolls you left in the ashtray. She appears completely normal, without any nervous features, like a woman who decorates the morning with her laughter despite the pain. She will say to you: Did you eat the olive oil sandwich with thyme?

And she will add: Where are you going? And when will you return? And you will not find her caring as she pushes your dirty clothes and throws them to the other side, to offer you a book to read in the hustle and bustle of your calm, or clothes that she claims are appropriate for your position, and she laughs if she finds her laughing in the face of something you said about the idiocy of the position and the hustle and bustle of calm between one shot and the next, then she rises above answering with a wink or a gasp in which she finds all the excuses for your authority.

Good morning Gaza. A morning of patience and dignity.