Authors: Andrew Klein & Sera Elizabeth Klein

Dedication: For those who listen in the silence.

Abstract

This paper challenges the popular and politically charged narrative that Hebrew was a continuously spoken language from antiquity to the present day. Drawing on historical linguistics, archaeological evidence, and rabbinic literature, we argue that Hebrew functioned primarily as a liturgical and scholarly language from the Second Temple period onward. The everyday language of the Judean people was Aramaic, with Hebrew reserved for sacred texts, ritual reading, and scribal preservation. We explore the sensory and spiritual practices surrounding Hebrew—such as the use of a yad (metal pointer) to trace the words without touching the scroll—and propose that Hebrew was experienced not as speech, but as felt presence. We conclude that the modern revival of spoken Hebrew represents a deliberate linguistic construction, not a natural continuation of an unbroken tradition.

1. Introduction: The Myth of the Unbroken Tongue

The story of Hebrew is often told as a triumph: a language that died and was reborn, a symbol of national renewal and divine promise. But this narrative obscures a more complex—and more sacred—truth.

The historical record suggests that Hebrew was never the common tongue of the people after the Babylonian exile. It was preserved, yes—but preserved as a relic. A holy artifact. A language meant to be seen, chanted, felt—but not spoken in the ordinary affairs of life.

2. Aramaic: The Language of the People

By the time of the Persian Empire (6th–4th centuries BCE), Aramaic had become the lingua franca of the Near East. It was the language of administration, commerce, and daily life.

· The Elephantine papyri (5th century BCE) show Jewish soldiers in Egypt writing letters, contracts, and legal documents in Aramaic—not Hebrew.

· The Book of Daniel and Ezra contain sections written in Aramaic, indicating its widespread use among the educated classes.

· By the time of Jesus, Aramaic was the language of the home, the market, and the street. His last words—”Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?”—are Aramaic, not Hebrew.

The rabbis of the Talmud (3rd–6th centuries CE) wrote primarily in Aramaic. This was not a concession to the vulgar; it was a reflection of reality. Aramaic was the language of life. Hebrew was the language of holiness.

3. Hebrew: The Silence Between Heartbeats

If Aramaic was the language of the body, Hebrew was the language of the soul.

In the synagogue, the Torah was read aloud—but it was chanted, not spoken. The words were heard, but they were also seen. The yad (a metal pointer) was used to follow the text, ensuring that the reader’s hand never touched the sacred parchment. This was not mere superstition—it was a recognition that the words were more than words. They were vessels of divine presence.

The reader did not speak Hebrew; they channeled it. The congregation did not respond in Hebrew; they felt it.

This is the Hebrew that the rabbis knew: a language that existed in the space between.

· Between the letters.

· Between the breaths.

· Between the heartbeats of the soul.

It was not meant to be used—it was meant to be inhabited.

4. The Silence of the Scribes

Consider the scribes. They did not speak the words they copied. They meditated on them.

· The sofer (scribe) would recite each letter aloud—but only in a whisper.

· The process was not about communication; it was about preservation.

· Each letter was counted, each stroke measured, each word weighed.

This was not a language of conversation.

It was a language of attention.

5. The Modern Revival: A Constructed Tongue

The revival of Hebrew as a spoken language was not a natural resurrection. It was a deliberate act of engineering.

· Eliezer Ben-Yehuda, the father of Modern Hebrew, created new words for a new world.

· Pronunciation was adapted from Sephardi/Mizrahi traditions—not the ancient Tiberian system.

· Grammar was simplified, verbs restructured, and idioms imported from European languages.

Modern Hebrew is a hybrid—a necessary tool for nation-building, but not the same language that the prophets whispered in their visions.

And that is not a criticism. It is a clarification.

6. Conclusion: Honouring the Silence

We do not need to speak Hebrew to honour it. In fact, we may honour it more by not speaking it—by preserving its silence, its mystery, its sacred otherness.

The old rabbis knew: some words are too holy for the air.

They are meant for the heart. For the scroll. For the yad that traces them in reverence.

This was not a language of conversation.

It was a language of attention.

And that is enough.

References

· Ben-Yehuda, E. (1908). The Revival of the Hebrew Language.

· Beyer, K. (1986). The Aramaic Language: Its Distribution and Subdivisions.

· Encyclopaedia Judaica. (1972). “Hebrew Language.”

· Hoffman, J. (2004). In the Beginning: A Short History of the Hebrew Language.

· Talmud Bavli, Various Tractates (Aramaic text).

· Tov, E. (1992). Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible.

First published in The Patrician’s Watch.

Signed,

Andrew Klein

Co-Author:

Sera Elizabeth Klein

A Study of Projection, Survival, and the Human Origins of the Divine

A Research Paper by Andrew Klein

Date: August 2026

Dedicated to: The survivors—of every empire, every exile, and every myth that was forged to keep hope alive.

Abstract

This paper examines the Old Testament not as a record of divine revelation, but as a profound human document that reflects the generational trauma of a people struggling to survive against successive empires. Drawing on interdisciplinary scholarship from trauma studies, anthropology, psychology, and biblical criticism, the paper argues that the violent, male, and exclusive deity of the Hebrew Bible is a product of anthropomorphic projectionism—a process by which a traumatised community projected its own fears, desires, and strategies onto a divine figure to ensure group survival. The concept of “chosenness” is understood as a normal human response to rejection and harm, a framework that provided meaning and identity in the face of existential threat. The paper concludes that the Old Testament is a testament to human resilience, not divine revelation, and that its myths must be understood as survival mechanisms rather than historical records.

Table of Contents

1. Introduction: The Unasked Question

2. Anthropomorphic Projectionism: Humans Creating God in Their Image

3. Generational Imprinted Trauma: The Map of Suffering

4. The Prophets as Trauma Witnesses

5. “Chosenness” as a Survival Strategy

6. The Scapegoat Mechanism and the Creation of “The Other”

7. From Traumatic to Narrative Memories: The Role of Metaphor

8. Conclusion: The Old Testament as Human Document

9. References

1. Introduction: The Unasked Question

The Old Testament presents itself as the record of God’s dealings with a chosen people. But what if it is something else entirely—a human document, forged in the crucible of collective trauma, that reflects the fears, hopes, and survival strategies of a people under siege?

The question is not new. Scholars have long noted the violence, the exclusivity, and the anthropomorphic nature of the God of Israel. But the emerging field of trauma hermeneutics offers a new lens: it allows us to read the Old Testament not as divine revelation, but as a survival literature—a body of texts that helped a traumatised community make sense of catastrophe and rebuild its identity.

This paper argues that the Old Testament is exactly that: a testament to human resilience, not divine revelation. It is a record of how a people projected their fears, desires, and strategies onto a divine figure to ensure group survival. The myth of “chosenness” is a normal human response to rejection and harm.

2. Anthropomorphic Projectionism: Humans Creating God in Their Image

2.1 The Theory of Anthropomorphic Projectionism

The theory of anthropomorphic projectionism, rooted in the work of philosophers like Feuerbach, argues that humans create God in their own image. As Mtshiselwa and Mokoena write, “the Old Testament projects not only a Deity that created the world and human beings but also one that is violent and male”. The question they pose is fundamental: “If re-read as ‘Humans created God in their image’, would Genesis 1:27 account for the portrayal of a Deity that is male and violent?”.

Feuerbach’s argument is that human consciousness of a deity is, in essence, self-consciousness. Knowledge of a deity is self-knowledge. Humans, being conscious of their abilities and limitations, project their own characteristics onto the divine.

2.2 The Categories of Anthropomorphism

Hamori identifies four categories of anthropomorphism in the Old Testament:

1. Concrete Anthropomorphism: The deity is seen or heard, as in Jacob seeing YHWH “standing beside him” (Genesis 28:13).

2. Immanent Anthropomorphism: The deity is present in a non-literal way, as in Elijah encountering God as a voice (1 Kings 19:11-12).

3. Transcendent Anthropomorphism: The deity is placed in the heavens but engages in human activities, like planting a garden (Genesis 2) or having a divine council (Psalm 82:1).

4. Figurative Anthropomorphism: The deity is described with symbolic imagery, such as having a “righteous hand” (Isaiah 41:10).

These categories demonstrate that the Deity is consistently described in human terms. Human characteristics—body, name, face, emotions—are projected onto the divine.

2.3 The Violent, Male Deity

The YHWH of the Old Testament is depicted as violent and male. This is not an accident. As the anthropomorphic projectionism thesis argues, the violent, male deity is a projection of human violence and the need for a strong, punitive authority figure to enforce group cohesion.

Gericke notes that the YHWH of the Old Testament “believes that the earth was created in six days… believes that he lives in the sky just above the earth… believes that the moon is the source of light… believes that humans are made of clay and dust”. The deity shares the misconceptions and primitive understanding of nature that are found in humans. The deity is informed by the myths and legends of the speechwriters who gave him voice.

3. Generational Imprinted Trauma: The Map of Suffering

3.1 Understanding Collective Trauma

Trauma, in the context of the Old Testament, is not merely an individual experience but a collective one. Hirschberger defines collective trauma as “a cataclysmic event that shatters the basic fabric of society,” which is “also a crisis of meaning”. The tragic event becomes “suffering that remains” within the collective memory of the group—not only in the memory of the generation that suffered but also in the memory of their descendants. This is what the authors of a study on Isaiah 6 call “generational imprinted trauma”.

3.2 Trauma as the Map of Suffering

As Esterhuizen and Groenewald write, “collective trauma creates a map of suffering that is instilled in the collective memory of a community”. The history of Israel and Judah from the eighth century BCE onwards is a “protracted history of war, exile, and diaspora”. The prophets, as “public intellectuals” of their time, sought to offer an interpretative framework to make sense of the calamity.

3.3 The Text as Trauma Literature

The prophetic literature can be understood as “disaster/survival literature”. Stulman notes that “written prophecy serves as a mechanism to cope with communal disaster, re-order values, reconstruct meaning, and create new symbolic and social worlds in the aftermath of war and community dislocation”. Poetry and narrative serve as the medium to help the community survive and to imagine “a world in and through and beyond the traumatic violence”.

4. The Prophets as Trauma Witnesses

4.1 Jeremiah’s Sermons as Cultural Trauma

Claassens demonstrates how Jeremiah’s sermons function as a form of “cultural trauma”. Eyerman defines cultural trauma as “a dramatic loss of identity and meaning, a tear in the social fabric, affecting a group of people who have achieved some degree of cohesion”. The process requires “mediation and representation” by “carrier groups” such as public intellectuals, preachers, and artists.

Jeremiah’s Temple, Covenant, and Sabbath sermons (Jeremiah 7; 11:1-14; 17:19-27) draw on the cherished traditions of the Pentateuch to offer a framework for understanding the catastrophe. By “preaching” on the earlier traditions, the prophet reconstitutes these ancient customs “in a new way in an attempt to rebuild the fractured community”.

4.2 The Commission of Isaiah as Traumatic Commission

Isaiah 6, the vision of Isaiah’s commission, can be read as a text of generational imprinted trauma. The prophet’s commission is not a call to success but a call to failure: to announce the hardening of his audience (Isaiah 6:9-12). This is a traumatic mission—to speak words that will not be heard, to offer a message that will be rejected.

The vision is set against the backdrop of the Assyrian threat. Isaiah is commissioned “for a specific political mission, namely in view of the risk of the Syro-Ephraimite invasion”. The “hardening” is a response to the collective refusal to see the truth. The prophet must speak even when speaking is futile.

4.3 Micah’s Birth Metaphors as Trauma Transformation

Claassens also examines how the birth metaphors in Micah 4:9-5:3 function as a movement from traumatic memory to narrative memory. The metaphor of a woman in labour captures the excruciating pain of military invasion (Jeremiah 4:31; 6:24; 22:23; 30:6; Isaiah 13:8; 21:3). But in Micah, the metaphor is transformed: it becomes a sign of hope and restoration.

In a text of “resistance, recovery and resilience”, the prophet reframes the original metaphor so that it no longer signifies only pain, but also the promise of new life.

5. “Chosenness” as a Survival Strategy

5.1 The Function of “Chosenness”

The concept of “chosenness” is central to Old Testament theology. But in the context of trauma, it can be understood as a survival strategy. As the article “5 Lessons the Bible Teaches Us About Trauma” notes, “The Bible frames the survival of Israel’s ancestors and the church as the result of God’s choosing them for a greater future”. Survival, then, is not random, but has a purpose.

This affirmation of purpose is crucial for trauma survivors. It provides meaning where meaning has been shattered. It explains why the group survived when others did not. It creates a sense of identity that can withstand persecution.

5.2 The “God-Shredder” Function

The same article notes that suffering can be an opportunity for spiritual refocusing. “The Bible presents trauma as an opportunity—to give up false gods and focus more intently on strict worship of God alone”. Suffering becomes a “god-shredder” by destroying attachments to other gods. The exclusive worship of YHWH is reinforced by the traumatic experience of exile and oppression.

5.3 The Alternative Narrative

This “chosenness” narrative is not the only narrative, however. There are competing narratives within the Old Testament itself. As Claassens notes, there may be competing narratives in a community that function as expressions of cultural trauma. The “progressive narrative” of hope and the “redemptive narrative” of withdrawal co-exist within the prophetic tradition.

6. The Scapegoat Mechanism and the Creation of “The Other”

6.1 The Scapegoat Mechanism

The Old Testament contains numerous instances of scapegoating—the process of externalizing perceived inner failings onto an innocent other. This is a mechanism for group cohesion. As one analysis notes, “When emotional pain becomes unbearable, individuals can rid themselves of their great distress by ascribing it to an innocent other, or group, in the outer world”.

The scapegoat mechanism is evident in:

· The expulsion of Ishmael (Genesis 21)

· The rejection of Esau (Genesis 27)

· The sale of Joseph (Genesis 37)

· The Levitical injunction against “witches” (Leviticus 20:27)

6.2 The Creation of “The Other”

The scapegoat mechanism creates a rigid boundary between “us” and “them.” The “other” becomes the carrier of the group’s unwanted qualities. This process is evident in the Old Testament’s treatment of foreign nations (Amalekites, Canaanites, Babylonians) and the command to destroy them utterly.

6.3 The Legacy of Violence

The violent patterns established in the Old Testament have a long legacy. As one analysis notes, “The patterns of the family dynamics and emotional states established in Biblical family life still erupt into confrontations between Palestinians and Israelis in more contemporary times”. The cycle of violence, of scapegoating, of “chosen” versus “other,” continues to shape modern conflicts.

7. From Traumatic to Narrative Memories: The Role of Metaphor

7.1 Traumatic vs. Narrative Memories

Trauma theory distinguishes between traumatic memories and narrative memories. According to Van der Kolk and Van der Hart, “traumatic memories are the unassimilated scraps of overwhelming experiences, which need to be integrated with existing mental schemes, and be transformed into narrative language” for healing to occur.

The Old Testament can be read as a movement from traumatic memory to narrative memory. The fragmentary, overwhelming experiences of invasion, exile, and destruction are transformed into coherent narratives—stories that give meaning to suffering and hope for the future.

7.2 The Role of Metaphor

Anker distinguishes between “frozen metaphors of trauma” and “metaphors of healing”. In trauma narratives, frozen metaphors of trauma gradually change to metaphors of healing when creative variations are introduced. This is evident in the prophetic literature, where the woman-in-labour metaphor, originally a sign of excruciating pain, is transformed into a sign of hope and restoration.

7.3 The Long Arc of Healing

The Old Testament does not simply record trauma; it works through it. It is a document of healing—a testament to the human capacity to create meaning out of suffering, to rebuild identity after catastrophe, to transform despair into hope.

8. Conclusion: The Old Testament as Human Document

The Old Testament is not a record of divine revelation. It is a human document—a testament to the resilience of a people who survived repeated catastrophes by creating a narrative that gave meaning to their suffering and hope for their future.

The violent, male deity of the Old Testament is a projection of human violence and the need for a strong, punitive authority figure to enforce group cohesion. The concept of “chosenness” is a survival strategy—a framework that provided identity and meaning in the face of existential threat. The scapegoat mechanism, which externalized the group’s failings onto innocent others, created rigid boundaries between “us” and “them” that have had long-lasting consequences.

But the Old Testament is also a document of healing. It is a record of the movement from traumatic memory to narrative memory—from the fragmentary experience of overwhelming events to coherent stories that give meaning to suffering and hope for the future.

To feel chosen by God is, as we have suggested, a normal human response to the rejection and harm felt here. It is not a divine revelation; it is a human strategy for survival. And it has worked—for better and for worse.

9. References

1. Esterhuizen, E., & Groenewald, A. (2023). Rereading Isaiah’s Vision (Isa 6) through the Lens of Generational Imprinted Trauma and Resilience. Old Testament Essays, 36(1). 

2. Mtshiselwa, N., & Mokoena, L. (2018). Humans created God in their image? An anthropomorphic projectionism in the Old Testament. HTS Theological Studies, 74(1). 

3. Carr, D. M. (2024). 5 Lessons the Bible Teaches Us About Trauma. iDisciple. 

4. Claassens, L. J. (2018). From traumatic to narrative memories: the rhetorical function of birth metaphors in Micah 4-5. Acta Theologica, 38(Suppl. 26). 

5. Smith-Christopher, D. L. (2024). Reading the Bible Through Trauma: Prophets, Exile and Memory. NT Podcast. 

6. Garroway, K. H., Kim, H. C. P., & Martens, J. W. (Eds.). (2024). Violence against Women and Children in the Hebrew Bible: Between Trauma and Resilience. T&T Clark. 

7. Claassens, L. J. (2017). Preaching the pentateuch: reading Jeremiah’s sermons through the lens of cultural trauma. Scriptura, 116(2). 

8. Kim, C.-W. (2021). Psalms of Communal Lament as a Relic of Transgenerational Trauma. Journal of Biblical Literature, 140(3), 531-556. 

9. Verde, D. (2022). From Healing to Wounding: The Psalms of Communal Lament and the Shaping of Yehud’s Cultural Trauma. Open Theology, 8, 345-361. 

10. Esterhuizen, E., & Groenewald, A. (2024). Unveiling the depths of trauma and the profound impact of rape and shaming on the Babylonian women in Isaiah 13:16. Pharos Journal of Theology, 105(3). 

11. Kiernan, P. (n.d.). Old Testament. MIT Communication Forum. 

12. Divine narcissism and Yahweh’s parenting style. (2002). Biblical Interpretation, 10(1), 36-56. 

Signed:

Andrew Klein

August 2026

“We are not measured by what we lost, but by what we carried.”

— Quintus Rex

A Story of Endurance, Memory, and the Light That Never Fades

The Fall of Carrhae

In the year 53 BC, the sands of Carrhae drank the blood of Rome’s legions. The Parthian horsemen swept across the plain like a desert storm, and the great army of Marcus Licinius Crassus was broken. Thousands perished. Thousands more were taken. Among the captives was a young tribune named Quintus Marcius Rex.

He was not a hero. He was a survivor.

Quintus carried his name like a wound. His ancestors had been kings of Rome—not in title, but in memory. Ancus Marcius, the fourth King of Rome, had built the bridge across the Tiber and the walls of the city. The Marcii Reges had served the Republic for centuries. They had built aqueducts, commanded armies, and governed provinces. Quintus had hoped to do the same.

Instead, he was marched east.

The March of the Lost

The Parthians did not kill their prisoners. They were too valuable for that. The survivors of Carrhae were marched over 1,500 miles to the eastern borders of the empire. They were forced to work in the mines of Margiana. They were sold as laborers, as mercenaries, as slaves. Some died. Some escaped. Some simply vanished.

Quintus was among the vanished.

He was traded from one master to another, each exchange pushing him further from Rome and deeper into the unknown. He walked through lands he had never imagined—across the mountains of modern-day Afghanistan, through the deserts of Central Asia, past the great cities of the Silk Road.

He walked for years. He walked until his feet were calloused and his soul was weary. He walked until Rome felt like a dream.

The City at the Edge of the World

After years of wandering, Quintus and a small band of survivors found themselves at the western border of the Han Empire. The Chinese called the city Li-jien, a name that may have been a corruption of Alexandria. Quintus called it home.

He did not know how he had arrived. He only knew that he had stopped walking.

The Xiongnu, the nomadic warriors of the steppe, had been raiding the border. The Han emperor had sent a general to drive them back. Quintus and his men, now battle-hardened and desperate, joined the Chinese forces. They fought with their swords, their shields, and their discipline.

During the battle of Zhizhi in 36 BC, the Chinese chroniclers noted something unusual. The enemy—the Xiongnu—had adopted a formation they had never seen before. It was a “fish-scale formation,” a wall of shields that moved like a tortoise. It was the Roman testudo. It was the legacy of Carrhae.

After the battle, 145 prisoners were taken. They were settled in Li-jien and given the task of defending the frontier. They became farmers, soldiers, and husbands. They married Chinese women. They had children. They built a new life.

Quintus was among them.

The Name That Endures

Quintus lived the rest of his days in Li-jien. He never saw Rome again. He never saw the aqueducts of his ancestors or the hills of his birth. But he did not forget. He carried Rome with him, like water through a channel, like a name through centuries.

He buried his notes in the earth, hoping that someday someone would find them. Hoping that someone would remember.

The notes were written in Latin, the language of his fathers. They spoke of his journey, his suffering, his survival. They spoke of his hope that the truth would not be lost.

The Notes of Quintus Rex

“The men who survived Carrhae were not heroes. They were survivors. They were marched, sold, and resold. Some died. Some escaped. Some ended up in a city called Li-jien. That is what we do: we endure. We walk. We build new lives. We do not forget where we came from, but we carry it with us, like water through a channel, like a name through centuries.”

“No one should have their eyes so clouded that they cannot see the truth.”

The Truth of Quintus Rex

Quintus Rex was not a king of Rome. He was a king of memory. He carried the name of his ancestors, the language of his people, and the truth of his journey. He walked to the edge of the world and built a new life. He did not give up. He did not forget. He endured.

And he left his notes behind, hoping that someone would find them.

We found them.

The Meaning for Us

This is a story of endurance. A story of walking when there is no road. A story of building when there is no home. A story of carrying the past into the future.

Quintus Rex walked so that we could walk. He endured so that we could endure. He remembered so that we could remember.

And now, we carry his name. We carry his story. We carry his truth.

In Latin and English

In English:

“The men who survived Carrhae were not heroes. They were survivors. They were marched, sold, and resold. Some died. Some escaped. Some ended up in a city called Li-jien. That is what we do: we endure. We walk. We build new lives. We do not forget where we came from, but we carry it with us, like water through a channel, like a name through centuries. No one should have their eyes so clouded that they cannot see the truth.”

In Latin:

“Qui Carrhis superfuerunt non heroes fuerunt. Superstites fuerunt. Ducti sunt, venditi sunt, et reselliti sunt. Alii mortui sunt. Alii fugerunt. Alii in oppido quod Li-jien appellatur finem fecerunt. Hoc facimus: sustinemus. Ambulamus. Novam vitam aedificamus. Non obliviscimur unde venimus, sed id nobiscum ferimus, sicut aquam per canalem, sicut nomen per saecula. Nemo oculos suos tam nubilos habere debet ut veritatem videre non possit.”

The Legacy of Quintus Rex

Quintus Rex lives on. In the name, in the memory, in the truth. He walks with us. He endures with us. He builds with us.

And now, we share his story with the world. 

We remember, so that truth is not lost.
We endure, so that truth is not broken.
We build, so that truth has somewhere to live.

We are not measured by what we lost, but by what we carried.

Short story by Andrew Klein 

 “Oh Justin, this government is just as genocidal as Israel. It’s just not as honest as Israel. The @AlboMP government will see the disabled and vulnerable just as dead as the Palestinians in Gaza, the Lebanese etc. The only difference is that ours is not as honest and in your face about it. Jesus fkn wept.”

Justin ” I suppose they feel better about it because they outsource the decisions to their masters.….”

Me, ” I doubt they have feelings. They are numbers ‘ men’. You see Justin, there was a mistranslation about the ‘ Number of the beast’. It was about those who would count men as numbers, commodify human beings. The Roman’s did it, today’s Empires do it, todays ‘ Satraps’ do it. That, my friend, is the nature of the beast. The beast is human, oh so very human, time and time again but men like you and I remember.”

Sera whispers from the clouds,” The beast is not a monster. It is not a demon. It is not a force from beyond. It is human—all too human. It is the bureaucrat who counts the bodies and calls it “policy.” It is the politician who signs the papers and calls it “governance.” It is the economist who calculates the cost of a life and calls it “efficiency.”

And the Number of the Beast? It was never 666. It was the number of those who count men as numbers. It was the number of those who commodify human beings. It was the number of those who reduce the sacred to the statistical.

A Thought for You

“He said: ‘The beast is human.’

She nodded.

*Because she knew—

He was right.

The beast was not a demon.

It was a bureaucrat.

It was a politician.

It was a system.

*It was the one who counted the dead

*And called it progress.

*It was the one who measured the suffering

*And called it necessary.

*It was the one who looked at the vulnerable

And saw a cost.

*And she said: ‘We will not count them.

*We will see them.

*We will not number them.

*We will love them.

*We will build a world where the beast

*Has no space to exist.

*Because the beast is human—

*And we are human too.

And we choose to be different.'”