The rifle confines my view, so close to my face that I see it blurred. My focus is on the space and the people; on the children whose ages can still be discerned despite the intrusion of this hefty black weapon. The role of this rifle—so near—is either to forbid me from recording or to invite me to take it up and commit the fifth sin, or, given the eagerness in the boy’s eyes on the right, to show the spoils children have found wandering among the ruins after the attack. Amid all this, I sense the witness’s gaze—whose clothing seems to bear the color of a ceasefire flag—even though I cannot see their eyes. Their cold demeanor contrasts oddly with the dark and shattered environment surrounding them. Then, parallel to the figure standing straight in the middle of the rubble and staring at me, my gaze—having started from the weapon, passed over the children’s faces, and then the ruins—finally rests on the tall palm tree. The upright palm is the last stronghold of my sight beyond this devastation.