The Glorification of Violence Demands a New Avatar
Jo Cox was assassinated in broad daylight while conducting her affairs as a Member of Parliament. She was a British politician. But not the dirty kind. Or even the risqué kind.
She was a gem among the rubble. A shining bright light in a world dissolved in darkness and chaos.
She was only forty-one when she died.
She had lived long enough to witness the beauty of mankind — and this inspired her determination to do all within her power to ensure that the glorious incense of violence wouldn’t overshadow the possibility of innocence being preserved for the greater good.
Jo Cox failed in her mission. She’s not the first to tragically fall short and she won’t be the last.
In a culture that only recognizes the lives valiantly lost in countries that differ greatly from the designated war zones that are also populated by human beings — it’s hard to grasp the mindset of worshipping the trends that dictate what we should give a fuck about and what we should regulate as trash.
Not too long ago — in fact basically right after the terrifying episode in Nice — an attack was directed by France and the United States.
The target was Syria. If you’re not sure why — then stop reading now.
It was a bloody massacre. The kind that you read about all the time and then switch away from because you can’t relate. You don’t own a vacation home in this region and it’s not on on your itinerary of fancy getaways that involve museum visits and charming street cafes.
No, this is Syria.
Nothing fancy or memorable — just a representation of all that is wrong with the world that you are not a part of.
But you will be. Soon. The initiation is already underway.
Your interchangeable avatars will soon be glued to one image with no option for review.
The air strikes misfired. The retaliation an immense success.
America admitted that the unfortunate victims were indeed innocent civilians. Mothers still clutching their lifeless babies were found mangled underneath the rubbish of bad judgement and busted debris.
Where is the outrage from those of you who swear up and down that peace is a language that you speak but can’t teach ISIS to adapt?
How is it that we can accommodate the destroyed carcasses of children strewn all over the streets of Syria like littered pebbles from the sky?
Jo Cox was the voice of reason in a case that has just been elevated to abominable.
To say that her demise might be a blessing would be a callous realization — and yet as I sit here internalizing the horrific images of the carnage the powers-that-be purposely produced — it’s hard not to wonder why in the entire fuck we even bother to act civilly towards each other.
140 dead — and counting.
There is no easy answer to resolving conflict. I am no politician. I’m not even remotely capable of allocating the blueprint for negotiations that could potentially shift the status from critical to fair play.
But, I refuse to tolerate the destruction of lives as barter for the bad luck of their birthright. I won’t accept the apologists’ dismal of “mistaken identity” when toddlers are bleeding into the ground days after being pummeled to death my lasers from the sky.
My avatar is my heart and it writhes almost daily with the infamy of our existence.
The glorification of violence needs more than clicks and flags to dominate your conscience.
I miss Jo Cox. I knew her. She was the best part of all of us. And she died again this week.
So did we.