I haven’t written anything for a while. I am devastated. I can’t talk to you about the lovely countryside of Cyprus, which I witnessed during my most recent bicycle ride; I can’t talk to you about my son who turned six and had so much fun at his birthday party; or how my 20 months old daughter decided to start addressing me as “George” rather than “daddy,” which I find moderately upsetting; or how on Saturday I went on an unplanned 20km run and then I stupidly couldn’t walk up the stairs and got tipsy with only a couple of beers; or even go on about domestic politics. I can’t. When the images of dead children are flooding our screens, when absolute calamity has never been as graphically portrayed, when humanitarian aid workers die for taking the admirable decision to “stay and deliver” support to those in need, when parents write the names of their children on their hands and legs to identify them when/if they die, everyday life becomes mundane. I am not handling it very well, and certainly I do not want to get into a political discussion. I’m pleading for a ceasefire, release of hostages and the opening of humanitarian corridors for relief support; exactly as per the UN Secretary-General’s appeal. The horror we are witnessing cannot be normalized. I see myself in the faces of those parents whose children have been kidnapped or lay dead in their arms, and can’t comprehend how all of this is even possible.