Bethlehem, 2025.

Near Aida camp I stumbled upon Ammar and Moath with a slingshot—nothing to romanticize, nothing to beautify, only a reminder of my own childhood when we carved them from olive wood, the same trees they try to sever us from.

This is not nostalgia but continuity: the rock Intifada was never mythology, it was children hurling stones at tanks, shaping defiance from what the land itself offered.

From the land we forge survival, from the land we inherit resistance, and to the land we shall return.