Hypocrisy Syndrome

Come close, beloved, 

hear the sound of boots on pavement,

batons raised high,

selective justice in the morning light

They march past hotels where families huddle,

fear in their eyes like broken glass,

far right fists pumping poison into air

while police badges turn blind,

while state uniforms look the other way,

claiming “public order”

when the order serves their masters

But raise your voice for Gaza children,

hold a sign that says “stop the killing”

and suddenly

SUDDENLY!!

the law remembers how to move,

handcuffs click like typewriter keys

spelling out your arrest warrant

in the language of hypocrisy

Dance with me through this maze of madness,

Oh, my love,

where protesters become “extremists”

for holding up mirrors

to power’s ugly face

They’ll call us radicals

for refusing to forget,

troublemakers for asking

why children’s screams

don’t echo in parliament halls,

agitators for demanding

the same humanity

they reserve for themselves

Sweet contradiction of our times

the peace-makers labeled violent,

the truth-tellers called liars,

while the architects of genocide

sit in mahogany rooms

discussing “proportionate response”

over champagne and blood money

Feel it, my heart

the weight of witness,

the burden of sight

in a world gone blind,

the responsibility of memory

in an age of amnesia

Remember when the denial was the sin?

When saying “it never happened”

marked you as the monster,

made you the pariah at history’s table

Now

NOW

they flip the script

like a record spinning backwards,

call you antisemite for saying

“make it stop”

for pointing at the bodies,

for counting the dead children

in a cacophony of sorrow

The word twisted,

weaponised

turned inside-out

until solidarity becomes hatred,

until witnessing becomes violence,

until caring becomes the crime

Our heroes aren’t marble statues,

They’re no perfect saints in stained glass

they’re flesh and blood and contradictions,

Mo Chara with music and Falls Road struggles,

charged with terror for—what?

words that don’t fit the narrative?

The farce plays out in courtrooms

where justice wears a blindfold

but peeks through one eye,

where “terrorist” becomes

the label they slap

on anyone who won’t

shut up,

sit down,

disappear…

But watch, 

watch now my darling,

the solidarity bloom like wildflowers

through the courthouse concrete,

Irish voices rising with Palestinian cries,

two peoples who know occupation,

two histories written in blood and resistance

The tricolor snaps in British wind

outside their British courts,

green, white, and orange

flying free as a middle finger

to centuries of “law and order”

Beautiful irony, sweetheart

Isn’t it BEAUTIFUL?

the flag of a partially liberated people

watching over another’s struggle,

saying “we remember,

we remember our own chains,

we remember the taste of freedom”

This is the sound of now,

the rhythm of right now,

syncopated with sirens

and synchronised with solidarity

Where standing with the oppressed

makes you the oppressor in their eyes,

where memory becomes amnesia,

where peace becomes war

in the doublespeak democracy

of our burning world

But the hearts keep beating,

the voices keep rising,

the flags keep flying

And somewhere in the distance,

I swear I can hear

the sounds of chains breaking,

the sounds of walls falling,

the sound of a world

finally learning

how to listen.