When a Child’s Ball Becomes a Burial Site: Gaza, Memory, and the Cost of Silence

The Court That Wasn’t There

I remember the first time I saw a four-year-old boy in Gaza kicking a deflated basketball—no net, no hoop, just cracked concrete and dust. His smile wasn’t performance; it was survival. I watched him pass the ball like a point guard running through ruins, eyes fixed on something deeper than stats or tactics. This wasn’t sports journalism—it was witness.

The Silent Hoop

At Cal Berkeley, we teach analytics as if data can heal trauma. But in Gaza? Data doesn’t save lives. The numbers don’t lie—but they don’t scream either. I’ve analyzed shot charts from refugee camps where children shoot at air because there’s nothing left to aim for except each other’s breath.

Blood on the Asphalt

I grew up in Southern California with Spanish lullabies and church bells ringing behind me—but when my son asked why we still do this? I didn’t have an answer until I stood beside his body at nightfall.

The Bird That Flew With Water

A bird with a broken beak flew over rubble yesterday—carrying water droplets like hope in its tiny mouth. Not metaphorical. Real.

I used to think this was someone else’s story—their pain wasn’t mine. Until now.

The snake asked: ‘Why do you keep doing this?’ The bird whispered back: ‘Because silence is violence.’ I know. And so do you.