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I remember war. Not my dad's military war, but a war without a front, a war all around us, a war with the ethos of the polis.
I remember the fathers and daughters - the scene of the infanticide; the bodies, everywhere, sprawled apart; their hands, mouths, gaping and clutching.
I remember war with myself; the fear of seeing him on the other side; the mirrors on the walls, where I saw us night after night.
I remember my prostitution like I remember 1000 bombs; 1000 bodies jumping out of two great towers, in continuous loop.
I always dreamed of being a princess; our silver Dodge Aries was a car only kings could afford. I remember my father carrying me on his shoulders at the city carnival - all the flags the crowd around us waved, for us.
I wanted to be locked up in one of the World Trades towers, and for him to arrive on his white horse. I wanted him to lay a plush pillow on the cement, on which I could choose life over death, and live on forever, happily, with him. I remember the fields of flowers we would have runned in. He was my prince, not my king.
I only see Flanders Fields today. As far as the eye could see, thousands of poppies; as many times imprinted the scarlet letter on my soul.
I remember little of the actual battle. The trenches: dark labyrinthes that led round and round; I remember best our quarters - the identical rooms of our sad baraks: our identical beds covered in the sins of unjust war.
I remember dying like the 9-11 jumpers many times over, as many times as they were shown on CNN, although modern science says it was only a dream - phantom memories of an imagined war.
Because I was only a barak maid; I never saw the actual war zone.
So why, every day, do I remember my own bloodied body sprawled apart? Yet, had I really been there, why would I hope for another morning to come - know it would, just as surely as the sun always rises?
I remember, there was never a white cross to mark my grave. Because I was never a casualty of war, a statistic, one among countless unknown soldiers. But I cannot remember why.
I know that my society has lost the gift of memory; nor does it use its gift of insight. It fails to see the collective incest in which its citizens fight, together and against each other.
I remember war.
I remember the fathers and daughters - the scene of the infanticide; the bodies, everywhere, sprawled apart; their hands, mouths, gaping and clutching.
I remember war with myself; the fear of seeing him on the other side; the mirrors on the walls, where I saw us night after night.
I remember my prostitution like I remember 1000 bombs; 1000 bodies jumping out of two great towers, in continuous loop.
I always dreamed of being a princess; our silver Dodge Aries was a car only kings could afford. I remember my father carrying me on his shoulders at the city carnival - all the flags the crowd around us waved, for us.
I wanted to be locked up in one of the World Trades towers, and for him to arrive on his white horse. I wanted him to lay a plush pillow on the cement, on which I could choose life over death, and live on forever, happily, with him. I remember the fields of flowers we would have runned in. He was my prince, not my king.
I only see Flanders Fields today. As far as the eye could see, thousands of poppies; as many times imprinted the scarlet letter on my soul.
I remember little of the actual battle. The trenches: dark labyrinthes that led round and round; I remember best our quarters - the identical rooms of our sad baraks: our identical beds covered in the sins of unjust war.
I remember dying like the 9-11 jumpers many times over, as many times as they were shown on CNN, although modern science says it was only a dream - phantom memories of an imagined war.
Because I was only a barak maid; I never saw the actual war zone.
So why, every day, do I remember my own bloodied body sprawled apart? Yet, had I really been there, why would I hope for another morning to come - know it would, just as surely as the sun always rises?
I remember, there was never a white cross to mark my grave. Because I was never a casualty of war, a statistic, one among countless unknown soldiers. But I cannot remember why.
I know that my society has lost the gift of memory; nor does it use its gift of insight. It fails to see the collective incest in which its citizens fight, together and against each other.
I remember war.
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