لحظة ادراك

Sold To This Person

A billion dollars as an entry tariff for membership in the Gaza Riviera Peace Council.

Donald Trump opens the bidding for Peace Council memberships. Payment upfront: a cash deposit, non-refundable. Learning the craft of peace, Trump-style, is not free; it is reserved for the wealthy and for those able to secure additional funds that may arise in the coming days. Those who cannot should be content with reserving a seat on the spectators’ bench by the shore—if a shore remains for anyone to sit on for free. Thus Gaza, in the Trumpian imagination, is transformed from a besieged land into a luxury investment project; from a humanitarian catastrophe into a real-estate brochure; from the cause of a people who have struggled for a century into a members-only resort.

The Peace Council as Trump envisions it is not a forum to review chapters of historical injustice, but an elite club—no place for the poor, no place for refugees, no voice for anyone without a bank account boasting more than nine zeros. The property displayed in the Sotheby’s hall is “premium quality,” and only the ultra-rich can afford to invest in it.

The idea is simple, as all dangerous ideas begin: those who pay decide; those who do not are decided for. In this council, the right of return is not discussed—returns on investment are. A ceasefire is not sought—losses are capped. UN reports are not read—stock-market reports are. Gaza, under this model, does not need justice but rebranding; it does not need an end to occupation but a redesign of the seafront. Rubble? An opportunity. Destruction? Reconstruction on market terms. Victims? Mere figures with no bearing on the final balance sheet. Seats are limited and comfortable, overlooking the sea. Entry is only for those in suits and ties. As for ethics, there is no room for them inside—leave them in the trash bin at the door.

Trump does not hide his logic; he proclaims it openly, in a way no one can quite match. A grand deal is being negotiated: those who cannot negotiate lose; those who do not have money have no place at the table; and those who are not at the table will be on the menu. The Ship of Glory is ready to sail. It is not Noah’s Ark; it selects its cargo carefully and by special criteria: tycoons, investors, politicians hunting for a photo-op, and a few brokers skilled at marketing pain in diplomatic language.

As for the Palestinian, their “natural” role in this theatrical spectacle is either a labor subcontractor in the resort, a guard for equipment and facilities, or a translator—from the language of class superiority into Arabic—relaying instructions arriving from afar. Whoever refuses becomes a footnote in a condensed history booklet, or a number in a pre-development report. Such is peace when it becomes a class privilege rather than a moral value; such is politics when it turns into entertainment—daily talk-show performances on Donald Trump’s stage, titled: Pay. Sit. Vote—or leave the theater quietly, before you are met with an insult, a vulgar word, or an obscene gesture.

On one… on two… on three, the final dance begins—the dance of a world that has decided to solve its crises with money, to mask its moral failure with investment, to sell hope the way high-risk stocks are sold. The problem is no longer Trump as an eccentric president; the problem with this spectacle is that there are those who applaud, those who pay, those who wait their turn, and those who believe the ship will save them if only they arrive on time. Some even beg merely for a chance, equal to others—only to receive the same reply every time: What do you have to offer for a profitable deal?

They answer: We have a weapon; we will change its direction—from north to south, from east to west. We will guard the seafront and its luxury hotels. We also have a charter we will place in museums of history.

It does not take long for the response to come: Not yet. The merchandise on offer is not worth the price of a spectator’s ticket on the Ship of Glory. Your unpromising past requires much work to be done. And, more frankly—can you shed your own skins, if you are able to do so at all?

At the end of the Trumpian count—on one… on two… on three—a voice comes from afar: Auctioneer, slow down. The property on which you are holding this auction is not for sale to begin with. From where did you obtain the mandate to stage a public auction over it? Before you award it to whoever can buy it on your behalf, have you asked its owners about what is happening here? Read history carefully. All the prophets and messengers lived here, were buried here, or passed through here. Land here is measured in millimeters, not meters. Its people breathe the scent of history and the holy places. Every tyrant and despot passed through this land—and was defeated—while its people remained. Peace is made for those who need it, not for those who can buy it. Whoever can buy it today will sell it tomorrow. Listen well: your deal is a losing one. Spare yourself more shouting. Look for another deal elsewhere. The council of “on one, on two, on three” is not destined to last. What is built on falsehood is falsehood.

The auctioneer replies: Pay no attention to all this delirium. The matter is settled.

On one… on two… on three.

The pens are lifted; the pages have dried.