The Lie :
"Hate begets hate; violence begets violence; toughness begets a greater toughness. We must meet the forces of hate with the power of love...Our aim must never be to defeat or humiliate the white man, but to win his friendship and understanding." - The Current Crisis in Race Relations, Martin Luther King, 1958
In the Little Red Book (1964), Mao Zedong succinctly said, "Political power comes from the barrel of a gun." (Original: 枪杆子里面出政权). The persistency of military dictatorships masquerading as democracies suggests that force may be used unilaterally to crush civilian opposition. This is as long as the civilian opposition has little ability to withstand sustained military force. From sporadic protests by civilian opposition in Burma, Iran, Egypt, Zimbabwe, Belarus, and Thailand, we have recently witnessed how militaries act as levers of political power in the post-colonial world. Violence does not beget violence, as long as compliance is ensured by sufficient and continued force.
This maxim operates even to civilian protests. After Gaddafi had banned channels of peaceful nonviolent protests in Libya, protestors turned to arms struggle(supported by the United Nations). Presently, the rebels looked poised to succeed. This follows a long tradition of popular protests succeeding through the use of force. In the book, "The State of Africa: A History of Fifty Years of Independence", Martin Meredith chronicles how time and time again, rebels against the oppressor of the day, buttressed by guns and popular support, ascend to power.
"We chose to defy the law. We first broke the law in a way which avoided any recourse to violence; when this form was legislated against, and then the Government resorted to a show of force to crush opposition to its policies, only then did we decide to answer violence with violence." - Nelson Mandela, statement from the dock of 1964 trial
Friday, July 8, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
3:4 July
"But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing"
And then it was over. The tingling pain dwindled to a point. A quick swab and plaster. All that remained was the white ceiling, the thick blanket, the feet shuffling by. The monitor beeped. She turned her head to look at the senseless numbers and jagged ridges indicating that she was alive.
Her vision blurred. She turned her eyes back to the ceiling.
A white figure on a strange bed. A figure with no shadow. Just a white tag with a string of black numbers on it.
The digital display showed the date: 3 July 2011. It blinked: 4 July 2011. She waited, but it did not change. Time did not exist in this place. It was always this bright, she thought. She closed her eyes and reopened them. The same white ceiling stared back. The same shuffling of feet. The same beeping monitor.
She had no idea how long she had been lying in that bed. How long she would have to lie in that bed.
Someone cried out. Someone somewhere. It tapered into a wail. Figures around her shifted uneasily. She stared into the ceiling and it stared back at her. The wail slicked over her like water off a feather.
A strange thought occurred to her at that moment. That if she were to die right here it would be so funny. So so funny. Beeps started to spasm irregularly. She turned to look at the monitor. The bottom line read 0. It discharged a long, carping beep.
Someone hurried over. Checked the monitor, checked her pulse, adjusted the electrodes, and stared at her. Interrupting the continuous white was an impassive, businesslike face. She arranged a smile. The face stared back, then moved off without a response.
She did not get to ask what the 0 meant. She wanted to ask what the 0 meant.
Staring at the monitor she tried to manipulate the jagged lines. It rose and fell with her breathing. She tried not to breath. The numbers fell. 9... 8... 7...
If only to get the impassive face back to break the monotonous white. To perhaps ask the time. Ask something, anything. The numbers refused to fall. She turned back to the white - now almost consoling in its predictability. Tried to erase it with darkness. But the glare kept her eyes open. It was beginning to feel like home.
Then, they came to remove the electrodes.
"How are you feeling?"
The question broke the muffling silence. She did not trust her tongue. Could not feel her throat. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She nodded. And stared.
They took them out one by one. Leaving sticky square gray patches on her skin. She touched one thoughtfully.
They propped her up and let the grate down. Passed her several slips of paper. Indicated her slippers.
"You can leave now."
I can leave now, she thought. She slipped her feet onto the ground. She looked at the green sign glowing "Exit". She took a few steps towards the open door, feeling the strength meandering back into her arms and legs.
Just across the line, trees rustled. Silhouettes of things moved by, barely perceptible. She could smell the warm night air, the smell of heat evaporating off the tarmac. She could imagine the faces of people waiting, relief flooding into their expressions as they saw her ambling towards them. She could feel the prickling pain, inching back to the base of her throat.
Just before the door to the waiting room, she stopped, turned the other way and walked without looking back.
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing"
And then it was over. The tingling pain dwindled to a point. A quick swab and plaster. All that remained was the white ceiling, the thick blanket, the feet shuffling by. The monitor beeped. She turned her head to look at the senseless numbers and jagged ridges indicating that she was alive.
Her vision blurred. She turned her eyes back to the ceiling.
A white figure on a strange bed. A figure with no shadow. Just a white tag with a string of black numbers on it.
The digital display showed the date: 3 July 2011. It blinked: 4 July 2011. She waited, but it did not change. Time did not exist in this place. It was always this bright, she thought. She closed her eyes and reopened them. The same white ceiling stared back. The same shuffling of feet. The same beeping monitor.
She had no idea how long she had been lying in that bed. How long she would have to lie in that bed.
Someone cried out. Someone somewhere. It tapered into a wail. Figures around her shifted uneasily. She stared into the ceiling and it stared back at her. The wail slicked over her like water off a feather.
A strange thought occurred to her at that moment. That if she were to die right here it would be so funny. So so funny. Beeps started to spasm irregularly. She turned to look at the monitor. The bottom line read 0. It discharged a long, carping beep.
Someone hurried over. Checked the monitor, checked her pulse, adjusted the electrodes, and stared at her. Interrupting the continuous white was an impassive, businesslike face. She arranged a smile. The face stared back, then moved off without a response.
She did not get to ask what the 0 meant. She wanted to ask what the 0 meant.
Staring at the monitor she tried to manipulate the jagged lines. It rose and fell with her breathing. She tried not to breath. The numbers fell. 9... 8... 7...
If only to get the impassive face back to break the monotonous white. To perhaps ask the time. Ask something, anything. The numbers refused to fall. She turned back to the white - now almost consoling in its predictability. Tried to erase it with darkness. But the glare kept her eyes open. It was beginning to feel like home.
Then, they came to remove the electrodes.
"How are you feeling?"
The question broke the muffling silence. She did not trust her tongue. Could not feel her throat. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She nodded. And stared.
They took them out one by one. Leaving sticky square gray patches on her skin. She touched one thoughtfully.
They propped her up and let the grate down. Passed her several slips of paper. Indicated her slippers.
"You can leave now."
I can leave now, she thought. She slipped her feet onto the ground. She looked at the green sign glowing "Exit". She took a few steps towards the open door, feeling the strength meandering back into her arms and legs.
Just across the line, trees rustled. Silhouettes of things moved by, barely perceptible. She could smell the warm night air, the smell of heat evaporating off the tarmac. She could imagine the faces of people waiting, relief flooding into their expressions as they saw her ambling towards them. She could feel the prickling pain, inching back to the base of her throat.
Just before the door to the waiting room, she stopped, turned the other way and walked without looking back.
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