At the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA), in Los Angeles, a gigantic, carnivorous flag with torn ends was waving in an artificial wind created by enormous propellers.
There were no visitors at the exhibition. For a while I thought that in all this huge space I was totally alone. But soon I noticed two figures in black torn dresses, moving slowly, in semi-darkness, desperately clinging to the walls. Backs bent, they passed by the bookstore right near the place where someone had put a small sign on the wall that said, "I cannot breath!"
Most likely it was a performance, a desperate protest action of one man and one woman, a performance against this giant all-devouring flag.
"I cannot breath!" A man shouted before he died, before he was murdered by the regime.
"I cannot write!" I thought. Which to me was almost the same as not being able to respire.
***
It was the first time in many years that I had missed my column, my essays, for several weeks.
Even when I was arrested in the Democratic Republic of Congo, in Kenya, in Senegal, I still managed to write.
I managed to write after a deranged, evangelical and fascist preacher paid hotel staff to poison me in the Indonesian city of Surabaya.
I wrote in many warzones and desperate slums, from Iraq to Mindanao, from Haiti to Marshall Islands.
But I couldn't write in the United States of America. Not one single line, not one word. Not this time.
Comment: It appears that border officials are falling prey to their prejudices against those arriving from Middle East countries. Most of these children are coming to the UK as a result of horrific conditions which the West is primarily responsible for creating. When these vulnerable children are mistreated, it furthers the formation of societal wedges between the immigrant communities and the local populace. One has to wonder if some of this is planned in order to keep communities fighting amongst themselves, so they are too distracted to notice who is really creating the misery.