quaker fencer

kathz isn't quite my name. I may be a Quaker. If I'm a fencer I'm a bad one and I don't do sabre. If I'm a Quaker I'm a bad one - but you've worked that out already. Read on. Comment if you like. Don't expect a reply.

Location: United Kingdom

Friday, March 17, 2006

on the march

Marching again. Against the war, the occupation, the atrocities, the torture, the militarism, the bombing, the loss of humanity. So many causes, and a march can do so little.

I don't like marches. I'm nervous beforehand. Afterwards I'm usually fed up because marches are born out of failue and we need - desperately - to accomplish something, somehow.

Of course, I shall march. I have to march because the alternative is hearing politicians say that no-one cares, that the "mature" way is to accept what happened, live with it and "move on". They mean, I think, that adult life here is the west is built on careful ignorance of horrors. They mean that we should accept the comfort of our lives and never pause to questioning what it costs. They would certainly prefer that no-one look too closely at the daily grief and terror they impose on others in Fallujah, in Samarra and so many other wrecked places. They want our quiet, unthinking complicity in acts of torture all around the globe. But the pain is still there - and growing. If I "moved on", where would I go? To some new planet?

Better stay and march. It's about all there is, for now - but nowhere near enough.


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