Not long ago, when the bakeries were still operating, I went to the bakery—or rather, to the greatest struggle I have ever faced in my life. I entered amid more than a thousand people reaching their hands towards the bakery window. After a struggle that lasted more than six hours, I finally got a bag of bread. As I was leaving, an elderly man stopped me and asked for some loaves. When I looked at his face and he looked at mine, we recognized each other. He was one of my university professors who had taught me. He saw my face and knew me, but he didn't say anything. I deliberately acted as though I didn't recognize him to spare him any embarrassment. I gave him half of the bread, and he left. I followed him without him noticing. I found him sitting on the sidewalk, eating and crying. He was crying, and I was crying, not knowing what to do. I left him to cry alone and returned to the tent. This man before you is one of the best calligraphers in Gaza. He lives in the Shuja'iyya neighborhood, where one of his sons was martyred, and his leg was amputated. But genocide spares no one. Fuck this vile world.