Last spring I escaped to Europe.

I wandered without purpose. I burned time with thoughts, and the thoughts burned me. One day I arrived in Milan. I expected the city to smell of an old leather bag, of coffee and almond pastry. It had no smell, and to me, no character. Graffiti decorated the city walls, reminding me of Eastern Europe, familiar to me. Weeds grew between the railway tracks. During one of my wanderings, I noticed a woman with slanted eyes - beautiful. I approached her to photograph her. The universe connected us through the Levi’s jeans we both wore. We were the same age, the same size. As I was about to leave her and continue my day, I noticed a deep wound on her small hand—as if an aggressive bird had pecked at her. She hurts herself because she feels invisible, and when she sees blood - she knows she is still alive. So she told me. One from Japan, the other from Israel. We all need each other in this world. And as I reflect on the meaning of that encounter - there is another woman, my age, with the same interests. She is a graphic designer, I am a photographer. She is from the north, I am from the south. She is pink, and I love pink most of all. I was lucky that Saturday, while she has been in the cellars of Gaza for almost two years. While I skipped through the streets of Milan and watched the red carpet at the Cannes Festival - there all the stars had fallen. It is comforting to know that pain is not infinite - there is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear. First the soul, and then the body. The death of consciousness will be carried forward for generations.

How many Israeli women will have their hearts broken? And how many Israeli men will still be killed?