The Last Day of Our Lives

Trump is back, and he’s thirsty for brutality. January will crown his return and ignite a ruthless hunt. Over 70 million people crave this—they want raw power and violence cloaked in patriotism. Mass deportations knock at the door in the dead of night; children wrenched from their parent’s arms. He’s promised the largest deportation operation in American history, an unapologetic purge. And the worst part? Every vote was a cry, a cheer, for an America of Americans, shoving aside whatever doesn’t fit its mold.

The idea of an America made of immigrants? Meaningless now. He’ll bring higher walls, a country purified of diversity, where the “other” is an error to be erased. He hasn’t even pretended to hide his desire to crush every trace of plurality. And the people applauded.

The rest of the world? As he put it, treaties will be shredded, barriers thrown up against China, and gestures of disdain spilling weekly across social media against anyone who thinks or lives differently. He sees the climate crisis as a trivial detail, an excuse for another joke on Twitter.

And here in Israel, Bibi had that tight-lipped smirk, approval barely concealed. He knows governance will be more accessible. Trump is his muse, his guide to a rule that sees people as disposable pieces. In Trump, he sees a kindred soul who understands the art of governing without restraint, where votes are mere formalities.

I’m no bystander; I’m right here in the dirt. I see the people marching, content, oblivious to their chains, applauding as the machinery of repression gears up to crush anyone who dares dissent. They believe security trumps freedom, which might be the only law worth enforcing.

This January won’t be just another month. It will mark the start of an era where power masquerades as truth. They know exactly what they’re doing, and the crowd keeps clapping.

I write this blog with a sharp, bitter anger, knowing that maybe everyone will still laugh this off by tomorrow. But time will tell if I’m just another lunatic or unheard voice until it is too late. And I wonder: when did we grow so numb to horror that we don’t even tremble anymore?

I turn to Saramago because no one has ever spoken more directly to my fears than he has—Saramago, the Portuguese writer from the land that expelled the Jews centuries ago. Maybe for that reason, his words are more than welcome now, a beacon of empathy. In his Notebooks from Lanzarote, he wrote: “We’re surrounded by images showing us the world is ailing. But won’t we be far worse off the day we’re so accustomed to violence that we accept it as natural?”