I  am  from  Acre,  but  I  write  Gaza  as  my  hometown  on Facebook  because of the nature of nomenclature.  My village  is  not  a  kibbutz, my  town  is  not Akko,  my   country  is  not   Israel.  I write  Gaza  as  my  hometown   knowing  full well  the  implications,  the  words,  the rules.  How the   name  Gaza  compromises  me.  As a Gazan  I’m  a  Palestinian   reduction,  a  philistine,  an animal,  hostile,  filthy,  a  terrorist,  a nobody. I  reject  the  rules that f orm the names, because  they do not

fit. Those labels are all counterfeit and those outfits are made of bones, they’re tight and  outworn. They  prick.  No, I  am  not  a  terrorist,  but  I’m terrified of all  of  it. I  am not Gazan,  and  how lucky.  I am free to  go. My passport, palimpsest, cloaks, and me inside my   invisibility. No 26-foot concrete wall to stop  me, no  ID checks, no  check- points, I   don’t  need  your  crumbs,  your  faux  sympathy .  All  I  need is  a  desk  and  a  chair,  and  these  words to  write  me.  I’m  not  filthy, and I never was,  actually.  I have access  to clean  water, and  I  make sure  I  use it. The water I bathe  in  is for one-time  use  only.  How lucky.   Zzz means sleep not  an  overhead  drone, and whoosh is a skirt, not  an  F16  flying   above  me. I’ve never had to go on hunger   strike  to  prove a  point.  I  was  never  force-fed  to  stay  alive,  and you have yet  to  choke me.  My troubles for  the  most  part  are  existential not daily and I wonder  why  this  makes   me   more  of  a   somebody. How fucking  lucky.  I shall die once,  not  every day,   and  I  do   not   need  to  worry  that  God  cannot  see  me.