The Pressman

“I go out every day, camera in hand, pen in pocket, not knowing if I will return. I run away from the shells, hide from their planes, fight hunger and exhaustion. Food, safety, and sleep have become rare luxuries. We survive on little, and draw strength from the smallest acts of steadfastness – a piece of bread, we share or a word of condolence we exchange. My home, like the homes of many here, no longer exists; the occupation army destroyed it, and there is no place here that makes me feel safe.