I’m feeling the pain and weight of grey November. The rubble of buildings in Gaza is that shade of grey. My computer screen is the same colourless glare. It’s seeping into my eyes, draining them of colour. All the leaves have fallen to the ground, staining the fields in red. Red runs through the sewer grates when it rains, then turns to brown and eventually, grey. It happens season after season, year after year, century after century. And I fear it’s been so much longer, but I can’t bear the thought of millennia of war. Thousands upon thousands of wars. Homes, playgrounds and children ground into grey dust, over and over. We know this story so very well. We even have the means to change it. But that doesn’t matter. The seasons will still roll around again and again, and the living will fall away, after spilling their blood. The buildings will crumble into the ground until everything is obscured in dust.
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