One day twenty years ago, I died in your confused dream.

If you want to tell the beginning of the story, Shams a thousand years ago is already a vast fertile crescent. The descendants of Felix used to live and work here, with city-states, sea-going ships, and unquenchable fireworks in the stove. The cool water spring under the olive tree is the gift of the Creator. The wealth of the rich is indispensable from the coveting of the coveted from the side. So the Midian, Persian, Greek, and Roman invasions-when the Franks broke Jerusalem, we and Your blood is mingled on the sands of Gudus, and the Wailing Wall and the Holy Mosque are indistinguishable from each other at that moment. Until later, when you came back from afar, the Semitic language that you called has changed. You used guns to smash our haunted dreams, and crush our houses as our tombs in the land of your promise.

You have big dreams in your books. The territory in your dreams is from the Nile to the Tigris. You have been abused for too long, we know. But shouldn't every nation that rose from slavery learn the tyrannical vices from the perpetrators in the first place? King Faisal of Saudi Arabia was puzzled: "We understand what happened to you, and we are heartbroken for our brother's tragedy. But why did the innocent Palestine pay the price in the end? If the victim is compensated, shouldn't it be taken from the perpetrator?" Auschwitz’s mechanism was cold and precise, and the death of mass manufacturing became industry and efficiency. But what did you do when the gun was in your hands? Those warm flares are our tragic elegy. The Maronite militias act as the eagle dogs of the real perpetrators. When they pull out the thorns in their eyes, they feel the pleasure of tearing and your chances of getting rid of sin are at ease.

Of course you will feel guilty. Pilate's copper basin can't wash away his poisonous hands stained with the blood of the prophet. You will choose to forget that you are being watched in embarrassment amidst the gunfire. The waltz in the barrage is a fierce innervation, a fragile heart in a hard arm. Perhaps in your capitalized life, the meaning of our existence is the ultimate disappearance. You seem to understand that the only way to become strong is to be what you once loathed and feared, so our kindness and weakness are easily crushed by our crawlers, and your walking corpses are resurrected in the quiet sea like a womb, occupying the place where we fell. A deserted city. Refuse to remember, coward. Your psychologists alienate the past into cases, attribute cases to symptoms, reduce symptoms to broken memories that can be repaired, and attribute them to false, non-existent history. In this way, we are not killed by you, not killed, not dead. The slaughter does not exist, because we never existed.


I saw your dream one night, the flames on the boat of love will be our common destination. Will you remember the lucid dreams on a military ship, perhaps in a joyful afternoon, you will eventually imagine your mother in the arms of a rocking chair. The heartbeat is fading, and you are dying. Will you pray for repentance before you die? Repent for non-existent crimes, confess for crimes that you feel at ease. What we are delighted is that there is a repentant among you, and the identity of the perpetrator disturbs him. But what's the use of this uneasiness so weak? We are long gone. Someday as early as twenty years ago, we had died tragically in your confused dream.

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