Installation As part of the exhibition: "Janet Toro. Radical Intimacy. Overflows and Gestures," curated by Cecilia Fajardo-Hill National

Production: Pamela Fuentes, Alejandra Rivera
Mounting assistance: Adrián Gutierrez, Marcelo Céspedes, Mario Silva

A requiem for the disaster, a requiem for ethnic cleansing, a requiem for the livid infants, pierced by bombs in the streets of Gaza, from the geopolitics of barbarism and cruelty, in the atlas of contemporary Zionist colonialism. Funereal mathematics of global imperialist power, seduced by territorial wealth, mineral reserves, and the bacchanal of murder with its decorations.

We watch the catastrophe daily on screens that transmit atrocious images to us. We can turn off our devices, but they, those in the Middle East, cannot turn off the machinery of arms, they cannot turn off the armored bulldozers that plow through their homes, the siege of combat helicopters that fire their militaristic hatred from the skies, destroyed schools filled with waste, the blockade of humanitarian aid, destroyed plantations, food savaged, Zionist battalions fracturing hospitals, distorting bodies. Thus cementing the path to domination, suffocation and exclusion spring up in the iron ghetto that denies sunlight.

Home, the landscape, have changed drastically; ruins and rubble are now our shelter.

The genocide is an endless anguish. I can't find appropriate phrases that express the pain of witnessing extermination, the helplessness in the face of illegal occupation, the segregation, the forced displacement, the separation from children, the fragmented city, the confinement, the death traps in the streets, the control.

The scorn is endless; the atrocities are multiplying in occupied Palestine. We cannot remain silent when nearly 60,000 people have been killed, thousands more are injured, and thousands more remain missing beneath the rubble. "And one in four children under the age of 5 in Gaza is suffering from starvation" (Doctors Without Borders). Hunger used as a weapon of war. Malnourished bodies fall in the streets, starving mothers and their infants faint, while the blockade justifies the annihilation.

The life of a newborn and its mother should be sacred, but in the midst of the massacre, they are trivial; nothing matters to the fascists. To destroy everything, the very life of an entire people, that is the goal.

The suffering is beyond infinity. The girls and boys have been deflowered by thousands of perverse explosives. Destruction infiltrates everything, darkness permeates the skin, and bodies decompose, overwhelmed by fateful algorithms.

Souls lacerated in a burning sky, without god, without law, bodies contracted, broken by the systematic invasion. Mouths silenced by authoritarian orders, eyes blinded, beings crushed by the psychotic glorification of war.

Thousands wander toward the wall of exodus. Thousands flee the terror of the colonizers; thousands have had their water, their land, their homes, their gardens, their churches, their books, their pots, their relics stolen from them.

Hearts explode in the strategic equations of advanced drones, holographic/media warfare, and refined weaponry, proving their effectiveness on the defenseless population, on infants just entering this world. I have no words left, no adequate sentences to fully describe the horror. All I can do is create this icy silence.