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When a missile falls, something more dangerous than buildings collapses:
your ability to feel.

War doesn’t need your consent.
It just needs your attention.
Your feed.
Your outrage.
Your distraction.

Because when your screen lights up with fire and you instinctively pick a side—
you’ve already lost.
Not your life.
But your clarity.
Your sovereignty.
Your humanity.

You Think You’re Watching War. You’re Watching Theater.

Understand this:
You’re not watching history unfold.
You’re watching a script play out—
funded by arms deals, stabilized by media narratives,
and performed by governments who don’t bleed and don’t really care about people

“Justifiable violence” is the most dangerous oxymoron of the 21st century.

Iran. Israel. Ukraine. Taiwan. Gaza. Russsia
Different stage. Same director.
They light the match.
We argue over who struck it.

Who Profits When You Pick a Side?

Let me ask you something brutal:

What if your “solidarity” is just another gear in the machine?
What if your flags, hashtags, and tribal takes
aren’t signs of justice—
but proof that the hypnosis is working?

The people killing each other are not the ones who ordered the war.
They’re the ones convinced it was necessary.

Every time you reduce a human to a symbol—
you feed the fire.
You stop being a witness.
You become a weapon.

IThis Isn’t About Iran. It’s About You.

You don’t need to live near the blast zone to be a casualty.
If you’ve stopped questioning,
if you’ve stopped grieving,
if you’ve memorized the headlines but forgotten the faces—
you’re already infected.

Because the real bomb is empathy collapse.
The real war is fought inside your ability to care
without condition,
without nationalism,
without needing to be “right.”

They Don’t Fear Nukes. They Fear We’ll Wake Up Together.

You want to know why the machine keeps manufacturing enemies?

Because if the Israeli mother and the Iranian father
ever look at each other and say:
“This isn’t our war”—
the whole game ends.

They can’t allow that.
So they keep us busy.
Fighting over semantics.
Consuming curated horror.
Begging for peace from the architects of violence.

Who Are You When the Missiles Fall?

Are you a spectator?
A soldier of narrative?
A well-fed ghost?

Or are you something else entirely?

Are you the whisper that breaks the spell?
The one who says: “No. I will not become machinery. I will not perform the play.”

Because the most radical act right now
isn’t protest.
It’s perception.
It’s learning to see beyond the script.

There Is No Foreign War Anymore

Every missile is local.
Every dead child is your child.
Every collapsed apartment could’ve been your home
if you were born 200km east.

If your compassion has borders,
your conscience is under occupation.

This Ends When We Say: Enough.

Enough ritual bloodletting for politics. Enough to politicians acting like kings
Enough weaponized narratives.
Enough performance warfare dressed as moral duty.

This ends when we rehumanize the “enemy.”
This ends when we unhook our empathy from identity.
This ends when we refuse to choose sides
in a war none of us truly asked for.

Because there is no side left to choose.
Only this:

We either remember that we belong to each other—
or we burn, divided, while the gods of war count their gold.

It began yesterday , as these things often do, with a child asking if the sky was angry.
The mother did not have an answer.
She only knew that she had forty seconds to decide whether the hallway or the bathtub was the safer place to die.
Forty seconds between the warning siren and the firestorm. Forty seconds to hold her son and pretend that hiding was still a kind of hope.

In Tel Aviv, another child stared out a reinforced window, hearing his father curse under his breath in a language older than empires.
“We had no choice,” said the man on the television.
“But when do we?” whispered the father.

The Empire of Fear

The bomb did not fall on Iran.
It fell on the idea that nations can outgrow their ghosts.

Israel’s strike was precise in its coordinates, imprecise in its consequences.
It hit a military facility. It hit an oil artery.
But it also hit memory. It hit myth. It hit the unbearable inheritance both nations refuse to bury.

Israel, birthed from the charred bones of Auschwitz, still breathes as if hunted.
Iran, humiliated by coups and sanctions, still dreams of ancient glory.
Both are run by men who mistake vengeance for vision.

The Language of the Liars

They call it a “surgical strike.”
But surgery heals. This dismembers.

They say it was “measured.”
But they never measure the burned dolls, the shattered nerves, the silence between fathers and sons.

They say it was “defensive.”
But there is nothing defensive about bombing a country struggling under sanctions, drought, and dissent.

We are told to pick sides.
As if history were that clean.
As if trauma cannot be passed down like heirlooms.
As if the child in the bunker and the child in the crater are not cousins in the same collapsing dream.

Power Forgets the Body

No headline mentioned the nurse in Isfahan who couldn’t get to the hospital because the roads were closed.
No tweet counted the embryos that thawed and died in a bombed fertility clinic.
No one eulogized the poet whose manuscript turned to ash with his home.

This is how war works in the 21st century.
It’s clean on screens.
It’s carnage off-camera.

The West applauds. The markets tremble.
And somewhere in a village, a boy draws a picture of fire and calls it God.

Who Profits from Apocalypse?

The U.S. sells more weapons.
The Israeli Prime Minister’s approval rating jumps.
Iran’s hardliners crush dissent with a new excuse.
The oil price surges. Wall Street feasts.

And the mothers?
They learn to pack go-bags.
They learn how to tell bedtime stories that include missile shadows.
They learn that grief is not an event — it’s an atmosphere.

The Bomb Is Not the End — It Is the Beginning

This was not a war.
It was a message.

“We will define what safety means.”
“We will decide who is allowed to dream.”
“We will burn your future to save ours.”

But what if safety cannot be built on supremacy?
What if every bomb dropped on another child’s home ricochets back into our own?

The child who asked about the sky?
He no longer asks.
He just flinches when the wind slams the door.

That’s what the bomb destroyed.
Not Iran. Not enrichment sites. Not centrifuges.

It destroyed the idea that our children might grow up unafraid.

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Currency Wars: The Making of the Next Global Crisis

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Currency Wars: The Making of the Next Global Crisis

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