The days of the Israeli genocide on Gaza bleed into one another, but none of them look the same. Each day has its own harsh conditions, unwelcome challenges, new losses and new trauma. In the morning, I am usually holding a tray of mismatched cups and a tea pot. Barefoot, I head to wash them lost in thought about how to pass the annoying neighbor in another section of the barn without saying “good morning” as I walk along the corridor. How could I say “good morning” to those causing me to wake