Gaza, 2018

Is this peace?

There were children at that border. There were mothers, fathers, teenagers, activists, neighbors, workers, journalists, doctors, thinkers, unruly, unrested at that border. Now, at least 60 of them are dead, and thousands more bleed pale onto cramped hospital beds. You call this peace?

They screamed and yelled and swore. They ran, they leaped, they stumbled and fell and kept running. They threw rocks, Molotov cocktails, burnt tires. They threw rocks and yelled some more. You hit back with snipers and tear gas and live, lethal ammunition. You call that homeland security? Counterterrorism? Defense? You call that peace?

While you made speeches and cut ribbons and cheered, only miles away there was death and pain and weapons; smoke and fire; drones; fear; anger. Is this peace?

They are sick. They are depressed. Their kidneys fail from the insidiousness of their water, a lifetime of contamination and disease. Their spirits rot within your barricade. Their children are born with death in their eyes. It has been this way for generations. You call this peace?

You relinquish your right to peace. You incredible, un-credible mediator; great and terrible colonial god. You, chaotic and unholy.

Who will judge you?

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