Looking inwards is like following the rhythm of a wave caressing Gaza’s shores. It spills over sand and rocks, leaving part of its itinerary to mingle with the imprints of feet that yearn to acquaint themselves with land beyond the undeclared borders. At some point, I believe, our eyes meet. Turning inwards, looking outwards, while the wave escapes back into its territory, incomplete.

It will return to reclaim its essence and leave more of itself where it belongs.

In my view, there is no sea. In another realm, I would have sat and stared, but there are too many echoes clamoring for attention and somewhere in the enclave, other echoes are lost in magnified noises, debris, teargas, and blood. How does turning inward expose layers of isolation that have nothing to do with solitude or self? Within my sight, away from the sea that might lure me back to an escape, buildings loom among others that were pulverized against their will. If I looked closely enough, I would find imprints all over Gaza, of lives whose last testimony was a forced yielding of blood. And beyond the recent stains, strains of stories that seek to find their voice within another. If one could hold Gaza into the palm of one’s hand, for how long would one stare before looking outwards where shades of blue water remain ensconced in reflection, while the transparent water at the shore washes over feet, pebbles, and sand, receding to complete its movement, alone?

What would command our attention from the heart? The undeclared borders or the sea? Read more.