Following the recent London stabbings by a Muslim male, the topic of hatred, violence and murder have once again hit the headlines. The UK PM Boris Johnson opined publicly that men like Usman, who killed innocent Londoners, were a breed that had no chance of rehabilitation.
That the British Justice system released someone deemed without the possibility of being rehabilitated points to serious errors of judgment. Releasing a known felon with a penchant of killing and following up with statements that his kind is not worthy of being rehabilitated is like admitting to caging a rabid dog but releasing him anyway and then crying wolf.
In my psychological analysis, since I am no legal expert and cannot speak to the audacity of the British parole system, which deemed Usman fit to be released, the fact that he was released, even if provisionally, shows a serious lack of judgment. Usman was already in jail for what he promised he would do if he were released. But he was released. And he lived up to his promise of being a delusional, violent, angry, hateful, militarised, Jihadist and a self-proclaimed defender of an ideology of barbarism.
The fault as Shakespeare would say, “lies not in our stars, but in ourselves.” The following is an introduction to the psychology of violence; a prose poetry piece titled, “Circus.” Through the poetic prose, I want to touch upon the subject of man’s nature, and man’s lower and higher selves, as it pertains to hurting others and being hurt oneself. The juxtaposition of the expose is that those who hurt others think they are fighting for something worth killing for. Those who die in their path are innocent bystanders who lose their lives at the hands of a psychotic. There is, sadly, a sympathetic following to the Usman’s view of the world by ignorant, young and radicalised Muslims. This is the tip of the iceberg. If left unchecked, there will be many more Usmans in the making, adding to what is described below, the ruthless Circus, of which we are now, advertently or inadvertently, forced participants.
“Circus,” a metaphorical analogy on the topic of human destruction, is dedicated to those who are mercilessly slaughtered at the pavilion of an ideology that needs to be killed if humanity is to survive.
“Earth my friends is a halfway house
Duped drunk anaesthetised
We enter life’s inviting gates
Enter a brand new fate
Exit our safe water holes
Follow rhythms of oceans deep
Creatures so steeped
We can’t afford to keep the peace
Tears only the lowly can weep
The lord he casts a special spell
On the dead who refuse to tell
Lives full of dark horrors
Lived upon the midnight stars
Bought and sold
Bonded, sealed, branded
Radicalised scum of the earth
Expunged, witch hunters
Burning at the stake
The dead dare not own our sorry fate
Ours is an inglorious fare
Lips on ice we daren’t tear away
Ashen, burnt, singed, scourged
Scarred beyond recognition or repair
Scattered screams no one can hear
Civilisation in tatters
We run but we can never go far
We hide, but we cannot decide
We moan, we groan
Unnoticed, untethered, unheard
We sink not swim
On sanded shores
We beg for mercies that do not exist
For the Gods, they only hear
Women without vice
The voice of the slaves
Meant only for the fortunate
To silence is thus is His will
And to His will, we shall succumb
Kings Queens Harlots, all!
In His name
We answer the call
The nobility of the scum of the earth
And everyone in between living in fear
Hoping against hope for a voice
A prayer of reason,
A privilege, relief
On beds of thorns in the East
Satin negligees in the West
Our fates sealed in geophysical Destiny
The child in us enters the gates
Of heavenly delights
Man-made hells, a sorry fate
We enter the castle, rush to the tomb
Hope for the best, prepare for doom
We thrive we survive only to die
Dreaming of wings with which to fly
Hurriedly we enter the domain
We find our legs, sip on our pegs
Jostle our bowls, forsake our souls
Dance our cares away, playing with fire
The Gods we sway with our boldness
We snatch, we snitch, we fight, we twitch
We rob and plunder and call it a blunder
Forced to grab our share of sustenance
We collect feverishly some golden spoons
Riding in crimson sunsets and silver moons
We let ourselves take the bait lest the night
Forsake our fate
We pray to statues with hearts of stone
Deities divided, devoid of love
We favour hate; alter our fate
Savour high teas, aromas of cinnamon
Freshly baked fruit cakes and scones
We bury the dead without a moan
Children die in our stead
While we return warmly to bed
Wage war for a sip of water
On earths with oceans with so many borders
No drops to spare we try our kids not to scare
Once the party begins we know
They have nowhere else to go
Going once going twice going thrice
We’re hopelessly in
Sold to the circus part of the show
We learn to look for ourselves
In corners, we’re forced to dwell
Boundaries without beginning or end
Earth’s finite circumference
We wait our turn in wedding halls
We yearn, we wed eagerly
Men we abhor
We live for the prize the glory the crown
It helps if our skin is fair, not brown
The name, the house, the title, servants
We are the clown of our own show
In winter or spring, sand or snow
We eagerly entertain strangers without heartbeats
People we pretend to befriend
The living dead, so many forgotten names
Soulless creatures, we waive the wand
We toe the line, pay the fine
Suffer in utter silence
Trying to find a centre
We drift afar, live betwixt
A life of lies
Pretending we are we live as if
The Statue of Liberty really exists
Focused on our lonely selves
We find ground in hole s forlorn
A space to call our own
Stay abreast of the beast of tyranny
We win we lose accept refuse
Short or tall spring or fall
The game we play not a word we say
As we quietly gather sheets to cover what’s dead inside
Waiting for the watch to end, waiting to call it a day
Waiting silently waiting for the next dagger the next shot.”
The writer holds two Masters degrees, MA Communication and MSc Clinical Psychology, Certified Therapist she authored ‘It Takes A Village To Rape A Child’