I am a war survivor. And that is why I refuse to sit quietly while genocide unfolds — in Gaza, on our screens, in broad daylight. I know what war sounds like. I know the pitch of missiles slicing the sky. I know the hunger, the displacement, the unanswered questions. I know the look in a mother’s eyes when she has nothing left to offer but her arms.
Last week, I was supposed to be on the Gaza Flotilla called “Conscience” — a civilian aid mission attempting to bring food, water, and medical supplies to Palestinians by sea. I lost contact with the organizer just days before departure. I was still trying to reconnect when the news broke: the flotilla had been struck by Israeli drones in the middle of the night, in international waters near Malta.
