South Korean fans have at the 2026 FIFA World Cup Carrying Palestinian flags
They fulfilled their promise made during qualifiers when they chanted "We'll take Palestine to the World Cup with us."
In America, a warehouse store. A fully roasted chicken costs five dollars, the raw chicken beside it costs seven, and I stood between them like a man between two truths.
Golden. Hot. Seasoned. Spinning in glory under the lights, in a line of its brothers. Four dollars and ninety-nine cents.
I checked the raw birds. Seven dollars. Pale. Cold. You must do everything yourself.
This is not commerce. Commerce does not move backward. Somewhere in this building, mathematics lies defeated.
I asked the man at the counter. "How is the cooked bird cheaper than the raw bird?"
"Been five bucks forever. They keep it that way."
"But the store loses."
"Yep. On purpose."
On purpose. I held my receipt with both hands.
In my land, a lord who lowered the price of rice in a hard winter was remembered for generations. They built him a small shrine. This store does it every day, with chicken, and tells no one.
A woman behind me grew tired of my reverence. "It's just a chicken, sir."
It is not just a chicken. It is a wound the merchant takes on purpose, so that anyone, on any day, with five dollars, eats like a lord. The bird is the message. The price is the vow.
I will confess: I bought two. I did not need two. The second was not hunger. It was gratitude, and it was delicious.
Some prices are not prices. They are promises.
I return every week now. I take one bird. I bow toward the deli, briefly, so as not to alarm the staff. They have begun nodding back.
The vow holds. The bird turns. Five dollars.
Long may it spin.
USA. A store.
I bought water.
The cashier said,
“Here you go, buddy.”
Buddy.
I froze.
Buddy is a big word.
In Japan, I need three years, two drinking parties, and one moment where we both pretend not to cry before I call someone buddy.
But this man gave it to me with a plastic bag.
No ceremony.
No contract.
No dramatic music.
Just “buddy.”
Then my friend said,
“Hurry up, bro.”
Bro?
Now I had a brother too?
I came to America with one suitcase and no siblings.
At this rate, I would leave with a family tree that looks like a Costco receipt.
I asked my friend,
“Am I legally American now?”
He said,
“No, dude.”
Dude.
Another title.
I was no longer a man.
I was Buddy-Bro-Dude, son of the Gas Station.
America does not wait for relationships to grow.
It throws friendship at you and says, “Catch.”