Our blood is the price of the colony’s sense of “security.” The empire cuts the lives of our loved ones short to prolong its reign. And our grief is negligible, our rage unwarranted.

often mandatory art of making hagiographies for the living and the dead, to manufacture for them a solemn reverence, a remedy to the profanity of their perceived affiliations. Simply put, the perplexing demand to make humans out of humans.

If they advocate for themselves, they must narrate only their personal tragedies. Neither political ideology nor, God forbid, nationalist ambitions should ever incentivize their campaigning. It must remain individualistic, never for a collective cause and never through an organized collective, and must solely seek to remedy humanitarian crises

Israeli death, on the other hand, is another story, the main story. The love their dead receive is fiery, ardent, incandescent—it lights up the White House and Eiffel Tower. The globe grieves Israeli loss without qualifiers and morphs that grief into fuel for genocide. Here, grief becomes a currency. Here, love becomes a guise.

What was once horrifying, what was once a harbinger of doom, now blends into the terrain; death is now a boring scarecrow. Even when the ravens grow louder, their croaking

falls on disinterested ears. No sanctity is left in this death.

an obsessive curation of “reliable narrators,” whose testimonies are unthreatening, authoritative, or impartial.

miraculous epiphanies.

Citizenship has historically been a hollow formality for those condemned to the category of the dehumanized.