Daily Times

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’