Illustration by Jaimee Lee Haddad
I cannot celebrate... how strange is that! The bombs are safe in their stockpiles miles away. They’ve been put to sleep, they’re not coming this way. There are no more jets in the sky, no more drones. The sky is cloudy, but it is clear. I have nothing to fear... and I have nothing to celebrate.They killed and destroyed and destroyed and destroyed and now they have stopped. What is there to celebrate?Men in suits sat down in rooms where bombs would never hit and made a little list, then stood up again and shook hands and got back into their black cars and drove home and took off their shoes and then the bombs stopped. It didn’t stop because it was horrible, it stopped because a paper had been signed.Now a million people pour onto the streets to see what has been done, to comb their fingers through the dust, to pick up what isn’t crushed,...
I cannot celebrate... how strange is that! The bombs are safe in their stockpiles miles away. They’ve been put to sleep, they’re not coming this way. There are no more jets in the sky, no more drones. The sky is cloudy, but it is clear. I have nothing to fear... and I have nothing to celebrate.They killed and destroyed and destroyed and destroyed and now they have stopped. What is there to celebrate?Men in suits sat down in rooms where bombs would never hit and made a little list, then stood up again and shook hands and got back into their black cars and drove home and took off their shoes and then the bombs stopped. It didn’t stop because it was horrible, it stopped because a paper had been signed.Now a million people pour onto the streets to see what has been done, to comb their fingers through the dust, to pick up what isn’t...