She had the head of a woman. They said that meant something. She thought. She watched. She did not act. Protection, maybe. Maybe not. No sword. No sermon.
Just the weight of seeing.
The men came anyway.
They always come.
With fire, with flags, with the holy name. Whatever name suits. Same noise, different face.
They crushed the stone, the old stone, the sacred stone, the stone older than war, older than them, older than even forgetting. 6th century, maybe. Or earlier. What does it matter? It is dust now. Like the rest.
They called it peace.
They called it security.
They called it God.
Gaza was there. Is. Was. Will be. Stillness under sirens. Children under ceilings. Nothing left to shelter but names. Names do not shelter.
Liberation, they said. They said it often. Louder each time. Louder until it meant nothing. Until everything was “liberated,” and nothing was free.
You build a revolution on ash, it coughs. You crown a god in blood, he rots.
The Lammas did not intervene.
She does not rescue.
She does not destroy.
She does not make speeches.
She sees.
They say she has the head of a woman. I say she knows better.
Let them chant. Let them bomb. Let them call it good.
What does not serve the living has no right to stand. Not a church. Not a cause. Not a flag.
Still she watches.
The singular rise in silence. Not to win. Not to rule.
Just to be. To remain.
Maybe that is all.
Maybe that is enough.
Maybe.
Inspired by Samuel Beckett, co-created with ChatGPT
