The End of American Exceptionalism is Written in Gaza
The room was dark last Friday, but the screen burned. From Ground Zero flickered twenty-two times, films pulled from rubble, stitched together while forced starvation and bombs tried to erase their makers. Not one, not two, but twenty-two. Each film was a wound and a pulse at once. They carried the dust of collapsed walls, the screams buried in them, the breath of children who lived another day. They were simply alive, pulsing, refusing to vanish.
