A few months ago, at a conference in Istanbul, a young Syrian college student approached me after my session, his face marked by both youthful determination and a student’s exhaustion. He told me he needed advice. He explained that he wanted to donate to Gaza but wasn’t sure where to send his contribution. “I don’t have much,” he said, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. “The other half of what I have goes to my family—displaced in Syria, living in a tent after the earthquake. I just don’t want to waste what little I can give by sending it to the wrong place. I want it to reach the people who need it most.” My throat tightened. Tears threatened, but I held them back. I told him that the people of Palestine, who have long understood the weight of loss and resilience, would likely insist he send all his money to his family. Their suffering, too, deserves to be alleviated. But he shook his head firmly. “No,” he said. “We must act as if we are already one people, as if the future we dream of—where we are reunited after defeating our oppressors—has already begun. This is how we practice liberation.” That moment has stayed with me, etched into my memory. I pray that young man found his way back to his family today, that they rebuild their home together, brick by brick, hope by hope. And I have faith that his spirit—the spirit of refusing to separate one struggle from another—will not rest until his Palestinian brothers and sisters find their way back to their homeland as well. His resolve is the kind that moves mountains and topples walls. It is the future, living among us, demanding to be realized.