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   am  a   Palestinian   reduction,   a  philistine,  hostile  and  ignorant, filthy,

a  terrorist,  a nobody. I  reject  the  rules that form the names,  because  they  do not

fit.  These labels are  all counterfeit and these outfits are made of bones, they’re tight

and  outworn. They  prick.  No, I  am  not  a  terrorist,  but I am 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  do not  have  to  record my thumb print electronically. All I need

is  a  desk  and  a  chair,  and  these  words to  write  me.  I do not  wakeup  at 1 AM

to get to work at  8 AM, to factor in all the hurdles before  me.  I  am  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

food  has  yet  to  choke me.  I have a home  and  an  idea of a  home, and  my  roof  is

neither   makeshift  nor  leaky.  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  everyday  and I  do  not  need to worry that God cannot see me.