I have a confession. It is not a redeeming confession. It does not come from a position of good intentions but only of blind evil, innate and incarnate. I cannot accept applause or sympathy for my self-hate because my offense is too grotesque. Out on the streets, under the sun, you will see me live as though I have done nothing wrong. Unrepentant, I laugh, I sing, I sleep well. I have no hope for repentance. My sin is too horrific for hope, or even desire. To seek redemption would only amount to arrogant sacrilege, sin upon sin. Leave all grace to those who are guilty only of being human, who have merely killed thousands.
In youth I brought disease, racial slavery, massacre, and genocide. I once imagined that I had outgrown it all, a lie I told myself before the mirror of history, but I woke from that dream with a wet axe high in my grasp, blood splattering on my face, stinging my eyes.
God save Palestine. God save Lebanon.
For me, I might ask only for death, to stop the blood.