A Reckoning in Seven Movements
I. To Begin With Fire
There are nights I wake with my hands curled into fists,
nights when I cannot unclench my teeth
because somewhere a child is drinking saltwater and dying anyway.
Somewhere a child is fed by moonlight and still starving.
I see the names of the dead in the lines of my palms.
They say there is no record of the missing,
but they are here, pressed into my hands like the bones of birds.
And yet—
the silence of the learned men,
the ones with degrees framed in oak and dust,
the ones who know what genocide means but fold their lips around the word
as if it were a seed they could swallow whole.
They say, It’s complicated.
They say, Let’s be nuanced.
They say, What about academic freedom?
What about the freedom to speak in the language of the dying?
What about the freedom to name the dead before they turn to mist?
I am making a list.
I am writing it carefully, line by line.
I will not cite you.
I will not walk beside you.
I will not carry your silence.
I will not walk the same halls as you,
where the air still holds the echoes of children—
droned, displaced, disappeared.
II. The Mouth is an Open Grave
You—who called me militant over a glass of wine,
You—who said I was too loud, too political,
who said that academic associations should remain impartial,
as if to study anthropology is not to see its ghosts assembling.
You—who snarled at me after a boycott motion,
who spat my name like a bullet,
said you were sick of my pro-Palestine ‘shit’,
as if grief should wear clean clothes,
as if rage should come whispering
apologies at your door,
as if I could soften my sorrow
to spare you discomfort—
you, who mistake silence for peace,
politeness for justice.
You—who told her to shut up,
shut up, shut up,
while the bodies were still warm,
while the smoke still gathered in their throats.
What does it mean to shut up
when the silence is already swallowing a nation?
III. A Boy Killed at Dawn is a Lesson in Gravity
Let’s talk about erasure.
Let’s talk about the way a boy’s body folds into the street
& disappears.
Let’s talk about the way you, an anthropologist,
call it policing when a human rights committee
dares to say another’s name—
as if a name is a wound that must stay closed,
as if speaking is the real offense,
as if the dead should remain unsaid
so they can vanish properly.
Let’s talk about how a name can be
erased by silence,
how a name can be
a place bombed flat,
how a name can be
a door you shut in the face of history
& still call it neutrality.
Let’s talk about the way your mouth
forms around the word complicated
like it is softer than rubble,
lighter than a child’s backpack
left in the street
where no child remains.
Let’s talk about the way a name
becomes a crime,
the way a crime
becomes an argument,
the way an argument
becomes a theory,
the way a theory
sits safely
in a syllabus
far from the fire.
Let’s talk about the way
you keep your hands clean.
Let’s talk about the weight of the sky on a body
that will never rise again.
How many dead before your equations balance?
How many ruins before you adjust the scale?
You say, But what about the hostages?
You say, But what about Hamas?
As if grief has a nationality.
As if mourning is a privilege reserved
for the ones whose homes
are not on fire.
IV. The Shape of Smoke is a Question No One Wants to Answer
They say, Don’t let it consume you.
As if I am not already made of ash.
They say, A boycott will only hurt individuals.
And I say, What of the boy who will never be a man?
What of the girl who still carries the sound of sirens in her teeth?
You say, This isn’t nuanced.
You say, You’re too militant.
You say, History is complicated.
I say, I have seen a mother fold over the body of her son.
I say, I have seen a city turned to dust.
I say, I have seen the way a child reaches for a hand that isn’t there.
I say, It’s not complicated.
I say, It’s not complicated.
I say, It’s not complicated.
V. The Ethics of a Kill List
You make your lists, I make mine.
You draft conference papers,
shuffling citations like playing cards.
I draft names of the dead—
Mariam, age 4,
Ahmad, age 12,
Rima, age 9,
names stripped from the news
before they even reach your inbox.
I am making a list.
I am writing it carefully, line by line.
I will not cite you.
I will not walk beside you.
I will not carry your silence.
You—who bore witness to thousands of dead children
and called it complicated.
You—who turned from the photographs,
who scrolled past the videos of a father cradling
the severed halves of his son.
You—who call me militant for weeping.
You—who clutch your tenure tighter
than the girl clutches her father’s sleeve
as the building comes down.
You, the historians, the political scientists,
who sent letters to The Irish Times,
your signatures heavy—
“This is not genocide, no, it is not.”
VI. What Remains After the Fire
And what will you do when the dust settles?
When the air is no longer thick with the scent of burning?
When the buildings are gone and the bones have been buried?
Will you write a paper?
Will you say, It is a tragedy, truly, but complicated?
Will you teach your students about ethics,
about critical distance,
about the necessity of multiple perspectives?
Or will you look away,
as you always have,
as you always will,
as the history books are written
without the names of the dead?
Let me tell you something about history.
It does not forget the silent.
It does not absolve the quiet.
It does not ask for your approval.
And when the day comes,
when the sky clears,
when the last word is spoken—
it will not be yours.
VII. A Final Naming
I dreamed last night of a boy on a bicycle.
He was riding through the ruins of his neighbourhood,
a plastic bag tied to the handlebars, catching the wind.
He was laughing.
He did not know yet that the air was thick with phosphorus.
He did not know yet that the world had already signed his death certificate.
Somewhere, a man in a suit is rewording his obituary.
Somewhere, an academic is adjusting their syllabus.
Somewhere, a journalist is deciding which parts of the massacre to cut
to fit the word count.
And somewhere, a mother is sitting on the floor of an empty home,
repeating his name until morning.