“Not that I want to be a god or a hero. / Just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone.”—“Longing”, Czeslaw Milosz

A while ago, during a search for news of the erstwhile Gazan diary writer Ziad, I found a short thread on Mumsnet devoted to him. Even the mums, mams, and moms are worried about Ziad. On the thread someone posted (somewhat) good news: he’s taken a break from writing, and he and his sister and probably his cats (as of the time of the posting) are safe.

Barbarity, barbarity, barbarity. That’s on my mind. A few weeks ago, a human rights monitor visited our small town, reporting from her time in the West Bank, where Palestinians are harassed and assaulted on a daily basis, their houses demolished and their land confiscated for spurious reasons, and their children must walk to school accompanied by police escorts to ensure their safety. I will forever be haunted by the photo of a playground that Israeli settlers had appropriated and cordoned off with barbed wire, fully grown men sitting in swings.

At coffee hour at the local arts centre, a friend mentioned the international flotilla of ships carrying aid approaching Gaza, most likely to be greeted by Israeli bombs. She recalled a friend’s story of participating in a similar mission 13 years ago. Israeli soldiers intercepted, landing on boats via helicopters and shooting Turkish volunteers. The friend was on the boat carrying Irish volunteers, and as they were getting handcuffed and searched, he shouted, “Harder, more, oooh,” etc., annoying the Israelis. Amidst the chaos, he managed to stash his mobile phone up his rectum, which was confiscated after his alarm went off.

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