Right below their balcony…


- things are fine habibeh. we just don’t go out at night.
- but they killed someone.
- oh, people die every day.

Like running hot water on your head during a chilly winter night. yes, just like that… your nerves are soothed beyond any perception. your limbs are weak. the room is dark and you collapse at the bottom of the tub.

During times like these, people usually have their sense of identify heightened… or perceptible at least. they feel it stronger than their sense of life.
They parade it… dark. bold. tender. sugary. fanatic. traditional. liberal… they dance to its rhythm on the street… right below their balcony… they shout it with colors. black. green. orange. yellow… white?
I have nothing of it. no identity. only my pathetic little flyer… from a protest against a war… sneering at me “idiot”, without any reservations.
How far away I am… from that small flyer pleading for justice… from screaming slogans commanding power… unity… identity…
How much did I miss? How many theses did I read… analyzing… speculating… or at least trying to rationalize what would happen…
and then I coldly understand that they are so unfazed by someone dying… right below their balcony… as if no time has passed… nothing changed, and people are still dying every day…