If only language existed to capture what is impossible to feel, yet is inflicted all the same; not just a state of perpetual mourning—for this is at least definable, if no less unbearable. No, there is something more: it is also the terrible weight of the discord between perpetual mourning (which includes the certainty of mourning to come) and that, 74 years on, even as the façade continues to crack, there are still liberal bromides that sanction this status quo or, worse yet, blame us for it, asking us to be silent about being slaughtered with total impunity, having our homes destroyed on a whim, to swallow our sweat, our tears and blood in addition to the unbearable burden of a false “peace:” asking us to say that this was fine, to abandon our keys in the dirt or, if we can’t do that, at least die quietly so that a liberal establishment that defines state-sanctioned genocide as an adequate antidote to horrendous oppression can sigh with comfort.
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