Pedagogies of Crossing

On Living the Privileges of Empire I did not awake this morning to the deafening noise of sirens or the rocketing sound of nonstop bombs.I did not awake to the missiles that fall like rain from the sky, exploding on contact with land, staking out huge craters within the earth, collapsing people into buildings, trees into rubble, men into women, hands into feet, children into dust.∞ Two thousand tons of ammunition in three hours.Forty-two air raids in one day.Twenty-seven thousand air raids in a decade.≤ I did not awake this morning to the taste of desolation, nor to the crusts of anger piled high from decades of neglect.I did not awake to the familiar smell of charred flesh, which sand storms use to announce the morning raid.I did not awaken in Basra to the familiar smell of hunger, or of grief for that matter, residual grief from the last twelve years that now has settled as a thick band of air everywhere.Breathing grief for a lifetime can be toxic.Breathing only grief simply kills.I did not awake in Falluja, symbol of the post-election settlement wager: votes in exchange for bombs.I awoke this morning from a comfortable bed, avoiding the interminable queues for rations of fuel or food, because I have the privilege to choose to live, unlike many who have lost their lives in the insatiable service of imperialism.