There are enough diamonds in the world to give every person a cupful; yet, not every person has a cupful of diamonds. There is surely enough clean water on the surface of this earth for every person to wet the parching throat, even tens of times again; yet, children gulp their water out of the stream that is polluted, and they do so out of mortal desperation; out of the absolute scarcity of conducive water they drink from sewers, like dogs, and one ripe with empathy, one in chivalrous service, in knighthood for the world, would ask: is this a decent way of maintaining and caring for our children? In principal, every person would answer no, had such an uncomfortable question been posited, and the one courageous enough to answer yes would do so out of psychopathy on the one hand, or out of sheer and utter provocation on the other: is there a third alternative? This makes me think of that five-yeard old girl in the notorious novel, Brothers Karamazov, whom are forced to an outhouse in the blazing night of the russian winter; beaten, stomped on, humiliated; spat upon by mother; hit upon by father. That little child, the bundle of joy she could have been, was forced to eat her own excrement in grotesque confusion at the glaring stare of her two indifferent parents. Had your holy spirit been present, the one you love so much, with its crown high with compassion and with the evangels of benevolence we so often hear about lodged steadfast in its mouth, ready to speak out the truth, illuminate the way at any second - it had had the power to install the thought into the heads of these vile parents, and it would so have done; it would ask the vile parent: why do you do this to your child? The parent would not have answered. Maybe they would have uttered words, but that is not answering. That is responding; that is merely engaging the question verbally. That does not necessarily mean a single thing. Had they answered in their own courts, such a question, they would have been judged helplessly either into the perpetuity of their indifference, or to the dungeon of their self-insight, the revelation of this holy spirit, as if with an iron mask, one of shame, melted onto their faces for a lifetime – a lifetime of desperation and a gruesome regret, the guilt that could break the arduous will of even Gilgamesh, the sacred third king of Uruk: but no. That is too much to ask of a simple, pathetic fuck of a child-beater. They had been indifferent; neither out of pleasure, nor out of malignancy, and perhaps that is the most potent form of evil we may all know. And it is when we understand that we know that, and things of similar nature, that we may live in the beautiful forest; in this forest, the mares and trolls leer behind every log, the vipers of the north slither on the hoarfrost ground, and the fruits of revenge hang low from the tree of knowledge of pacifism and vengeance - so low even a five year old girl could rip them off the branches!
There is no justice except for the one you create for yourself. You want justice? Kill your enemy. There are enough diamonds surely in the world for everyone to get a cupful, but there is no judicial principle of equity to regulate this in practice; never has been, never will be. You can take your obsessions with utopian marxism, or, if you swing the other way, your pitiful doctrine of divine providence, and you may as far as I am concerned use them for toilet paper; go ahead, do it. Here is no solace? The second coming will be all over your face, you whore of life, not some Christ on a cloud above the ashes! You can forget about these things, as far as I know. Let me tell you: that girl, from the Brothers Karamazov fought for a handle on sanity; she crawled brutally in the grossness of her own waste, she weltered in it, she was forced to eat her own shit, for fuck sake: and you can not repeat the mantra, “it is just a novel; it is just a novel”; we both do know that even more, if so is possible, apalling scenes are played out every day on the stages of the world, around the world, for the world is the war of all against all, and allies are the most important thing you have. Yes, indeed, next to the combat-ability of yourself... and you can only run backwards into death in escaping of it: afront there is only war; only a beaten path of decomposing corpses, of grievous widows tearing with bony fingers the eyeballs out of their crania; I remember: a father, screaming, holding his boy in a panicked embrace, a torso no longer with legs to stand with, blood spurting, bones leering from the flesh distastefully, eyes flacking in the coming of death; He happened to find an IED to play with on the other side of the river... Left behind by true warriors, willing to risk the children. The father roars at the holy spirit, which is watching a bit shamefully from the distance, But the boy! The boy, is silent: he is not dead but she will be soon enough. May even children find a llure in the morphinous prestages of death, the seconds leading up to it, the final and irrevocable good? Who can know such a thing? But one thing is for sure, and it is carved into the rocks of human time: this is the justice we have, and obviously it is just present in ideal and theory. I would advice you to not feel so sorry for him - for not having been given that cupful of diamonds. All suffering will infect your soul until need to question yourself: what life is more important? Do I get to live as well, only I wanted it? And besides, if you should feel sorry for suffering people, then you should start with yourself, because nothing, except for perhaps sheer suffering, will grow out of this enterprise. Do you want to carry the blight of the world, the weight of terror's yoke on your bruising shoulders? Go ahead, you shall die from it. The son who played with the road bomb lost his legs, he will die from blood loss, if he has not already. His father will die of grief, that is a matter of time. Which of the two is worse? I ask you. It is an utmostly serious question. But do not feel so sorry for him, the little child. Tomorrow, he is a statistic.
Now, the father has more to lose; for every emotion you have felt, you have gained one more thing to lose. The more you have gathered, and for the longer time you have been gathering, the more you will feel when it disappears, for surely, we feel things the most when we do not have them. Welter in the riches of the world all you want: you can not understand what I am talking about before you have experienced it all disappearing from you, leaving you outside of it, unreaching of it... Be careful in this battleground. Houses are burning, dilapidating around us, and women wail of their rape on their way to the black market – they need now guns... children ward off demons in their closets while daddy beats mommy, everything blackens... and I? I write. This pen is my old uzi, and I execute begging palestinian children with it (don't sweat it nigga: it is a metaphor, and you should stop being so sensitive to words). Maybe I can turn my luck around; maybe there is repentence for me. Everyone sins in war. It is what it is. Virtue is seldom, but it is there. We all know beautiful, lustrous things. Once I saw a happy young couple, freedom fighters both of them, smiling at each-other, the last thing they did, before detonating their belts. They died as they kissed. I wonder how that must have felt. Was this a tremendous victory, a cause for celebration, commemoration, an act of uproarious courage? It does not matter what the shrinks and the kindergarten philosophers make of it, it will forevermore be the most beautiful thing I ever saw, a thing I may probably never live myself. War kills and the survivors cry afterwards, not stopping until they are dead and can cry no more. However, there is victory and overcoming in every war - should you want it, should you strive towards it. Why do you fight? Because you do. We all have reasons: do you protect your children? You want to be your childrens' wehrmacht. Do you covet the prosperities of your neighbour? You want to welter in the riches and excesses of hedonia. Are you shooting with dirty needles the meth of evil destructivity, its ecstasy of the war you love to hate, losing yourself in the process of becoming the abomination we only whisper about in the shadows? You are lost and shall never come back, lest you slay the cave-dragon. Could you stomp the head of a child for it stood in the way of its mother, hurt, as you were so eager to ravish her as to lose all moral constraint? It happens, and that is the dragon of the cave. Can you slay it? People do. It happens every day. Maybe your true reason for fighting is because you can not feel the fight, you have no enemies. You are not even afraid of the dragon because you would not even feel its breath on your skin if it was in front of you. What a carneval of a life... Hmm. simply, maybe you just carry on because you are just afraid of your suicide; of killing yourself... whatever your pick would be, that last one is me... yes, that is my pick. As for now, that is what I am. I am afraid of the emptiness, the nothingness, more than I fear the great war. We all have dogs in this fight: some have little shit dogs while others have pitbulls and amstaffs; which dog is yours, and which dog is mine? You decide for yourself, and I decide for myself. And if we win in the end, I can do the final task, and you can do the final task. You can distribute all your beautiful and glistening diamonds however you would see fit; perhaps it is in you to hoard them like an ignivomous dragon beneath the stronghold, in the damp catacombs, slithering bitter like some basilisk. Or maybe it is more in your temperament, a kinder way? If your dream is for every person to have a cupful of diamonds, then go at it or kill yourself already. There is not much choice in between, except for crying, bruised all over, sobbing helplessly with your own feces colouring your cracked lips and your mouth like that five-year old poor girl in that Dostoevsky novel. Go ahead and choose; I have chosen for myself: As I have not yet commited to the task of ending my own life, I have chosen life. That is how this works, apparently. I do not yet know what this means, except that I, during the span of these lugubrious and toxic pages, will cry out the ponderings and the egregious effects of this decision onto you – your world is my mirror, and when I smash it, it shall break – I vomit words on you, reader; you probably do not exist, but that does not matter for me; I would not read this noxious, self-important garbage either. I only write for myself, but not in some noble, humble way. I do this for the reason everyone else does whatever the fuck they are doing: to gain allies, to deceive enemies. This diseased work is dedicated in heart and in spirit to my glorious sister, the freest person I have ever known. With you, everything is war – or love. I am loyal to you more than to no other. Yes: war – and love – forever.
Abu Bakr al-Uppsalawi writing from Sävja, Uppsala, Oct 31, 2017.
There is no justice except for the one you create for yourself. You want justice? Kill your enemy. There are enough diamonds surely in the world for everyone to get a cupful, but there is no judicial principle of equity to regulate this in practice; never has been, never will be. You can take your obsessions with utopian marxism, or, if you swing the other way, your pitiful doctrine of divine providence, and you may as far as I am concerned use them for toilet paper; go ahead, do it. Here is no solace? The second coming will be all over your face, you whore of life, not some Christ on a cloud above the ashes! You can forget about these things, as far as I know. Let me tell you: that girl, from the Brothers Karamazov fought for a handle on sanity; she crawled brutally in the grossness of her own waste, she weltered in it, she was forced to eat her own shit, for fuck sake: and you can not repeat the mantra, “it is just a novel; it is just a novel”; we both do know that even more, if so is possible, apalling scenes are played out every day on the stages of the world, around the world, for the world is the war of all against all, and allies are the most important thing you have. Yes, indeed, next to the combat-ability of yourself... and you can only run backwards into death in escaping of it: afront there is only war; only a beaten path of decomposing corpses, of grievous widows tearing with bony fingers the eyeballs out of their crania; I remember: a father, screaming, holding his boy in a panicked embrace, a torso no longer with legs to stand with, blood spurting, bones leering from the flesh distastefully, eyes flacking in the coming of death; He happened to find an IED to play with on the other side of the river... Left behind by true warriors, willing to risk the children. The father roars at the holy spirit, which is watching a bit shamefully from the distance, But the boy! The boy, is silent: he is not dead but she will be soon enough. May even children find a llure in the morphinous prestages of death, the seconds leading up to it, the final and irrevocable good? Who can know such a thing? But one thing is for sure, and it is carved into the rocks of human time: this is the justice we have, and obviously it is just present in ideal and theory. I would advice you to not feel so sorry for him - for not having been given that cupful of diamonds. All suffering will infect your soul until need to question yourself: what life is more important? Do I get to live as well, only I wanted it? And besides, if you should feel sorry for suffering people, then you should start with yourself, because nothing, except for perhaps sheer suffering, will grow out of this enterprise. Do you want to carry the blight of the world, the weight of terror's yoke on your bruising shoulders? Go ahead, you shall die from it. The son who played with the road bomb lost his legs, he will die from blood loss, if he has not already. His father will die of grief, that is a matter of time. Which of the two is worse? I ask you. It is an utmostly serious question. But do not feel so sorry for him, the little child. Tomorrow, he is a statistic.
Now, the father has more to lose; for every emotion you have felt, you have gained one more thing to lose. The more you have gathered, and for the longer time you have been gathering, the more you will feel when it disappears, for surely, we feel things the most when we do not have them. Welter in the riches of the world all you want: you can not understand what I am talking about before you have experienced it all disappearing from you, leaving you outside of it, unreaching of it... Be careful in this battleground. Houses are burning, dilapidating around us, and women wail of their rape on their way to the black market – they need now guns... children ward off demons in their closets while daddy beats mommy, everything blackens... and I? I write. This pen is my old uzi, and I execute begging palestinian children with it (don't sweat it nigga: it is a metaphor, and you should stop being so sensitive to words). Maybe I can turn my luck around; maybe there is repentence for me. Everyone sins in war. It is what it is. Virtue is seldom, but it is there. We all know beautiful, lustrous things. Once I saw a happy young couple, freedom fighters both of them, smiling at each-other, the last thing they did, before detonating their belts. They died as they kissed. I wonder how that must have felt. Was this a tremendous victory, a cause for celebration, commemoration, an act of uproarious courage? It does not matter what the shrinks and the kindergarten philosophers make of it, it will forevermore be the most beautiful thing I ever saw, a thing I may probably never live myself. War kills and the survivors cry afterwards, not stopping until they are dead and can cry no more. However, there is victory and overcoming in every war - should you want it, should you strive towards it. Why do you fight? Because you do. We all have reasons: do you protect your children? You want to be your childrens' wehrmacht. Do you covet the prosperities of your neighbour? You want to welter in the riches and excesses of hedonia. Are you shooting with dirty needles the meth of evil destructivity, its ecstasy of the war you love to hate, losing yourself in the process of becoming the abomination we only whisper about in the shadows? You are lost and shall never come back, lest you slay the cave-dragon. Could you stomp the head of a child for it stood in the way of its mother, hurt, as you were so eager to ravish her as to lose all moral constraint? It happens, and that is the dragon of the cave. Can you slay it? People do. It happens every day. Maybe your true reason for fighting is because you can not feel the fight, you have no enemies. You are not even afraid of the dragon because you would not even feel its breath on your skin if it was in front of you. What a carneval of a life... Hmm. simply, maybe you just carry on because you are just afraid of your suicide; of killing yourself... whatever your pick would be, that last one is me... yes, that is my pick. As for now, that is what I am. I am afraid of the emptiness, the nothingness, more than I fear the great war. We all have dogs in this fight: some have little shit dogs while others have pitbulls and amstaffs; which dog is yours, and which dog is mine? You decide for yourself, and I decide for myself. And if we win in the end, I can do the final task, and you can do the final task. You can distribute all your beautiful and glistening diamonds however you would see fit; perhaps it is in you to hoard them like an ignivomous dragon beneath the stronghold, in the damp catacombs, slithering bitter like some basilisk. Or maybe it is more in your temperament, a kinder way? If your dream is for every person to have a cupful of diamonds, then go at it or kill yourself already. There is not much choice in between, except for crying, bruised all over, sobbing helplessly with your own feces colouring your cracked lips and your mouth like that five-year old poor girl in that Dostoevsky novel. Go ahead and choose; I have chosen for myself: As I have not yet commited to the task of ending my own life, I have chosen life. That is how this works, apparently. I do not yet know what this means, except that I, during the span of these lugubrious and toxic pages, will cry out the ponderings and the egregious effects of this decision onto you – your world is my mirror, and when I smash it, it shall break – I vomit words on you, reader; you probably do not exist, but that does not matter for me; I would not read this noxious, self-important garbage either. I only write for myself, but not in some noble, humble way. I do this for the reason everyone else does whatever the fuck they are doing: to gain allies, to deceive enemies. This diseased work is dedicated in heart and in spirit to my glorious sister, the freest person I have ever known. With you, everything is war – or love. I am loyal to you more than to no other. Yes: war – and love – forever.
Abu Bakr al-Uppsalawi writing from Sävja, Uppsala, Oct 31, 2017.
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