“B ørn i Gaza har ret til et liv!”
It’s a late November afternoon in a gloomy Copenhagen, where I’m visiting friends for a few days, and the only reason I know what those Danish words mean is that I’m one of the protesters walking down H. C. Andersens Boulevard. I’m surrounded by a sea of bobbing heads covered in black and white checkered keffiyehs and raised arms waving Palestinian flags. There are thousands of us marching and chanting that, yes, children in Gaza have a right to life. Faces that look like mine acknowledge me with smiles of recognition, and kernels of Arabic pop around me with such frequency that I can’t take them all in.
