Penal Colony: Gaza
The Officer's eyes gleamed with the fervor of absolute certainty as he gestured toward the massive apparatus. "You must understand," he said to me, "this machine represents the purest form of morality ever devised."
I watched as another family was strapped to the platform. Children. Elderly. It didn't seem to matter.
"But surely," I began, "there must be some process of determining guilt—"
"Guilt?" The Officer looked puzzled, almost hurt by the suggestion. "My dear fellow, guilt is not the question. The question is existence itself. They exist where they should not exist. The machine simply corrects this error."
He walked me around the apparatus with evident pride. "You see these needles? Each one inscribes the eternal truth: 'This land was never yours.' It takes approximately six to twelve hours for the message to be fully understood. It takes longer for the children."
"Twelve hours?"
"Oh yes, the machine is very thorough. It must be, you understand. This is not mere punishment—this is education. By the fourth hour, they begin to comprehend. By the eighth, they accept. By the twelfth..." He smiled beatifically. "Civilised."
I noticed Western officials standing at a respectful distance, nodding approvingly. They called themselves "observers" but seemed more like disciples.
"The beauty of our system," the Officer continued, adjusting the machine's settings, "is its moral clarity. For too long, the world has been confused by complexity, by nuance. This apparatus cuts through all that." He gestured at the writhing figures. "Right here, wrong there. chosen people here, terrorists there. Simple."
"But international law—"
"Ah!" His face lit up. "International law is for the civilized. These?" He gestured at the platform. "They were never in that category."
A statistics officer approached. "The numbers from this quarter—over sixty thousand successful procedures."
"Excellent," the Officer beamed. "And the efficiency improvements?"
"We can now erase entire neighborhoods in a single day. The machine barely requires maintenance."
I stared at them both. "You speak of human beings."
The Officer's expression grew patient, almost pitying. "Human beings? No. We established this from the beginning—human animals. And when animals exist where they should not, in numbers they should not... culling isn't cruelty. It's land management."
He led me to an observation deck where more Western officials stood watching, some taking notes. "You see," the Officer explained, "when my predecessors first designed this system, they faced criticism too. But persistence, faith in the righteousness of the cause—these things matter more than temporary discomfort."
"Temporary discomfort?" I gestured at the platform where a mother was calling out for her child.
"Precisely. A brief period of correction, and then... peace. Eternal peace." His voice took on an almost religious cadence. "The machine serves a purpose higher than individual suffering. It serves destiny."
One of the Western observers approached. "Officer, some of our citizens back home seem... troubled by the procedures."
"Ah yes," the Officer nodded knowingly. "They don't see what we see. We're restoring our historical rights and solving the human animal problem that prevents it." He turned to me. "This is why your visit is so important. The world must understand that this apparatus represents not cruelty, but the highest form of morality—indeed, it's the most moral machine in the world."
I watched another body being removed from the platform. Sixty thousand, I had been told. Sixty thousand inscriptions of the same message.
"The most beautiful aspect," the Officer continued, his voice dreamy with reverence, "is how the machine teaches us about ourselves. Each procedure confirms what we already knew—that we are different. Special. Chosen. The machine doesn't create this truth; it merely reveals it."
As evening fell, the apparatus continued its work. The Officer stood beside it like a priest beside an altar, occasionally adjusting settings, monitoring the inscriptions. The Western officials filed their reports and scheduled tomorrow's procedures.
"You understand now," the Officer said to me as I prepared to leave. "This isn't about land or politics or resources. This is about divine order. Some peoples were chosen to flourish, others were placed here as... obstacles to that flourishing. The machine simply enforces what God already decided."
I left him there, still explaining the righteousness of the apparatus to anyone who would listen, still believing with perfect faith in the necessity of every scream.
The most terrifying thing wasn't the machine itself—it was the absolute moral certainty of the man operating it.
If you see this apparatus for what it is—systematic murder dressed as self-defense and divine right—thank you for refusing to believe in its righteousness.
If you still believe the machine serves a higher purpose—the apparatus has already inscribed its truth into your conscience.