Rituals of Bowing in the Temple of Politics

In this crucified East, stretched upon the wires of hypocrisy, betrayal is no longer an accusation—it has become one of the fine arts of survival. The dictionary of meanings has changed so thoroughly that selling the homeland is now called a “mutual understanding,” and submission is officially presented as “strategic balance.” Yesterday, they flogged those who remained silent before the walls of the Golan-;- today, they bless the hands that shake those which once violated the soil.

Politics here is neither a science nor a creed—it is a ritual of bowing. Faces change their colors whenever a new interest rises, and the hypocrites change their masks as the living would shroud their dead.

Israel—the one cursed by slogans in daylight and sought for permission at night—does not grant certificates of legitimacy for free. It knows who dwells in palaces and who s in their shadows. And when it intercedes to remove a name from the lists of terrorism, know then that the “blessing” has descended upon the chosen servant by the polluted hands of fate.

As for the people, they will go on applauding until their last breath—not out of love for the savior, but out of fear of admitting that they have always applauded their executioner. And when the curtain finally falls, they will find before them nothing but a mirror—one that reflects the face of treason, now wearing their own features.

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