And so the story goes that a perfect gentleman, surrounded by animals – those that he kills for fun, those that keep him company, those that provide him with entertainment, those that he uses for sport, and those that he eats, all of them never to be moved from one category to the other – refuses one day to be deferential to power. he didn't just challenge a more powerful person than himself – he had done that a lot in his heyday. what he did was to confront power itself. the power that doesn't allow horses to be eaten, and accepts guinea pigs to be tortured for the advancement of knowledge, and doesn't encourage dressage with cows, or the abattoir to be turned into a bettable spectacle. And so he refused to be painted in this scene, surrounded by all these animals in their very strict functions of service to himself so as to avoid contributing to the food chain of power.
Sitting on the riverbank I watch what floats by. The stream brings a child sitting on a hospital bed. He must be 12, about my son’s age. A bandage hangs from his left shoulder where his arm should be. He cries conpulsively, in a foreign language, so I can only imagine what he is saying. His wailing reminds me of phantom pain, and the tearful words seem to mourn the sudden amputation of his childhood, possibly performed without anaesthetic. But then I realise that his cries may refer to a deeper pain. Maybe the blast that took his arm also took his mum. Maybe all his family, as many in Gaza these days. Before this story enters into a loop, I flick it away with my thumb, making the stream move forward. Another image stops in front of me. Three young men on a desert road dance to Staying Alive by Bee Gees. Their faces look very familiar to me. But it’s not easy to see their faces. They are partially covered with helmets and their bodies are surrounded by military gear. They don’t sp...