As I was walking slowly down a street in Gaza. I moved past debris, shattered storefronts and bombed-out buildings. My steps were burdened by exhaustion, grief, and hunger. My once-firm stride, the stride of a university instructor who hurried between lecture halls, had turned into a limp. My shoes were worn and coated with much dust, my clothes tattered and stained, and my face—once animated by ideas and humor—had grown pale and gaunt. My body felt decades older.
Suddenly, a young man stopped and stared at me. In a trembling, disbelieving voice he called out, “Dr. Hassan!”
I turned toward him. He stood motionless for a moment, then hurried forward to shake my hand before pulling me into a warm embrace. “I’m happy to see you,” he said softly, “and also sad to see you.”
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