The blood curdling howl of the dogs of war reverberate through the airwaves, the babbling brook of bullshit, the mainstream media, blasts out the bugle call to arms. Meanwhile, in the Westminster Houses of Hypocrisy and Corruption, the Honourable Members, those who will never be called upon to wear a uniform, or lift a gun, call for others to shed blood in the name of some illusion. From their cloistered, pampered, privileged cocoons, they scream their frenzied insanity, calling on workers of this land, to kill workers in another land.
Have no illusions, our super smart bombs are not really smart, they are blunt instruments of death. They will tear through the flesh of a child just as accurately and as brutally, as that of a "terrorist". The bombs will fall on villages, towns and cities, and will reap carnage on shopkeepers, nurses, invalids, gardeners, and fruit growers, the elderly will meet the same fate as the gunman. Villages, towns and cities will disappear from the map, their people will scatter to the four corners of our world, fleeing hell on earth, families will be dispersed, and hatred will grow like weeds and its seeds will spread in the wind of memory and folklore.
Patriotism
No, I shall not die for the fluttering flag,
if truth be known, ’tis nothing but a multi-coloured rag
held aloft by some foolish hand
inciting worker and peasant to kill
on some green and wooded hill,
peasant and worker from some other land.
Nor shall I shed blood for the fluttering rag
that brings out fools to stand and brag
of brutal deeds painted grand,
deeds where rustic and craftsman lie so still
killed by my brothers' misguided hand.
No allegiance have I for the Nation
this man made autocratic creation
that divides my brothers in a world so small,
binds us to a country's cause, right or wrong,
bids us follow its drum, sing its song,
then sheds our blood in some border brawl.
No, I'll be no slave to flag or nation,
have no ear for power oration,
though its iron heel is on my breast,
my back feels its leather thong,
at patriotism's barracoon, I'll be no guest.
We cannot allow the insanity of our wealthy "lords and masters" wrapped in the cloak of patriotism and "national security" to drag us into another nightmare of carnage. We cannot see another generation born into a world of hatred and revenge. We the ordinary people of the world, have bled through endless wars, our families have mourned our dead for generations, we know the suffering of carnage, it has solved nothing. Don't be fooled by the frenzied screaming of the friends of wealth and power, the voice of imperialism. We have been bombing the Middle East continuously since 2001, remember Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya, and now Syria? Is the world now a safer place, a more peaceful place? Only a blind fool or a lying imperialist stooge would answer yes.
Let us go back to the words of one of Glasgow's well known anarchists, and conscientious objector, Guy Aldred, and take some words from his 1929 pamphlet, "At Grips With War"
The Workers Pledge In Time Of War.
I refuse to
kill any child's father.
I refuse to
slay any mother's son.
I refuse to
plunge the bayonet into the breast of any
woman's
brother, lover our mate.
I refuse to
murder and deem the slaughter glory.
I refuse to
butcher with hands that were intended to
to
serve and caress.
I refuse to
soak the earth with blood and blind my reason
with
obedience.
I refuse to
assassinate another man and then hide my
stained
fists in the folds of a bloodstained flag.
I refuse to
be flattered, cajoled, or driven into hell's
nightmare
by a class of well-fed snobs, crooks
and
cowards who despise my class socially, rob
my
class economically, and betray and oppress it
politically.
Let militarism do its worst, I refuse
to
serve, I decline to kill.
Visit ann arky's home at www.radicalglasgow.me.uk
