Flags held high and scarves on tight, from the river to the sea we shout. Meanwhile, in Gaza, bodies lay strewn about, lives discarded like scraps on your plate."Okay, it’s been two hours, we’re gonna pack it up," they say.
As if the fight against genocide runs on a 9 to 5 schedule, as if genocide only happens on weekends when it’s convenient for you to fight it.
As if when our ancestors said "no more," they added an asterisk that says, "only when I can get brownie points for fighting it," or "only if it’s not on a workday or after business hours—people have work, don’t ya know?"
As if genocide takes vacation days or respects your work schedule. As if we shouldn’t be fighting around the clock.
As if we didn’t fight a global war to say "no more." As if we didn’t erect courts, draft laws, and pass resolutions to ensure that "no more" means "never again."
As if believing our governments when they said "no more" wasn’t a mistake. As if we shouldn’t be outraged by the death and destruction that should be world news, condemned by all. As if the government will see our little two-hour march and suddenly think, "Now we must act according to the will of the people," as if it ever really did anything.
As if they weren’t lackadaisical about civil rights until the Million Man March made them listen. As if they didn’t drag their feet, kicking and screaming, until they had no choice but to acknowledge the power of the masses.
As if they didn’t flinch when they saw our millions marching, as if they didn’t fear the unstoppable force of the people united. As if we haven’t always had the strength to lift each other up, to stand together—whether on our streets or in Palestine—not because we’re granted permission, but because we refuse to be silenced.
As if the powers that be, the ones sitting in the DNC, and on that Hill, could ever crush the will of those who see through their lies and still rise, determined to fight for justice, whether they thank us or not.
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