So gently, still
an end to violence
I haven’t been here in a bit. Trying to tend my own garden, love where I can. The fruitlessness of words. It would seem that we are supposed to accept the deaths of over 7000 children in Gaza. Watch helplessly as the piles of dead children grow. Their bodies as sacrifice to — what? — I honestly don’t know what. Revenge? Correction? Defense? Money? Power? Land? These things are old. It feels — what? (good?) to type the words, to wrestle with confusion and anger and sorrow. Madness. The absurdity of thinking otherwise. A kind of desolate resignation. I watch the “stories” of one of the intrepid reporters there, in Gaza, I watch as men scramble over rocks and pull gray bodies from the rubble. Babies in men’s arms, legs and arms, heads, dangling. A faint cry over and over mamamamamama. I listen. A thin flowered mattress used as stretcher to carry the wounded (so many children) where? The mind asks dumb questions (where are those thin mattresses coming from?). I see a young man digging frantically with his hands and I feel cold and dread-ful because what are we here, we humans, accepting this violence, these piles of dead children. Are we giving up, even as we sit here, fat and easy and safe, talking and typing talking and typing. Arguing over what abouts and how abouts. A woman I know insisted that the numbers (of dead children) are inaccurate. The people there scrabbling and scrambling in hell, after the bombs drop, helping one another even as they wail. It would seem that the acceptance of these piles of dead children and the endless violence is the end of humanity, a giving up, but I think otherwise (for a moment) when I watch that man there wrap the gray dusty body of a woman, the red jewels spilling from her head, in a flowered cloth. So gently, still.
watch @motaz_azaiza on Instagram