Palabras derretidas

White phosphorous descends over Falluja. An unusual smell of burning flesh fills the air. The next
morning horrific grimaces appear from beneath immaculate clothes; surreal yet unsurprising, a trait of
the day, testimony to the absolute normality of genocide. Apocaliptic dawn which would appear to
allow for no future but still, as expected, tomorrow follows in much the same way as yesterday
followed the day before.
Rumsfeld grins, jokes, flirts with the journalists. George double-u puts on his serious, concerned face;
he denies everything. The words “Al-Qaeda”, “terrorism” and “democracy” make their appearance
once again.
A few journalists act upon their concern for the politicians rectums’ hygiene, some others ask awkward
questions; all succeed in missing the point entirely.
“Bush is the enemy!”
“No, no Al-Qaeda is the enemy!”
The world’s political opinion reduced to this debasing binary system. One fact, one man, one
organisation and millions, millions of minds dancing and fretting about them.
I’m fed up.
A sense of nausea rises in my thorax every time I hear you parroting the “Administration’s” key words
and the unpleasant taste of past meals appears at the rear of my throat as I witness your morbid, self-
righteous, narcissistic indignation whilst you uphold the values of human life and human dignity.
Bollocks!
Can’t you see the parts of skull protruding from the melted countenances of unknown, unimportant
housewives? Don’t you know the white phosphorous fell from the sky with the delicacy and grace of
liquid firework?
It was beautiful and it’s horror is unutterable; people who had sons, parents, quirks and affects died
tragically and this is of no importance; it was unnecessary, cruel, vicious and normal, almost natural,
totally inevitable.
This is the story nobody will tell, not that of Fathid and his six brothers nor that of Dick Cheney and his
oily friends; the story of the quest for democracy in the middle-east is so feeble and mentally debasing I
probably shouldn’t even quote it but, I’m sure, it will be told.
Journalism is no longer about telling the truth, it’s not even about telling lies; the term describes the
simple act of putting ones vocal chords, mouth and lungs at the service of lazy ears, ink to the paper of
unimaginative eyes, fingers to the keyboards of conforming print.
In the while, white phosphorous descends almost uselessly upon the lives of amazing human beings.
If we had two eyes, a pair of ears, nose, tongue and hands to witness the world around us, we could
hope for, at least, one thought.

For the time being, we have journalism.

a.ritroso