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 is to come. We fear the light as we fear the darkness. We fear falling asleep lest the dream be obliterated, and we fear waking to find our hearts have changed their address. The night is long, hope is short, and survival is postponed until further notice. Schools are empty of children, yet the echo of their voices reverberates through the demolished alleys. Gaza is a city that, whenever it buries its children, gives birth to new patience. It experiences death for the thousandth time and does not die. It rises as if redefining the miracle every day. We are not okay, my friends.