Moi, j'ai juste envie de vous faire part de cette image qui me touche beaucoup.
Une main.
Usée.
En son coeur une photo.
Un bout de photo
Un bout d'âme. De vie.
Sur cette photo Hammad a 7 ans.
C'est la seule chose de tangible qui reste de lui.
Le 14 février, alors qu'il s'occupait de son troupeau de moutons, au nord de Gaza, une équipe de soldats est arrivée en jeep. Et pof...
Une balle
Hammad est mort.
13 ans.
Je sais très bien que les photos, les images, l'amour, on les porte dans le coeur, et nulle part ailleurs.
Mais voilà
Une envie de vous parler de la beauté, de la douceur des périodes de .... trève, n'est-ce pas, de ces moments grandioses, de non-bombardements. De ces moments de "paix" dont les violations ne font jamais, jamais, les titres. Pardon, pardon, je pue, je suinte le cynisme. Pardon.
Il avait le même âge que Muhammad al Durrah. Sa mort n'a fait aucun gros titre. A peine un entrefilet n'enserrant que les coeurs hors d'eux, de ces flots boueux de morts.
L'avantage, c'est que comme il n'est pas encore une icone, que personne n'a parlé de sa mort, donc, personne ne va prendre le temps, la peine de détruire le reste de cette image.
Et puis, hein, vu la quantité d'enfants palestiniens tués, il faut vraiment être moins qu'un animal, que dis-je, une crotte de caniche, pour salir un enfant.
Non. Je ne décolère pas.
Je crois que je ne décolèrerai plus jamais, je suis tellement hors de moi que je maîtrise enfin l'art de ne plus être qu'un hologramme entre filets.
English version
Me, I just need to show you this image that wrinkles my heart
A hand
Worn
In its heart, a photograph
A piece of photograph
A piece of soul. A piece of life.
On this photograph Hammad is 7
It's the only living thing that remains from him
14. February, while he was tending his goats, in the north of Gaza, a team of soldiers came with a jeep. And pof...
A bullet
Hammad died
13 years old
Oh I know, I know very well that it is in the heart that photographs, images are carried, they are in the heart and nowhere else
But... well
A need to talk you about beauty, about the sweetness of ... "truce" times, aren't they, to tell you about these great moments "out of" bombing, shelling. Of these moments of "peace" which violations never, ever, do the Big News.
A hand
Worn
In its heart, a photograph
A piece of photograph
A piece of soul. A piece of life.
On this photograph Hammad is 7
It's the only living thing that remains from him
14. February, while he was tending his goats, in the north of Gaza, a team of soldiers came with a jeep. And pof...
A bullet
Hammad died
13 years old
Oh I know, I know very well that it is in the heart that photographs, images are carried, they are in the heart and nowhere else
But... well
A need to talk you about beauty, about the sweetness of ... "truce" times, aren't they, to tell you about these great moments "out of" bombing, shelling. Of these moments of "peace" which violations never, ever, do the Big News.
Sorry, oh so sorry, I ooze and reek of cynicism. Sorry
He was the same age Muhmmad al-durrah.
He was the same age Muhmmad al-durrah.
His death didn't make the News. Just some lines imprisoning the hearts beyond the lines, surfacing from these muddy, moody times.
The positive side of this silent killing and that no one talked about his death, is that Hammad being no icon, nobody will take the pain to trash this rest of image.
And well, let's say that with the horrendous number of palestinian children killed, one should really be an animal, oups sorry (my friends animals, Hammad loved them too) one should be less than a pooh of a poodle to trash a child.
And well, let's say that with the horrendous number of palestinian children killed, one should really be an animal, oups sorry (my friends animals, Hammad loved them too) one should be less than a pooh of a poodle to trash a child.
No.
Or yes. Yes, I'm mad as hell.
I have the sensation I won't ever be able to come back to my senses, I'm so far away from me, but now I've really become master of the art of being a kind of hologram between lost lines.
I have the sensation I won't ever be able to come back to my senses, I'm so far away from me, but now I've really become master of the art of being a kind of hologram between lost lines.
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