A poem called: The hypocrisy of the international community and its resounding silence over the wars in Afrin and Yemen; while providing politically motivated over exposure to Ghouta to the detriment and erasure of the former injustices-
The massacres, the genocides, the ethnic cleansing and demographic changes, the deliberate support for unimaginable human rights violations, cinematizing select abuses with the intention of fostering apathy and desensitization towards other crises- as our revolutions, our freedom fighters, as our David-and-Goliath resistances against the oppressions and oppressors
they foster and fund with their ever present selective silence-
are smeared with a careless conspiratorial hand out of existence…
yes, we know well the colour of this hypocrisy.
It lives in the decay of the redness of spilled blood contorted to a dull, lifeless brown- all that remains of our murdered children.
It lives in the deceptive quite just before the bombs fall.
It lives in the drooped, lined tents- stamped with their colonial logos like cattle branded for slaughter- they heard us into after they paid to terrorize us out of our ancient homes baptized by olive orchards.
It lives in the erasure of the never ending cries of the wounded and the hospitals blown apart. It lives in agonizing, wounded tears- taking root and birthing universes of sorrow- over still freshly buried bones. It lives in the vengeance and the palpitating beat in the heart of the revolutionary that rises, despite all odds, from the still burning ashes of the fragments of our cultures they condemned us to. Even the crumbling stones of our ancient monuments have come to know that terror.
It lives in the shattered marbles
of the tombstones of dead revolutionaries
droned out of existence.
with their drones and their hypocrisy,
hoping that ideas, that love itself,
that freedom: the intense agony
of the passionate rage
to conquer oppression and injustice
in the pilgrimage to liberation
can be swept away