I am Omar Hamad, a writer from Gaza. On a blue morning, full of life, the genocide will end. The sun will rise, indifferent to the rubble of that sorrowful city, and the birds will appear as you’ve never seen them before, building their nests atop a rusted tank or a tent left behind by a displaced person. The genocide will end, and while you see a young man and his fiancée walking down the street smiling, you will also see an old man wiping the dust off a skull he found beneath one of the destroyed houses. The genocide will end, and a father will eat in the street, unashamed, because his children have enough food, while the clouds laugh in hues of crimson-tinged yellow. We know well that the end of war does not mean the return of life as it once was. The genocide will end, and people will return to their homes—or to what remains of the stones of their homes. And while you see a hand wiping away the tears of its children, you will see another, amputated hand that once dreamed of a boxing game… or a game of chess. And you will find me dusting off the books that survived the occupation and the cooking fires. You will find me searching among the rubble for one of my shirts, while my mother rejoices at finding beneath the wreckage a Palestinian dress gifted to her by my grandmother—may God have mercy on her. The genocide will end… and perhaps you will find me—or you will not.