Gaza: a thorn in the throat

Crédit : ? En recherche du créateur ou de la créatrice

Crackle of a burning man, his extended arm crying out from Hell’s inferno,
A prisoner so pierced to the core by his torturers that he dies as bathed in
the tears of a child now alone in the world
My mind would repress the last 12 months of terror–
but dig the graves we must! We must understand what they are doing to us.
Emerge to haunt us the skeletal bodies of children with haggard eyes
Screams screams screams screams
Tears tears screams tears
The calm of a grandfather smoking his cigarette in the ruins of his upstairs living room:
His smoke insists “nothing will uproot me”
An exploded ambulance,
A Marvelian doctor braving gunshots to bring a patient to safety
Another standing tall, walking through the rubble towards a tank as if heading for the gallows
Words words words
Bisan sharing his birthday cake among the smiling children of the camp
dig deeper still the grave and watch the denial grow !
The clusters – strange fruits – of blindfolded prisoners, naked in the cold,
forced to their knees, spine bent but soul yet aloft
AI generates a simulation of the prisoners’ collective cell: eyes covered, naked and shackled, in
diapers, their autonomy and their dignity dissolved in their shit (but try again, it won’t work!)
How I’d rejoice to see the shit in the eyes of their guards
Still other soldiers from the same state, the same system, the same army, others:
engage in a decadent transvestite dance sporting the brightly colored bras of the women they’ve
assassinated:
the decadence, the fall
The settlers in the West Bank come to the mayor’s house to help themselves to weapons: it’s
time.
Screams, screams, words in enormous size on the timeline feed with emojis to back them up,
To alert, to catch the eye
Screams, screams, screams versus television: reality turned on its head,
the inversion of the burden of guilt,
or nothingness.
Thankfully there’s Dr Jabr to reinstill meaning, to reroute the words, restore their direction and
content.
And they – journalists, rappers, actors, politicians, activists – provide the form, the name, the
face,
and die.
Students in the encampments study under Occupation for their Masters in Survival,
The philosopher comedians fall into disgrace and unemployment.
When it started, my energy knew no limits,
Today my mind tends sadly to capitulate, I admit their boundless capacity for
destruction, their firepower from Hell.
Why?
How to stop them?

Another kind of firepower… call it fire-works… has made them vacillate
A dead rocket becomes an installation – a piece of contemporary art – in the middle of a
roundabout in Nablus
Traha!
Following multiple mass and targeted assassinations: political leaders and civilian and
healthcare workers
in ambulances
Walkie-talkies, pagers, Motorola: explosions of the living in Lebanon,
Explosions of “residential areas” – everyone must be feeling it, no?
A reverse shot: cruises in Gazan waters, predatory Israelis direct their covetous gaze towards
the land they want to annex,
they already see themselves there.
On the other side of the enclave, other settlers in camping chairs are watching the
spectacle of the bombings from their hill; predation, sadistic orgasm,
entertainment,
Bodies open, decapitated, dismembered, de-fleshed, small children, adults
Cats and dogs eat the flesh of the unburied
Another dog attacks an old woman and rips off pieces of her body, the dog is following army
orders.
A little girl, photographed alone under a soldier’s surveillance is reported missing:
Do they trade in the childhood of those they woulld exterminate?
Yes, they traffic in children, the organs and the future.
May a Gazan cornea bring trouble and set a curse upon the treacherous and thieving eye to
which it is grafted,
over there in the State that rains down harm.
In perpetual overflow, fed to the teeth with horror,
I can only rely on God, the sole provider of miracles.
Politics fails to halt the tyrant’s advance.
So the miracle can only start with you! With all those in the state of being and non-being,
those still standing, who reject the Empire with their hands, their (mother) tongue or at the very
least in the secret of their hearts.
‘Gaza, we shall rebuild you’: could there be a more beautiful declaration of love?

A text inspired by the our theatrical creation Imbratoura (“empress” in Arabic) and based upon a
principle that is close to my heart, that of psychological and political self-defense when
confronted with images. To remember, name and describe the images that have created fear
and political trauma, to escape from helplessness, to release anger and pain. A gesture that
mirrors our responsibility as witnesses.