Here I am, on top of a building in Hong Kong facing three kids who hold a selfie stick. It's making me go vertigo big time. I feel it in my chest, alongside my admiration for the fact that their legs don’t tremble like mine. In a second the picture of my kids pops up just as I close the browser. And it’s another strong stream of emotions that flushes through my body. A body that is still sitting on the same chair in Caffe Nero.
Sitting on the riverbank I watch what floats by. The stream brings a child sitting on a hospital bed. He must be 12, about my son’s age. A bandage hangs from his left shoulder where his arm should be. He cries conpulsively, in a foreign language, so I can only imagine what he is saying. His wailing reminds me of phantom pain, and the tearful words seem to mourn the sudden amputation of his childhood, possibly performed without anaesthetic. But then I realise that his cries may refer to a deeper pain. Maybe the blast that took his arm also took his mum. Maybe all his family, as many in Gaza these days. Before this story enters into a loop, I flick it away with my thumb, making the stream move forward. Another image stops in front of me. Three young men on a desert road dance to Staying Alive by Bee Gees. Their faces look very familiar to me. But it’s not easy to see their faces. They are partially covered with helmets and their bodies are surrounded by military gear. They don’t sp...