I had arranged with a friend of mine to catch up for breakfast and was waiting outside a row of basement shops, typical in Denmark. I had just returned to Copenhagen from Gaza after an assignment for a Danish NGO. I turned around to what was a seafood shop, leaned forward and peered in—for no particular reason other than moving around on the spot.
The fishmonger was talking to a customer behind the counter which was neatly organized. There was a basket with lemons, each one tied with red curling ribbon, fish spices stacked, the register with all the keys covered by a silicone hood, and a pile of newspapers next to a pile of wrapping sheets. When the fishmonger moved away, I saw it.
Right there, spread on the top of the newspaper pile was the feature I’d written that had been published two days earlier: It is only in Gaza you die twice. On the outskirts of Shuja’iyya in Gaza, I had met twelve-year-old Sara and her family. Their house had been hit in an Israeli air strike.
Maybe the pilot had a spare bomb, maybe he was bored or even having that wager with his mates when he put his hand over his eyes and pushed the button. A warped game the Israeli operators are rumored to play. Or maybe someone, somewhere else, had to give an order before returning home to his family.
All that remained of Sara’s home were pillars of concrete; most of their belongings were below the rubble. War on the screen is so detached from reality. In reality, there are no heroes and no glory, only worlds that collapse and dreams that shatter.
What remained was life, love, hopes and dreams. Sara didn’t want to talk to me about the war. She wanted to talk to me about what she loved the most: hanging out with her friends and going to school.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
