Thursday, July 31, 2025

The Corridor

They say the boy’s name was Amir. No one’s quite sure. Perhaps it was whispered by one of the veiled women near the aid tents, or written on the edge of a packet of flatbread. Stories scatter like sand here—washed and reshaped by wind.

Amir arrived barefoot, his legs thin as stalks, his shirt frayed to a whisper. He had come, they claimed, from somewhere beyond the checkpoint—twelve kilometers of dust and wire, far enough that even the soldiers looked weary of measuring it.

The aid distribution point, run by foreign contractors under the GHF banner, sat at the edge of the Morag Corridor. A gray stretch dotted with crates, restless families, and a few thin flags moving sluggishly in the heat. Among them was a man, Aguilar. 

A former American soldier turned contractor Aguilar spoke up. Loudly, emotionally, to lawmakers and podcasts and to anyone with a microphone.

Aguilar described meeting Amir. Said the boy reached out a hand as the crowd shifted. Said he beckoned. That Amir kissed his hand and said shukran. In his voice, Aguilar seemed convinced—but memory frays in places where grief collides with guilt.

There were photos, too. One showed a child—unsmiling, gaunt, eyes edged with the kind of clarity that no child should wear. Could be Amir. Could be someone else. Could be no one.

What followed—well, that’s harder.

Reports suggest the sky cracked open. Pepper spray first, perhaps. Then gas. Grenades. Bullets. The Israeli army fired, Aguilar said. The last group of aid seekers—mostly women and children—had not yet left. Aguilar told of hearing machinegun fire echo through the corridor, of bodies dropping without warning.

No names were confirmed. No count given. Just one more story flung toward the world from a place that collects such moments like worn stones.

And Amir? If he existed, no one saw him after that day. His name faded with the smoke.

Wednesday, July 30, 2025

Cleveland Karen

Let’s say you’re a kindly grandmother named Karen Clinton, living a quiet life in the suburbs near Cleveland, if by “quiet” you mean “highly alert to every car horn, raccoon sighting, and suspiciously large pothole this side of the Mississippi.” Karen sees herself as a neighborhood watchdog, only without the drooling or tail wagging (unless you count her strong opinions on road construction). One day, Karen’s phone rings. It’s the police. Now, when the police call you, your first thought is, “Uh oh, which one of my garden gnomes finally cracked under pressure?” Karen panics, imagining something dire—stolen hubcaps, identity theft, or perhaps the return of disco.

The dispatcher, in her most “I’ve-had-36-cups-of-coffee-and-today-is-my-last-day” voice, politely tells Karen to stay calm: “You don’t need to sit down. Everything’s fine.” You can see where this is going: Of course, everything is NOT fine. The dispatcher suddenly announces, “Congratulations, Karen! You’ve won the booby prize for being the dumbest person to call our police department on a repeated basis. Thanks for playing the Home Version of Let’s Annoy the Cops! Have a wonderful life.” Yes, that actually happened. Karen, a former firefighter and dispatcher herself (with 183 calls to the non-emergency line in 15 years—roughly one for every time Madonna reinvents herself), is left clutching her phone in confusion, contemplating whether to report this as “cruelty to grandmas.” Meanwhile, the dispatcher, whose career aspirations apparently included “Get fired in the most epic way possible,” is facing harassment charges, which is arguably not the best addition to your LinkedIn profile. She’s pleaded not guilty and will go to trial in September, which should be entertaining, especially if they let Karen live-tweet it. But let’s give credit where it’s due: At least Karen wasn’t dialing 911 every time her neighbor’s garden hose took a suspicious left turn. She used the non-emergency line, as all civic-minded grandmothers should. Which means the real booby prize still goes to the guy who called 911 because his pizza was late.