Rose
Villagers & towns folk rose up when they saw a seemingly spontaneous popular revolution topple a corrupt and defunct leader.
Then, two weeks later, it happened again. Right in the cultural heart of the Arab world, an ageing puppet resigned after millions took to the streets. That heir to the country with which the land of the townsfolk was once annexed, bowed out.
The army lay down arms and called for free elections. The president of the reigning superpower flew in and congratulated the people. Still the villagers and towns people were cautious. They asked for reform, for their government to prosecute stooges whose corruption was plain to see. Singing the national anthem, they said they'd stay put until change came. They held hands. They danced. They got shot. Children who'd scrawled graffiti on the walls demanding change were tortured and televised in apparent warnings.
The people stayed put. They still asked for change. They didn't go home. They stayed out. Across the land, in another country, a brutal leader who had been taking the same approach as theirs was killed by forces armed and funded by the super power's elite special forces.
The super power had jumped in in the first few weeks there, bombing down the leader's planes, bombing his key headquarters. Private security firms were deployed to the oil fields. Production stayed steady. Though wounds continued to grow. Some were overjoyed. Some were worried and distrustful. Back in the country this tale is about, where oil production was low and literacy was high, and story telling explosive but fist fights rare (except for after dark, by the police).
Tanks rolled into cities. Disappearances, random abductions by roaming bandits commissioned by the ruling elite were nigh. People fretted. Blood spilled. Humans were sewn down at protests by snipers with machine guns. Purely for the banners they held. Which read "freedom". And now they read revolution.
Now, soldiers unwilling to abide the orders of their superiors fled and formed their own bands. Now, when sympathisers, expats, business people abroad sent support for cities under siege and families trapped without food, they knew some of that support would be in the form of weapons.
Yes, we know. They said. And restaurants in certain countries, the majority of which had governments which paid homage to the superpower, flew the flag of their revolution. That revolution that would spawn out of the bombarded buildings the town and village folk sought to protect, but which nevertheless in someway would be theirs.
Hearts opened, eyes turned on, but limbs were lost, bodies were disfigured. We must protect our kinsfolk, they said. And after a while, the only way to say that which departed from the government ideology they had been raised with, became religion. They are killing us because we are of a different religion, they said. Their backers in the countries further South liked this. They found it easier to raise funds that way. Human blood is cheap. Loss becomes common.
We need new perspectives, new marketing techniques. This is holy war. That was what the tyrant had wanted.
Holy war, he said. Look, I told you they were terrorists. Whereas he had previously refrained from ever speaking in English on television, despite having been educated in the country, now he went to all the television stations in the western world, including those of the super power and its clique, and spoke to them in English. I am civilised. He said. I need your help. They are bearded, uniformless savages. He knew this was a fickle process.
After all, he was the son of a head of state and had been one himself for 11 years. He knew it was all just rhetoric and that the super power would um and ahh, and some of its friends would tell it to do this or that, and still it would do nothing. He also knew there was someone far more resolute he could trust. A daddy out east. Iron fisted. Strong. A person who knew how to stay at the helm of government regardless of that gentle tidal process they call elections.
This person and the powers he represented were overlooked by the superpower. People who lived in the superpowers realms and the realms of its friends sometimes felt a sort of envy, a sort of courageous respect for that leader over there.
And they remembered a time of great shame that their parents had lived through in which blood had been spilt to protect stupid strategic interests. Publishers & universities touted books about how the end of history had come and peace would now reign, as long as inhabitants kowtowed to a nauseatingly robotic form of consumerism, all would be fine.
Famine is finished. War is finished. Some people living in these realms even congratulated themselves for this. Saying their parties, their gatherings, their own adolescent self assertions had bred that peace. Of course this was conveniently missing out the fact that while under reported, war still raged, famine still spread, in other corners of the world.
They said they were global, and because they travelled and had somewhat ceased to let skin colour be a binary decider of status, they somehow "understood" and that peace therefore, under their watch, would reign.
Back in the country, towns folk and village folk wondered where the super power's planes were. Didn't they say they would come? Didn't they come to congratulate the people in that country, and clear the skies in that one? What's wrong?
Again, the answer reigned in from all directions, from the tyrant, and from the people's backers. Its because you're religious. This is holy war.
Blood continued to spill, cities were emptied, or destroyed before they were empty. Militias ran loose. The backers were sitting comfortable and part condoned by the superpower. But still, the super power was not there. A few observers and journalists ventured in to see the destruction. To see what was no longer there. Still they ate together. Still they shared tales and music.
The observers usually got back to the tyrant in one piece, but sometimes the tyrant's army intentionally bombed the journalists. This is a war of hearts and minds they said. The superpower nodded. The eastern friend smirked. He knew, he'd be in power for years to come. Here hegemony was key. Far more so than to those professional show men, those buffonish drmagogues that cluttered the government offices in the superpower's realm. He and his tyrant had no elections to worry about. But the man at the head of the superpower's army did.
He said he would. And then there were midterms. He said he might, and then there was another domestic issue to solve.
The tyrant and the Eastern friend decided to experiment, even they were surprised at how far they'd got. The tyrant said to the eastern friend, what would happen if I released poisoned gas into homes throughout the capital? The superpower said it'd come - but I bet you it won't. Me too, said the eastern friend. So the tyrant did it.
And families were broken. And he did it again. And after parliamentary committees, and alot of alarm bells. The superpower did nothing. Its parliament said it couldn't. It said it would set a bad precedent. Forgetting about the precedent it had set so many times before. Now war can be anything the eastern friend says. Yes, said the superpower. And we'll stay here. In office. Friends. While those guys over there are blathering on about their life stories and experiences in office to television cameras. We are the real rulers. The superpower said afterwards that the tyrant had to ship the gas out if his country. The eastern friend said no worries, I'll help him. But they kept enough to use again and again.
And still the superpower weakly drip feeds arms and hums and haas, and meanwhile, half the country is destroyed. Bakeries, hospitals, fields are intentionally destroyed to engineer a shifting of affiliations, a creation of new borders by the superpower. They can't accept me, so instead of going, I'll ask them to go, he said. And a quarter of them left. Another half were lost inside the country. Homeless. Hopeless. Half a million were dead. And hundreds more joined them everyday.
And by now, the tyrants pipe dream had come true. Self fulfilling prophecy. Them and their backward religion. Fighters imported and recruited on the premise of holy war had set up control and were changing things. Some adopted tactics very similar to those they'd been brought up with under the tyrant. Others pledged allegiance only to God and said that they were forsaken by others because of their religion, so they must fight back in the name of their religion. And still the people struggled. Newly organised along sectarian lines. But still their hearts remained warm, and their eyes open. And still there was love to rival the dissolution. Give it time. And still the villagers and the towns folk protested. Though people in other countries didn't listen any more. What they said was no longer new. Just chants. The same demands. Some still said please help us. The tyrant laughed. Others said they say they are a superpower, but really they are nothing.
Then, two weeks later, it happened again. Right in the cultural heart of the Arab world, an ageing puppet resigned after millions took to the streets. That heir to the country with which the land of the townsfolk was once annexed, bowed out.
The army lay down arms and called for free elections. The president of the reigning superpower flew in and congratulated the people. Still the villagers and towns people were cautious. They asked for reform, for their government to prosecute stooges whose corruption was plain to see. Singing the national anthem, they said they'd stay put until change came. They held hands. They danced. They got shot. Children who'd scrawled graffiti on the walls demanding change were tortured and televised in apparent warnings.
The people stayed put. They still asked for change. They didn't go home. They stayed out. Across the land, in another country, a brutal leader who had been taking the same approach as theirs was killed by forces armed and funded by the super power's elite special forces.
The super power had jumped in in the first few weeks there, bombing down the leader's planes, bombing his key headquarters. Private security firms were deployed to the oil fields. Production stayed steady. Though wounds continued to grow. Some were overjoyed. Some were worried and distrustful. Back in the country this tale is about, where oil production was low and literacy was high, and story telling explosive but fist fights rare (except for after dark, by the police).
Tanks rolled into cities. Disappearances, random abductions by roaming bandits commissioned by the ruling elite were nigh. People fretted. Blood spilled. Humans were sewn down at protests by snipers with machine guns. Purely for the banners they held. Which read "freedom". And now they read revolution.
Now, soldiers unwilling to abide the orders of their superiors fled and formed their own bands. Now, when sympathisers, expats, business people abroad sent support for cities under siege and families trapped without food, they knew some of that support would be in the form of weapons.
Yes, we know. They said. And restaurants in certain countries, the majority of which had governments which paid homage to the superpower, flew the flag of their revolution. That revolution that would spawn out of the bombarded buildings the town and village folk sought to protect, but which nevertheless in someway would be theirs.
Hearts opened, eyes turned on, but limbs were lost, bodies were disfigured. We must protect our kinsfolk, they said. And after a while, the only way to say that which departed from the government ideology they had been raised with, became religion. They are killing us because we are of a different religion, they said. Their backers in the countries further South liked this. They found it easier to raise funds that way. Human blood is cheap. Loss becomes common.
We need new perspectives, new marketing techniques. This is holy war. That was what the tyrant had wanted.
Holy war, he said. Look, I told you they were terrorists. Whereas he had previously refrained from ever speaking in English on television, despite having been educated in the country, now he went to all the television stations in the western world, including those of the super power and its clique, and spoke to them in English. I am civilised. He said. I need your help. They are bearded, uniformless savages. He knew this was a fickle process.
After all, he was the son of a head of state and had been one himself for 11 years. He knew it was all just rhetoric and that the super power would um and ahh, and some of its friends would tell it to do this or that, and still it would do nothing. He also knew there was someone far more resolute he could trust. A daddy out east. Iron fisted. Strong. A person who knew how to stay at the helm of government regardless of that gentle tidal process they call elections.
This person and the powers he represented were overlooked by the superpower. People who lived in the superpowers realms and the realms of its friends sometimes felt a sort of envy, a sort of courageous respect for that leader over there.
And they remembered a time of great shame that their parents had lived through in which blood had been spilt to protect stupid strategic interests. Publishers & universities touted books about how the end of history had come and peace would now reign, as long as inhabitants kowtowed to a nauseatingly robotic form of consumerism, all would be fine.
Famine is finished. War is finished. Some people living in these realms even congratulated themselves for this. Saying their parties, their gatherings, their own adolescent self assertions had bred that peace. Of course this was conveniently missing out the fact that while under reported, war still raged, famine still spread, in other corners of the world.
They said they were global, and because they travelled and had somewhat ceased to let skin colour be a binary decider of status, they somehow "understood" and that peace therefore, under their watch, would reign.
Back in the country, towns folk and village folk wondered where the super power's planes were. Didn't they say they would come? Didn't they come to congratulate the people in that country, and clear the skies in that one? What's wrong?
Again, the answer reigned in from all directions, from the tyrant, and from the people's backers. Its because you're religious. This is holy war.
Blood continued to spill, cities were emptied, or destroyed before they were empty. Militias ran loose. The backers were sitting comfortable and part condoned by the superpower. But still, the super power was not there. A few observers and journalists ventured in to see the destruction. To see what was no longer there. Still they ate together. Still they shared tales and music.
The observers usually got back to the tyrant in one piece, but sometimes the tyrant's army intentionally bombed the journalists. This is a war of hearts and minds they said. The superpower nodded. The eastern friend smirked. He knew, he'd be in power for years to come. Here hegemony was key. Far more so than to those professional show men, those buffonish drmagogues that cluttered the government offices in the superpower's realm. He and his tyrant had no elections to worry about. But the man at the head of the superpower's army did.
He said he would. And then there were midterms. He said he might, and then there was another domestic issue to solve.
The tyrant and the Eastern friend decided to experiment, even they were surprised at how far they'd got. The tyrant said to the eastern friend, what would happen if I released poisoned gas into homes throughout the capital? The superpower said it'd come - but I bet you it won't. Me too, said the eastern friend. So the tyrant did it.
And families were broken. And he did it again. And after parliamentary committees, and alot of alarm bells. The superpower did nothing. Its parliament said it couldn't. It said it would set a bad precedent. Forgetting about the precedent it had set so many times before. Now war can be anything the eastern friend says. Yes, said the superpower. And we'll stay here. In office. Friends. While those guys over there are blathering on about their life stories and experiences in office to television cameras. We are the real rulers. The superpower said afterwards that the tyrant had to ship the gas out if his country. The eastern friend said no worries, I'll help him. But they kept enough to use again and again.
And still the superpower weakly drip feeds arms and hums and haas, and meanwhile, half the country is destroyed. Bakeries, hospitals, fields are intentionally destroyed to engineer a shifting of affiliations, a creation of new borders by the superpower. They can't accept me, so instead of going, I'll ask them to go, he said. And a quarter of them left. Another half were lost inside the country. Homeless. Hopeless. Half a million were dead. And hundreds more joined them everyday.
And by now, the tyrants pipe dream had come true. Self fulfilling prophecy. Them and their backward religion. Fighters imported and recruited on the premise of holy war had set up control and were changing things. Some adopted tactics very similar to those they'd been brought up with under the tyrant. Others pledged allegiance only to God and said that they were forsaken by others because of their religion, so they must fight back in the name of their religion. And still the people struggled. Newly organised along sectarian lines. But still their hearts remained warm, and their eyes open. And still there was love to rival the dissolution. Give it time. And still the villagers and the towns folk protested. Though people in other countries didn't listen any more. What they said was no longer new. Just chants. The same demands. Some still said please help us. The tyrant laughed. Others said they say they are a superpower, but really they are nothing.
Comments
Post a Comment