The barrel before the Name

War is that elegant stain, glossy like freshly spilled oil: it doesn’t dirty you right away—no, first it hypnotizes you. It slides slowly, seeps into your eyes, and while you’re wondering what it smells like, it has already shattered your heart into billions of recyclable shards. War is sustainable. It produces silence, amnesia, and unlabeled bodies.

The barrel, then, is always full. No one really knows by whom, but it’s ready even before it’s hurled at innocent civilians. Impeccable service: fast delivery, wrong recipients. But don’t worry—it’s all “collateral.”

I remember a boy I met while working at a refugee center. He couldn’t remember his name. Nor his country. Nor why he was there. A masterpiece of cleanliness. One of the many “silenced”: a brain dry-cleaned by a system that loathes the stains of memory. Remembering is dangerous; it soils official narratives. Better to erase everything, like a chalkboard after a history lesson—after all, who really listens?

At this point, one might think it’s more dignified to drown directly in the barrel, before it reaches shore. Because when the stain touches the beach, it doesn’t dirty only the victims: it smears the spectators too—the ones holding ice cream and a “balanced” opinion. “It’s complicated,” they say, as the oil reaches their ankles.

It seems like a contradiction, but it’s a perfect system, more finely oiled than the barrel itself. World leaders don’t wage war: they play tennis. They lob missiles like balls, shake hands at the end of the match, and those on the court—men, women, children—die to keep the score interesting. Applause from the stands. Match broadcast live. Sponsors satisfied.

Game, set, massacre.