Anniversaries are usually pleasant things, though some may be sad, but there are those that fill you with anger, disgust and horror. September 16 is one such anniversary. Thirty years ago on September 16th 1982 under the protection of the Israeli Army the Phalange, Lebanese Christian Militia entered the Palestinian refugee camps of Sabra and Chatile. What followed was a brutal blood bath of innocent Palestinians. Three days of rape and slaughter with hundreds of cold blooded executions. To assist their Phalange executioners, the Israeli Army, lit up the night sky above the camps with flares. At the end of their three days blood feast 1,700 Palestinians were dead, and the Phalange walked out of the camps unhindered in any way by the Israeli Army. No international court, no war criminals at the Hague, though the Israeli Defense Minister Ariel Sharon, lost his job over the affair, but later was rewarded by being made Prime Minister of Israel. Three nights of rape, killing, terror and brutality, watched over and assisted by a state's military and nobody brought to justice. As you say, "they got away with it", so no doubt that made it easier for the Israeli Army in 2008/9 to invade Gaza and kill another multitude of young Palestinians. Again, "they got away with it". These are just a couple of the fiendish tricks that states get up to in their daily power games, slaughter people all for the great good of that institution of repression. I believe in this case, the word I'm searching for is genocide.
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.
