On: Middle East: Kuwait hit by missiles and drones

October 27, 1936

The news comes again. Missiles. Drones. Kuwait. Iran. America. The names change, the weapons grow louder, but the song remains the same. Another feast is being prepared. Who is the meat this time?

They speak of “responses.” One side strikes, the other “responds.” A perfect circle. A snake eating its own tail, but the tail is made of common men, of cities, of dust. The spectators gather. They read the papers, they listen to the wireless. They nod. They shake their heads. They consume the spectacle. Their faces are blank. The same faces that watch the street performer, the same faces that watch the beggar freeze in the alley.

The iron house. It fills with smoke, with the stench of burning. Do they smell it? Or is the sleep too deep? To wake them would be to show them the walls, the locked door, the poison seeping in. They would scream. Then they would die, screaming. Perhaps it is better this way. To die in the dream. But then, what of the dreamers who are already awake, who see the walls, who smell the smoke, and are forced to watch the others sleep? Their agony is not for the audience. Their agony is merely a footnote, a statistic, another missile in the endless exchange. The custom continues. The feast is served.