I had arranged with a friend of mine to catch up for breakfast and was waiting outside a row of basement shops, typical in Denmark. I had just returned to Copenhagen from Gaza after an assignment for a Danish NGO. I turned around to what was a seafood shop, leaned forward and peered in—for no particular reason other than moving around on the spot. The fishmonger was talking to a customer behind the counter which was neatly organized. There was a basket with lemons, each one tied with red curling ribbon, fish spices stacked, the register with all the keys covered by a silicone hood, and a pile of newspapers next to a pile of wrapping sheets. When the fishmonger moved away, I saw it. Right there, spread on the top of the newspaper pile was the feature I’d written that had been published two days earlier: It is only in Gaza you die twice .

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On the outskirts of Shuja’iyya in Gaza, I had met twelve-year-old Sara and her family.…