Maree Makom

Dead End
The camp, in the distance, is surrounded by tanks. From here, the smell of the twin towers’
smoke still rests in the air, twirling the flag that was waved coarse by the pain of a maimed city,
and the camp, grey-pink, is surrounded by blind tanks, surrounded by a hate that consumes
itself in the refugees of a mute refugee camp. And even if we all stood in front of the iron beasts
crawling in, crawling over the mortification of the sewage puddles and the cigarette butts,
between the cracked walls and the peeling rust and paint, trampling over the broken asphalt
and over the heart, crushing the dream of those refugees and of the ones they are carrying
inside them, even then the tanks won’t stop.