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Every day I toe the line, between the world is ending and my world is fine. But every moment of ‘fine’ is mirrored by some horrific war crime, out of sight but not out of mind. Every cup of clean water I give my children is a cup denied in Palestine. Some days the glass just shatters in my hand, and I can feel the blood flowing as keenly as if it were me and mine. As Omar From Gaza said, “There is a despair within us that, if distributed among the people of the earth, would kill half of its inhabitants.” I swear, it feels that way. It feels like dying.
Today is my daughter’s birthday. I watched her and her friends dressed up as princesses, fussed over, fed constantly, given cool drinks, loved and hugged and smiling. It made me happy but also flooded me with such a melancholy. These ordinary moments are all polluted by the black mirror I carry around in my pocket, wherein, as a writer, I’m addicted to doing lines. I don’t want to see atrocities in my most intimate moments but I see them all the time. Today my heart is just torn hearing of just the latest school bombing, ‘Israel’ killing people praying in a refugee camp, while the American Empire lies and lies. This isn’t new, this isn’t ending, and I swear it’s ripping a hole in…
