Have some decency, or shut that trap.

Where is the memorial for the victims in Afghanistan? Where are the glowing names, the flowing water, the revered bronze?
All of them just as sacred as you. Those women thrown to religious fundamentalists in Iraq because we-who-are-alive-and-kind-of-content-to-be-so let it happen; those children starved to death in the rubble that has encompassed 8 years and countless hearts; those men blown to pieces in wedding feasts. All of them thrown again under destroyed bridges on this date, because we just can´t face that we are in the end perfectly happy to have some lives count for less than others.

Where is our refusal to be part of this monstrous thing we have become? What do you think of Western civilization, we asked; and he replied that it would be a good idea, yes!, Gandhi replied that. So where are we, we who hide behind the lofty veneer of humanist philosophies born from our esteemed lands to open our mouths for grandiloquent proclamations, where are we when it comes to saying "No" to this day, this endless 9/11 day? Where do all the steady words we boast of go to when we don´t proclaim them? Do they just lie where we can´t see the impervious truth they reflect?
Dire avec la force que le non est destiné à conserver.

Where is the grave for the unknown kid of Gaza, for the forgotten embargo-breakers of the world, for the Muslim enemy combatant that ended up in Romania? Is it being bulldozed along with olive trees, sunk in the bottom of a bay, airlifted in the darkness far away?
Or is it being splintered between warlords that fan the flames of famines and droughts so we can appeal for donations?

Stop. Just stop. This day belongs to no one. I have 3000 names to learn, plus 110 thousand, plus almost 3 thousand again, plus 40 000, plus, plus, plus, minus jingoism and delusions. It leaves us with the truth: "The utter stupid waste of war is so staggering to those who have to endure it. And it always was, despite the poets, and always will be, despite the propagandists."
The good fight weaves growing whispers of peace, and that ain´t what´s coming from the gigantic plazas all named after some Victory.