charlie is my bitch

I am not Charlie. I am Comanche Navajo Cherokee and Sioux. I am Palestine Northern Ireland Hiroshima Nagasaki and Vietnam. I am a European Jew of the 1930s and ’40s. I am a European Muslim of the past 30 years. I am Afghanistan and Iraq. I am a Congolese rubber collector with no hands and many mouths to feed. A runaway slave dangling from a Tennessee tree. A Somali schoolteacher embarking on a trip to the bottom of the Mediterranean. A Bengali mother of five leaping to her death from the top floor of a burning textile factory. I am a Chinese boy passing out at a tablet-pc assembly line. I am a six-year-old street child sitting on a filthy hotel mattress in Pattaya, Thailand, watching a fat man take off his sweaty shirt and unbuckle his belt while he quotes Voltaire in spotless Sorbonne French.
I am not Charlie. I am Vengeance carved in stone. I am Voltaire’s head on a goddamn stick. Rien ne sera jamais pardonné.


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