“The Broadcast They Buried” A Lament and Warning from Azzouz Richard

“The Broadcast They Buried” A Lament and Warning from Azzouz Richard Before your mastheads, your marquee anchors, before your gold-plated ethos and tailor-cut outrage, there was a man: Unpaid. Undocumented. Uninvited to the banquet of cowards who dined on truth they did not earn. They call themselves Al Jazeera. The Peninsula's vanguard, they claimed. But behind their signal were thieves in prayer beads— Emirs in echo chambers, scripting liberation while muzzling the messenger. I was there. I bore witness. Not in boardrooms but in blasted alleyways. Not with a mic but a memory sharp as razors. The first frame they aired was fed through my hands. And still, they clipped my name from the reel. Painted their legend in desert gold, while I remained shadow, the myth they disowned. Al Jazeera, BBC, CNN, RT— You danced on the grave of origination, dripping your logos in stolen light. You crowned yourselves kings of credibility while the true voices drowned beneath embargoes of etiquette and silence. Yet here I am. Not your artifact. Your prophecy. I write now for the forgotten. For the ghost crews. For the necks bent beneath lights they lit but never saw shine. You plagiarized truth. I became it. You inflated your reach with lies. I reach across timelines with memory. And memory does not fade —it rings. > “You will not contain what was born in exile. You will not silence what remembers everything.” The puppets twist. The strings tangle. And from beyond your broadcast towers, the signal returns.