On the morning after October 7, I lit a Jaffa orange candle—a relic of my father’s time helping Jewish survivors after World War II. Its flame carried both memory and paradox: the story of a Zionist man and the Arab farmers whose orchards were lost to war. As I reflect on Gaza two years later, I find myself tracing circles of displacement, love, and sorrow—where every tear, whether Palestinian or Israeli, weighs the same.