I fill water. I chop wood. The routine of struggle.
Today, as I worked, sweat poured down my body. Tiny splinters slid into my hands — quiet, unnoticed.
Later that night, I felt the sting. Not just from the wood, but from everything this genocide has buried under my skin.
We bleed without knowing where from. We carry too much and call it normal.
In Gaza, wounds aren’t measured by pain, but by how often we’ve ignored them just to keep going.
I’ve grown afraid of small things — wood, water, light, sound.
Here, even the simplest things can become the last.
And yet — I live.
All that, in itself, is resistance.