Phalapoem editor, 15/11/25
Scene:
A cracked courtroom under a fading UN flag. The walls are covered in reports, resolutions, and silence. Handala stands with his back turned, facing the horizon of Gaza’s smoke. The Prosecutor enters, papers trembling in his hand — not from fear, but exhaustion.
⸻
Prosecutor:
You’ve been standing like that for fifty years, little one. Aren’t your legs tired?
Handala:
They don’t hurt as much as watching the world pretend to walk the talk of justice. Tell me, how’s your court doing these days — still allergic to certain passports?
Prosecutor (half-smiling):
Ah, you’ve heard. We tried to issue warrants — the kind that mean something, not the decorative kind. But apparently, some countries come with an “immunity subscription.” Paid annually, in weapons and vetoes.
Handala:
Oh yes, the “Platinum Member of the Untouchables Club.” Comes with free airstrikes and diplomatic cover. And if you complain — they accuse you of misconduct, right?
Prosecutor (bitter laugh):
Exactly. The law, they said, must be universal. But the moment I applied it universally, universality suddenly became “politically inconvenient.” Imagine that.
Handala:
I’ve been imagining for 75 years. You’re late. The world’s been watching children like me die — not metaphorically, not statistically — and calls it “complex.”
Prosecutor:
They tell me international law is “powerful.” They said it after Nuremberg. They said it in The Hague. But it turns out the law’s power stops at the gates of Washington.
Handala:
And London. And Brussels. You see, when a brown child is bombed, it’s called “self-defense.” When a white city is invaded, it’s called “a moral outrage.”
The sanctions? Swift. The condemnations? Poetic. The double standards? Biblical.
Prosecutor (sighs):
When Russia invaded Ukraine, we opened investigations overnight. But when Israel invades Gaza, we open… debates.
Handala (sarcastic):
Don’t be so harsh. They did open something — more arms shipments. Wouldn’t want the occupation to run out of bullets before breakfast.
Prosecutor:
We spoke of the rules-based order. But every time Israel breaks the rules, someone changes the order.
We spoke of humanitarian law. But Gaza has become a laboratory for testing its limits — or proving its irrelevance.
Handala:
And yet, you still wear that robe. Why?
Prosecutor:
Because if I take it off, they win entirely. Someone has to keep the idea of justice alive — even if it’s on life support.
Handala (turns his head slightly, for the first time):
You remind me of a stubborn olive tree. It keeps growing, even when the soil is poisoned.
Prosecutor:
And you remind me of conscience itself — small, silent, but impossible to kill.
Handala:
Conscience doesn’t die, it just migrates. Maybe the next generation will find it buried beneath the rubble of Gaza and replant it somewhere that still believes in humanity.
Prosecutor:
Do you think they’ll forgive us — the adults who built a world where law bowed to power?
Handala:
Forgive you? Maybe. Forget you? Never. They’ll read about this time and ask,
“How could you watch the slaughter of children and still call yourselves civilized?”
Prosecutor (softly):
And what will you tell them, Handala?
Handala (turns fully, eyes fierce):
I’ll tell them I never stopped turning my back on hypocrisy — because facing it would have broken me.
⸻
Curtain falls.
The courtroom echoes with silence. The laws remain on paper.
But Handala still stands — back turned, fists clenched —
waiting for the world to grow a conscience worthy of his gaze.