We are watching our leaders kill children - babies, families, our brothers and sisters - in real time.
We aren’t confused; we’re choosing. We built a world where war moves on rails and help moves on foot—fuel, guns, signed orders ride in first class; water, bread, mercy, stay waiting at the gate. That isn’t drift; it’s policy with a pulse.
We hide behind words—starvation becomes “context,” delay is “process,” and dead children are called “necessary”- grammar used as cleanup for brutality. Social platforms tile atrocity between a joke and an ad; we call the anesthesia “staying informed.”
What’s happening is simple and obscene: we trade life for convenience, loyalty, profit, the feeling of being right. We call it realism. We label it history. It is preference. It is choice made clear.
The worst part isn’t monsters from another world; it’s the machinery in ours. Leaders who budget the blast radius, spokespeople who launder it, allies who standby, nodding. The span from strategy deck to dead child is a calendar invite. They say it’s above their pay grade. It isn’t. They call themselves cogs. That’s the charge.
We’re not lost; we’re hiding. We know a child should wake, bellies should be fed, water should move toward thirst. When those aren’t true, nothing is right, and every attempt to explain is another betrayal.
So let it be plain: we know what we’re doing. We burn each other and pretend the smoke is fog. The proof is small bodies, empty beds, shirts never worn, streets that remember where they stood and carry the echo of it all. If there is a verdict that matters, it isn’t complicated: we looked, we watched, we scrolled—and we chose silence.
Peace Be Upon Us All.
Love