I don't think I can rate this.

This book is the feeling of scrolling down your twitter feed, seeing all the little stories that the big headlines cannot tell. 
This book is the experience of seeing numbers tick up, up, up, but numbers aren't just numbers, they are people's lives. People's deaths. 
This book is righteous anger bursting to life within you, only to simmer down to a low, deep, burning hatred, and ultimately, a weakly glowing ember of bone-deep exhaustion. 

I will never be able to fully graps what the people of Ukraine have been going through (and, of course, by extension, the people of Palestine, of the Kongo, of Syria, of so many more countries.) I was born after a war. Our house has a bomb shelter, but I only ever hide down there when the fireworks on New Year's Eve get too loud. I live in a country that has experienced war, but to me, war has always just been a news headline. I will never truly understand this book. But that doesn't mean that reading it and making myself stomach every. single. line. and. every. single. death. wasn't worth it. 

All those fragments, all those questions and no answers, all those people. I cannot help. But I can watch. I can stay aware. I can remember.

It's nothing, of course. And words are not enough. And I am so, so sorry.