Gaza war

I've been aware of the war since it started, but I don't have much education on the reasoning behind it. I think my main question is, why are they still bombing Gaza? And if it's about hostages, why won't Gaza release the hostages? I want to understand.

That's really the only question I have, but my last post got taken down because it was too short, so I'll include a story about my pet turtle to make the post longer. (I don't have a pet turtle. I just asked chatgpt to make the story for me.)

Fake turtle story:
It all started on a lazy Sunday morning, the kind where you don’t really want to get out of bed, but the sun peeks through the curtains just right and coaxes you into stretching. I rubbed my eyes, shuffled to the kitchen, and put the kettle on. It was a peaceful kind of quiet in the apartment—until I noticed something was off. Way off.

Tilly, my turtle, wasn’t in her tank.

Now, before you panic on my behalf, let me just say—Tilly isn’t your ordinary turtle. She’s a master of escape, a slow-moving shadow with ninja instincts. I’d upgraded her tank lid twice already, added little barriers and ramps to keep her entertained and safe, but every few months, she reminded me that she was smarter than I gave her credit for.

The lid was slightly ajar. Not open all the way, just enough for a determined reptile to wedge her shell through. And the little ramp I had placed inside the tank for her sunning sessions? Yeah, she’d clearly used it as a launch pad.

I set my tea down and hit full turtle-detective mode. I started with the usual places—under the couch, behind the potted ficus, under the table legs. Nothing. I lay on the floor like a crime scene investigator, flashlight in hand, checking every crevice. My apartment isn’t huge, but turtles are surprisingly good at becoming invisible. Especially when they’re in the mood for mischief.

A dozen thoughts ran through my head: Did she slip out under the door? Is she under the fridge? Is she somehow in the bathtub? I scoured every corner, whispering “Tilly, come on out girl,” as though she might respond. Tilly isn’t particularly obedient, but she does recognize my voice. Still, the silence was mocking.

About an hour in, I started to spiral a little. I imagined her climbing onto a passing delivery person’s shoe, hitching a ride into the city. I imagined her living out her days in the park, munching on dandelions, starting a turtle commune under a bench. I even checked the hallway and left a sign near the elevator just in case. “Missing Turtle: Small, sneaky, deeply loved. Answers to Tilly.”

I sat on the floor in defeat, back against the wall, surrounded by cushions and blankets I had overturned in my search. Then I thought, Where would I go if I were Tilly? She loved warmth, quiet, and tight spaces. Cozy was her middle name. I scanned the room again, eyes lingering on the laundry basket in the corner.

I got up slowly, not wanting to get my hopes up, and tiptoed over to the basket. There, snuggled under a pile of warm towels fresh from yesterday’s wash, was a familiar little shell. Just the edge was visible, like a smooth stone peeking from a sand dune.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She hadn’t gone far at all—she’d just wanted a nap spot that smelled like me and laundry detergent. I scooped her up gently, and her sleepy eyes blinked up at me like I was interrupting something very important.

“Tilly,” I whispered, holding her close to my chest. “You scared the life out of me.”

She didn’t look sorry. In fact, I’m pretty sure she yawned.

That should’ve been the end of the story—a cute little misadventure. But it wasn’t. Something about that search sparked a change in both of us.

I started taking her outside more. Not far, just to the quiet garden behind the apartment complex. I’d clear a small area for her, set up her little travel enclosure, and let her bask in the sun while I read. She loved it. She started perking up whenever I moved toward the door. Sometimes I’d open the tank and find her already halfway up the ramp, eager to go.

We became a team, me and my turtle. I started noticing more about her personality—the way she tilted her head when birds flew overhead, how she’d chase the shadow of a leaf as it fluttered in the wind. She had moods, rhythms, preferences. She liked cucumber slices more than strawberries, preferred smooth rocks to rough ones, and adored the sound of running water.

One afternoon, I brought my sketchbook with me and started drawing her in the grass. She held completely still, like she knew she was being studied. I sketched her from every angle—her domed shell, her tiny claws, the determined curve of her mouth. That drawing became the first in a long line of turtle-inspired art I’d go on to make. Cards, stickers, even a small zine called “Adventures of Tilly the Turtle.”

We became minor celebrities in the neighborhood. Kids would stop by and ask to see her. One little boy even made her a cardboard crown and dubbed her “Queen Tilly of the Backyard Realm.” She accepted the title with grace, as any good monarch would.

Tilly’s Great Escape, as I started calling it, taught me something I hadn’t realized I needed to learn. Before that day, life had felt a little monotonous. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. But Tilly reminded me that there’s always something to discover, even in a tiny apartment or a patch of grass. She showed me that adventures don’t have to be grand to be meaningful. Sometimes, they’re hiding in your laundry basket.

Over time, I adjusted her tank one last time—larger, better equipped, with a lock on the lid just in case. But I still left her the ramp. I figured, if she ever really wanted to go on another adventure, I shouldn’t stop her. I just needed to be ready to follow.

And I always am.