I am an Israeli at a time of… A time of… Full force assault on Gaza. I forget I am human. I do not live under occupation. I do not live under siege. But I am human. How do I know? I do not report the names of the dead anymore. Now I count them by dozens. Like fruit. A long line of scratched out numbers on my pages. Listed in order of importance. Dead. Injured. Destroyed. Here, people sit at coffee shops and eat cake. I am human. How do I know? Chain smoking. Always looking south. Being afraid of birds because they cut through the sky too fast. The sirens follow the rockets, not the other way around. I tried to find a bomb shelter. I tried to get footage. My fingers shook too hard. I have a long list of scratched out numbers on my pages. People are sitting at coffee shops eating cake. Four days ago – 18. Today – 167. Maybe more. Zero on “our side”. Whole homes, families evaporated. A mist of blood and dust and rubble in Gaza. Journalists are asking me how to get the scoop. People are sitting at coffee shops eating cake. The streets are burning with chants of “death to Arabs”. The paper arrived. It says Arabs die because they want to die. For the Muqawama. Struggle. The spokespeople are awake.