Normality, in inverted commas.

It's strange the things that can become normal. The Gaza strip is roughly the size of Dublin and everyday, almost without exception, people die.
"1 Palestinian killed in a shell attack on Northern Gaza" or "2 militants killed in a shell attack in Northern Gaza" etc etc.
Some of these are innocent civilians, some of them are not, they are people nonetheless.
The other day I talked to a friend from home and she asked was everything alright there, sounding concerned.

"Why", I asked, "did you read something?"
"I heard in the news that there had been some people killed in the shelling in the North of Gaza"
"Oh", I said, relieved. I had thought for a minute it was something serious.
I thought it was something that affected me. I had spent half an hour reading the news that morning and hadn't bothered with that article.

Funny as it sounds I live in quite a safe place, in Gazan terms. The centre of Gaza city, 25 mins away from the shelling in the north, 40 mins away from the shelling in the South. Even here you can become detached.

I have a tendency to see things in the "big picture" or "long-term" or whatever, the downside being that I can often be unaffected by the smaller incidents around me. Like the fact that the doorman of my building Mohammed (who can't afford to live in this area) often sleeps in the same house as 70 of his relatives and neighbours when the shelling "gets bad". His house and those of his extended family become unsafe when the shelling intensifies. Or my local shopkeeper Saber, who I play cards with, who literally has no money despite the fact that practically everyone in the surrounding area owes him money and can't afford to pay him back, he continues to allow them to shop on credit.

Last week I sat with the family of Muhammad Abu Schmas, he is the guy in the photo outside the destroyed house a couple of posts ago. He and some of his extended family are living in the apartment of an distant relative. His two brothers who were seriously injured have recovered really well. The younger brother had just been released from ICU, he sat with us, his damaged hands wrapped up like mittens and the crown of his head literally sown together. His older brothers, in their 30's, doted on him, scratching his back when he couldn't and one had him rest his head on his lap. They thought he was gone forever.

Shells go off in the background, sometimes 2 or 3 a minute. Loud enough to force the conversation to stop.
Loud enough to make me shudder everytime.