The Children flu today

Da’amīs al-Jannah

I just saw
the most civilized scene of the war.

A cemetery.
Neatly organized.
Efficient.

More than 160 schoolgirls.
Ten years old.
Some younger.

The Birds of paradise –

Da’amīs al-Jannah

The graves are small.
Very small.
Because apparently the future
comes in child-size packaging.

Da’amīs al-Jannah

They lie there now—
tiny bodies folded into white fabrics,
lined up like a shipment
that arrived damaged.

Da’amīs al-Jannah

Minab.
Twenty kilometers from the Gulf of Oman.
An ordinary school morning
interrupted by the sound
of precision democracy.

You see,
when bombs fall from advanced civilizations
they are called strategic errors,
never what they actually are.

Da’amīs al-Jannah

Somewhere
a father woke up this morning
to silence in his daughter’s room.

Somewhere
a mother is still holding
a pair of shoes
that will never grow.

Da’amīs al-Jannah

But don’t worry.

UNESCO has tweeted its shock.
The algorithm has registered sadness.
Diplomacy is deeply concerned.

The palaces say
there might be an investigation
to determine whether the bomb
belonged to them.

Apparently, missiles
sometimes wander off
like confused tourists.

The Kings say nothing

The princes say nothing

Presidents say nothing.
The Prime Ministers say nothing.

Silence,
the most reliable weapon
in international politics.

Meanwhile
Western media holds a panel discussion:

“Are 160 dead children fake news?”

Because the first reflex
of modern journalism
is not grief.

It is verification of the inconvenience.

Imagine the opposite scene—
160 little girls
under the soil of Paris
or London
or Boston.

The sky would tear open with outrage.
Flags would tremble.
Television studios would cry
for weeks.

But geography
is the oldest editor in the newsroom.

Some children die
as tragedies.

Others die
as footnotes.

Quite symbolic: the entity’s first strike
falls on the children—
as if to say,
you are the last generation
allowed to breathe on this land.

Da’amīs al-Jannah

And those beautiful humanitarian principles
we hear about so often—

they are like curtains
in the palace of power.

Pulled open
when the light is flattering.

Closed quickly
when the room is covered in blood.

But tonight
those 160 small bodies
have torn the fabric.

For a moment
the mask slipped.

And behind the speeches
behind the values
behind the press conferences

we saw it clearly:

Humanism
with a price tag.

Empathy
with export restrictions.

And children
who had the terrible mistake
of being born
on the wrong side
of the moral map.

After that,

nothing
surprises me anymore.

____________________________________________

Raïs Neza Boneza is the author of fiction as well as non-fiction, poetry books and articles. He was born in the Katanga province of the Democratic Republic of Congo (Former Zaïre). He is also an activist and peace practitioner. Raïs is a member of the TRANSCEND Media Service Editorial Committee and a convener of the TRANSCEND Network for Peace Development Environment for Central and African Great Lakes. He uses his work to promote artistic expressions as a means to deal with conflicts and maintaining mental wellbeing, spiritual growth and healing. Raïs has travelled extensively in Africa and around the world as a lecturer, educator and consultant for various NGOs and institutions. His work is premised on art, healing, solidarity, peace, conflict transformation and human dignity issues and works also as freelance journalist. You can reach him at rais.boneza@gmail.com – http://www.raisnezaboneza.no

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