“From one point of view, time has no meaning except that of always going forward, crushing seconds one by one, gnawing aimlessly at passing eras and ages.
From another point of view, time is a blessing. It is offered as an opportunity in the depths of the universe to live for a moment and then to perish. It is numbered yet completely unknown.
The seven missiles are at rest, directed toward the sky, waiting their turn. At their feet, countdown clocks panic as they approach an unwavering purpose. Contrarily, soft blue flowers embedded in molds of the missiles exude a suspicious serenity.
Minutes and seconds pass and the arrival at zero is imminent. Nothingness is not far. The missiles impatiently await their moment to hatch so they can exist and flourish.
Time is relative. Seventy-five years of a human life are insignificant compared to the age of the universe, and just those few seconds of explosion for a missile are a life that is intense and feverish, where devastation and joyful killing characterize its passage.
Its finest hour is chosen for reasons that mean more than thousands of lives. Its timing is precise and adjusted to overcome physical afflictions and to anchor in memories and stories without permission and without limits.”
Text written by Neila Mhiri and translated by Anne Marie Butler