We all know why we’re here: our country is being stolen. They’re here to take our food, they’re  here to take our jobs, and they’re here to take our homes. They think they’re entitled to our  healthcare. They think they’re entitled to our wealth. They think they’re entitled to our possessions.  We know what’s going on: they think they can be the new us. 

For too long, we have suffered this injustice. I say, no more! No more to their lack of morals! No  more to their terrible English! No more to their sucking on our women’s breasts! It’s time to act.  Babies will not replace us! 

Look around! Babies are everywhere: in our pre-schools, in our playgrounds, even in our maternity  wards! And they’re disgusting. They don’t even look like people. Their heads are gigantic, their  hair doesn’t grow right, and — and — Excuse me. It’s just so unnatural — no real human is that  short. We should not have to share our air with these aberrations.  

And have you ever talked to one of these monstrosities? It’s impossible. Many of them just make  noises. Not a word of English! And the rest are even worse. They need you to read to them. Can’t  do it themselves! No education! And they don’t even listen if you try. They refuse to understand.  You read about green eggs and ham and they talk about “gween eggs anam.” You read about three  little pigs and they go on about “free yidduw bigs.” And don’t get me started on Peter Piper picking  peppers! If they won’t hear us, why should we tolerate their presence? They have to go! 

Now, I know some say we should love babies. “Babies are God’s creatures,” they say. But I’ve  read the Bible. Look at Genesis! It’s right there. God created one man and one woman. Where are  the babies? Nowhere. It’s Adam and Eve, not Mommy and me. “We were all babies once,” they  say. But we’re not anymore. We left that behind. We’re better than them. “We need babies to keep  the population up,” they say. But what about the immigrants? Our beautiful immigrants need space  to live. Their accents are so musical and their cultures are so vibrant. We don’t need babies and  they don’t deserve our compassion! 

So what can we do? Well, first, deportations. The babies have to go. All of them. Back to where  they came from. Back to women’s bellies. It will take determination, but if we do enough chopping,  and grinding, and maybe seasoning, our women, our capable, capable women, can eat all the babies  within a year. Then they’ll be gone. And then? Then we make sure no more of those minuscule  abominations enter our great country ever again: We need new laws to defend ourselves. Our  schools must teach the dangers of heterosexual sex. Free contraception must be available to the entire population. And abortions — abortions, our God-sent panacea! — abortions must be  mandatory. Everywhere. For everyone. The character of our country is at stake.  

We can’t wait any longer to save ourselves from being replaced. We must act. And we must act  now! Vote for me and I promise to do everything in my power to save our way of life. Down with  the babies and up with the flag! Make our country grown again! Now is our time! 

Thank you. God bless you and God bless our great nation. 

The post The Growth of a Nation appeared first on The New Absurdist.

His prisoner’s fire dissipated and that slight smile, sly, and maybe a little flirtatious, returned to his countenance. “Five days of walking and you’re running low on my rations,” he said. “Can’t blame a rascal for trying to cut and run.” 

“If the fugitive makes two or more attempts to escape custody during transit, Marshals are within their rights to use lethal force to subdue them, provided their remains are turned over to the Washington Burst Survivor Community Council,” Albert said.

“Who will lethally subdue me anyway,” the prisoner said, chuckling. 

Albert didn’t argue with this criminal. He reached up with his wrinkled hand and pulled on the nylon shade of his tent. It furled to the plastic rod holding it up, and revealed the gray waste of northern Ohio, painted by scattered light throwing sour pinks and deadly reds over a once-green-and-lush countryside, reduced to ash and death by a random and unpredictable cosmic event. Nothing in the sky but the bleak sun, and all that remained of the wavy midwestern meadows, bountiful corn fields, and flocculent forests were bare, stripped trees and bushes stuck in the white ground like burnt candles in a birthday cake. 

He hadn’t been this far from DC in thirty years, but he still had memories of driving I-90 with his wife and daughter, stopping at a rest stop, where his wife would delay them further by sitting on a bench and staring at the corn fields and blue skies, and singing hymns low and sweet so his heart rate would fall and the hairs on his arms would stand up. This place had changed so much. 

The whole country had changed so much. Many people died during the Burst, many right after in the ensuing breakdown. Within a couple months the cancers began to kill the bulk of the world’s population, then the starvation and suicides took their toll. Now there was no United States, nor any other country. There was nothing passing for civilization, Albert thought, except for the Washington Burst Survivor Community. They had codified laws, elected representatives, those who administered those representatives’ authority, like him, and they had order. People could get food and shelter, most of the time, without resorting to murder or cannibalism. A man could sit in his dwelling and eat dinner with his wife and daughter, without fear.

Albert had changed very much as well. Thirty years ago he was a bookkeeper, aspiring to no higher ideal than to be home for dinner with his wife and daughter. What aspirations did he need before the Burst? Justice was not a myth. They were good times because an enlightened justice was served by strong men. Now Albert had to be one of those strong men. He had to be the Council’s justice, and the Council’s justice had to extend to Chicago, where his current prisoner had murdered a Council diplomat. The farther justice traveled, the more people would believe in it. 

At nearly sixty, such a trek had made him weaker than he’d hoped. And his prisoner was correct that rations were running low. This potential failure disenchanted Albert. He’d been doing this job for years, but since the world had fallen so low, it would perhaps take men much stronger than him to elevate it back to the necessary heights. 

Albert reached into his canvas backpack and pulled out two small measuring cups, one marked “M” for Marshal and one marked “F” for fugitive. Then he pulled out a dirty glass cylinder, one quarter full of dead American cockroaches. He dumped all that remained in the cylinder into the cups. 

“Eat now,” Albert said, and placed the “F” cup in front of his prisoner. 

The prisoner stared at him. His prisoner seemed remarkably shrewd for someone who, by all witness reports, spent nearly all of his time alone. “Why?” the prisoner asked. “Fugitive rations must be administered at a minimum frequency of every forty-eight hours.” 

“But these are our last. We should take greater care.”

“It is not the practice of the Marshal service of the Washington Burst Survivor Community to ration food for fugitives to this extent, and we apologize,” Albert replied. “Your council should apologize to you as well, Albert,” the prisoner remarked. “You look worse than I.” He sipped on his roaches and chewed slowly. “In fact, unless you are completely captivated by the prospect of giving your own life for the chance to take mine, I would say your best chance at survival would be to release me from this strange contraption.” He grabbed and shook the pole lightly. 

Albert ignored his prisoner and didn’t bother to inform him that that contraption developed by the Burst Community’s engineers only detached using a special key held by an officer in DC. It could be forced open, but any human capable of producing two thousand pounds of force who didn’t die in the Burst was surely too poorly nourished to do so now. 

“Unsanctioned detours may be taken to remedy such shortages. In this case, to Cleveland, to seek arthropod colonies along Lake Erie.” 

“Ah, Cleveland. The so-called Pasture of the Bright Horses,” the prisoner replied solemnly, but mockingly so. 

“The Bright Pasture,” Albert corrected, absentmindedly. 

“Oh, well forgive me, Albert. The Bright Pasture of the Bright Horses. The only horses to survive the gamma ray burst, by coming out of that cataclysmic event feeding on their own radiation, their manes full of fire, their spirits more wild and fiercer than any animal still alive, maybe even than any that ever existed. Even more impressive are their Riders, men strong of body and of will, capable of taming such fiery beasts. Men who don’t need to eat, but when they do, they subsist on the irradiated flesh of their own horses. Men who will save us, waiting for our resonant call for a return to order from the darkness.” 

“We need food,” Albert said. “There’s food at Lake Erie, everyone says so. Shut up.” Albert upended his cup and ingested his entire portion at once. He gagged severely as the flaky exoskeletons and slimy innards of these vermin hit the back of his throat. 

The prisoner guffawed. “You elders, living whole lives before the Burst. You still have your old weakness,” he said. “I don’t judge. I have my own. A weakness for vengeance. Look where that landed me. You’re lucky we’re still miles from the Bright Pasture. You don’t want your saviors to see you go green eating roaches. You might face culling.” 

Albert jabbed the prisoner with the pole. 

After they’d finished eating, Albert wasted no time taking down his tent, folding the nylon sheets into precise two-by-two squares, and collapsing the plastic rods into each other so they fit in one twelve-inch tube. He then slid the sheets and the tube into the proper outer compartments on his backpack. 

He had raised an objection with the Council’s subcommittee on the Marshal Service before over the fact that these materials were to be stored on the outside of the Marshals’ backpacks during transit. In a world where the ozone layer was decimated and would not replenish itself within a dozen lifetimes, shelter from UV radiation was worth more than anything that could be stored inside Alfred’s backpack. A gust of wind, a rambunctious prisoner, or a trip and fall could knock the sheets or tube out of their compartments and into a patch of irradiated sand or just a rock or stick that could tear them. Then, if Albert could find shelter, such as in a major urban ruin, the location and quality would not be of his choosing, and therefore not ideal for security or proper rest. The subcommittee said they take the input of Marshals very seriously, and would take this into consideration. That was nearly two years ago. 

Albert pushed the yellow button on the hilt of the pole, and it extended out to 15 feet in length, hurrying the prisoner along. They walked the road to Cleveland in silence for over an hour. Silence was best, especially so near to a major urban center where the BC didn’t have jurisdiction, and in fact no one had jurisdiction, so there was no one to reason with. 

The ruins of Walmarts, Targets, gas stations, urgent care clinics, and fast food joints were more frequent now. They needed to get closer to the water to make any stop worth it. Albert’s weary mind took these landmarks as signs of success, and his left eye drooped and his right leg buckled. 

The prisoner jerked to a halt and looked back, by which time Albert was already back upright and in motion. They walked on. “Don’t you dare go into darkness on me, Albert,” the prisoner said. He was a highly expressive man, and since his hands were bound and covered, he used his neck and his head to gesticulate. “You are as much my albatross as I am yours.” After saying this, he gesticulated with his behind, shaking the pole that connected them. 

Albert kept his head on a swivel, always watching the tree line, and the exits of any structures. He swiveled it past his prisoner and saw the man sulk. 

“Your community, your life, is shrouded in rules and regimentations,” he said. “You leave no room for humanity and emotion. How can such a person be so foolish as to believe in the Bright Horses?”

“I never said I believed,” Albert replied. 

“Do you?” 

“I’ve met a lot of people who’ve seen them,” Albert said. 

“Have you!” exclaimed the prisoner, again mockingly. “Good thing you didn’t actually see them yourself. You’d have abandoned your post and become their court jester.” “You don’t know shit,” Albert wheezed with a jab. “You were born after the burst, weened on these fucking bugs. We used to eat meat, fresh vegetables. When we were strong we were really something. Why wouldn’t the Burst change the horses? Why wouldn’t these Riders exist?” Albert let out a groan under the weight of his backpack and his words. “It made sense to believe. It made sense to have hope. In my book it still does.” 

“To hope that there are mystical, powerful men, strong enough to take the reins, as it were. Strong enough to build a better world, to give you back what your pathetic bureaucracy cannot.” “You’re just a fucking kid,” Albert said. “Nothing matters to you. No code, no sense of justice. You kill and spew poison worse than the sun.” Albert saw the prisoner tense his neck and seethe. “The world doesn’t matter to you because you have no home, no community, no family. You need the Riders of the Bright Horses to be a myth. Otherwise you’d be too scared of your own fucking weakness.” 

“I had a family!” The prisoner’s voice boomed over the desolate landscape. He turned abruptly and stared daggers at Albert, his eyes as powerful as the moonlight. Albert hovered his finger over the red button. “Go on,” the prisoner continued. “Get your shocks in. Show me hope, show me belief. Show me your justice!” He kicked at the dirt like a horse. Albert didn’t move. Not his feet, his thumb, or his eyes. 

“I had my lover. I had the woman I would lie next to under the shadows of great rocks. The woman who would shelter me when I was weak, who loved me enough to accept food when she was weak. Your men came to Chicago to talk this shit about law and order. One of them was lonely. She rebuffed him. So he broke her neck. So I killed him. Would you not do the same? What was this monster to you? A stranger. And yet you kill for him? Is that strength? Is that justice?” 

Albert fell silent and his eyes paused in their scan. They landed on a surprisingly tall and thick tree just off the road. It was decaying, but slower than the rest. It had several healthy, hearty branches whose bark looked, in the vibrant moonlight, to have the color of bark storing moisture. Albert saw a flit of a wasp’s wings landing on the largest branch. 

“What did they tell you?” his prisoner asked. “I assume you didn’t know.” 

Albert went back to scanning the area. He pushed the prisoner forward. “I don’t need to know. It doesn’t matter.” 

“It surely doesn’t,” the prisoner said. “You will try me, sentence me, and execute me, because you surely don’t have the resources to jail me like they did before the Burst. Just as I am not strong enough to resist vengeance, like you all were before the Burst.” 

Without proper rest and nutrition, the mind too fell weak to defend against invasive thoughts. Albert felt such contempt for this man. Not for the life he’d taken, but because in this moment, he’d reminded Albert of all the times he’d looked at his wife and been certain of what his love for her had made him capable of. He didn’t want to think of his wife in the presence of this man. 

“So your man killed my family, I killed him, you kill me,” the prisoner continued. “My friends will come for you, Marshal Albert. Who will come kill my friends after that? I could find no closure, your Council provides no justice. There is no justice anymore. This is what life is now. If you have a family, or friends, when we reach DC you should prepare them for a lifetime of vengeance.” 

They took a few more steps, and perhaps out of an innate competition, not wanting this man to have the last word, Albert spoke, albeit feebly. 

“I still have hope we can make it better,” he said. 

The prisoner wouldn’t let that linger. “Oh, certainly. The Riders of your Bright Horses are probably such angels, none of them would ever take a shot at my wife!” He bellowed the last phrase as though he was shaming Albert in front of an audience. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Albert bellowed in return. 

As the last sound of the last syllable dissipated in the distance, another sound bounced back at them. They stopped dead in their tracks. A moment of adrenaline kicked in, and Albert’s senses were on high alert. There was a fifty-fifty shot it was just their own screams echoing off of the distant steel and concrete, and not something threatening. 

When he didn’t hear any other sounds, not words, not footsteps, not the flit of a wasp’s wings, for five more whole minutes, he said, “Continue in silence. Get off the main road when we can.”

Neither of them made another sound for hours as they approached Cleveland. As they made their way deep into the city and down to the shore, Albert felt that he was on high alert for no good reason. This place was so desolate. No signs of human life at all. He’d forgotten just how many people the Burst had killed. Cities became uncanny places. They inherently signified dense, bright, blazing, brilliant life, symbols of how far humanity had come, seen for miles around, but no more populated than the countryside, even despite being hotspots for arthropod colonies. Albert was reminded of what DC had looked like before the community had formed. Monuments were shelters, reminiscent of homeless encampments, or they were nothing. He felt a bit better about what they’d accomplished after seeing Cleveland. 

“Your Bright Pasture, Albert,” the prisoner said. 

The moon had reached its peak, but Cleveland was not brighter than any other moonlit metropolis. Many of its structures had crumbled into the dirt, but none had seemed to sprout a verdant pasture in their place. There was no life at all, much less great horses with blinding manes. Despite the human heart beating fifteen feet in front of him, Albert had the uncanny feeling of being completely alone in a city. 

They reached the shores of Erie without incident after several hours. Albert’s knees and ankles were sore. The sun was a couple of hours away, and the deepest cold of the night had arrived. He rubbed his arms and his chest with what little strength he had. He grabbed the hilt of the pole on his hip to steady himself, but the steel was cold, and his hand recoiled. The prisoner stopped, which he was not supposed to do with instruction, but Albert welcomed the respite.

He stared at the great lake. The moon poured down like milk and made steely honey of the wild water. Not a drop to drink, not a fish to catch, no croaking frogs or slithering snakes, no fowl silhouetted against the night sky. 

The process for gathering any extant arthropods, usually cockroaches and/or fruit flies, from areas adjacent to large bodies of water was a simple yet arduous one. Gatherers, or in this case Marshals, were to follow the shoreline, watching for any pipes or junctions still holding water, or concentrations of tree litter, such as leaves or mulch material. If they come across any of these that appeared to house nests, they sucked up what specimens they could using the glass storage cylinders’ vacuum function. 

Albert removed a cylinder from his backpack with an overtly belabored grunt. He and the night were both on their last legs. He remembered how long it could take to find food using this process, and was dispirited. He had not felt so nearly empty since the Burst. He felt as if this journey from DC to Chicago and back had filled those thirty years. He was tired of this process, tired of scouring the shore of a dead, poisoned lake for cockroaches to eat and share with a ragged stranger attached to him by some law he fought for. He was tired of not being warm, not being with his wife and daughter, of living at night and fearing the sun. He was tired of the way things were. 

After only a few minutes of scouring, his prisoner appeared to share that sentiment. The man fell to his knees in the sand, right next to a rather large irradiated patch, and then sat down. “Get up.” Albert’s voice cracked.

“I think not,” the prisoner said. “If you’re to lead me to my ultimate death, whether from starvation, dehydration, exhaustion, or execution, it might as well be here. It’s a nice spot. If your Bright Horses come along, ask them to save you.” He sighed loudly. 

The new angle of the pole pulled Albert down, and he fell to his knees. His eyelids gave way to gravity, and he noticed the sky getting brighter. His vision filled with myths. In place of an empty lake he saw one lit up with vibrant seaweed and shimmering scaly fish. In place of what was once Cleveland he beheld the Garden, all trees from palm to pine, fruits of precious pigment, and all animals, known and unknown, extant and extinct, performing a processional promenade with polite precision. He saw his wife and daughter running through streams and dancing. But they kept stopping to stare at Albert and point to the right. 

Albert opened his eyes. The colors faded except for one: red. There was a plastic trash can fifty feet in front of him on the beach, piled high with what looked like wood and bark. And leaves? He sprang up with renewed energy. He sprinted halfway there and then was tugged back by the prisoner’s stagnancy. He pressed the yellow button on the hilt of the pole, and the prisoner slid through the sand toward Albert, their distance reduced to five feet, but he never rose. Albert summoned all his remaining strength, like water from a stone. His legs felt as dead and burned as the countryside, but he pulled, never looking down at the man sliding across the sand, obstinate in his acquiescence. 

With strength of mind giving strength to his body, he made it to the trash can. It was mulch. Someone had gathered what leaves and healthy wood they could and made mulch, teaming with cockroaches and even a few ants! Albert knew there was something special about Cleveland!

“Here!” he shouted. He aimed the cylinder all around the pile and gathered as many specimens as he could as they scattered. Bits of wood and leaves got sucked up too. He didn’t care. He unscrewed the top and devoured the contents. His hunger didn’t stop him from gagging as his only chance at survival crawled across his tongue and squirmed in his esophagus. 

His prisoner appeared beside him, the very form of gaunt and haggard. Albert looked at him with a sense of shared triumph that the man did not return. He just held out his hands. Albert fed him, and he ate stoically. 

A screeching noise filled the air around them. A noise Albert had not heard since the Burst, and had heard only a handful of times before it. Metal skidding across metal, but metal made of flesh and blood. 

“What was that,” the prisoner slurred. 

Albert whispered, “A horse.” 

After a few seconds, they heard hooves on pavement, moving at a gallop. Albert closed his eyes and said a prayer. He opened them and saw a glow, its source shielded by the cracked cement sloping up toward the city. His prisoner started laughing. A low growl at first, then a heartier cackle. An absurd laugh. He’d heard the funniest joke, and he’d heard it before many times. 

The figure emerged all at once atop the cement embankment. The horse had no burning mane or glowing irradiated flesh, but Albert’s mind still worked fast enough to be astounded that such a healthy mammal was alive in this new world. A magnificent white steed, strong as any pre-Burst horse. Even its nostrils were so forceful that when it snorted its contentment, Albert felt knocked back a step.

And its Rider was no less surprising. While he didn’t resemble mythical figures like Achilles or Ajax, he had the strong physique and alert senses of a pre-Burst military leader. He’d adorned his fingers, wrists, arms, and neck in various gold rings, old Rolex watches, and gold bands and chains, all shining from the light of the burning torch he carried in his right hand. He was alert, but not frenetic. He wore a smug, collected look. 

“I’ve waited a long time for a chance at this glory,” the Rider said. He had a thick Mediterranean accent, Greek or Turkish. He rolled over his R’s and grunted his vowels like he spoke the language of human history and glory. The prisoner stopped laughing. “You are not mere vagabonds,” he stated, matter-of-factly. 

“My… my name…” Albert stuttered, hoarse. “My name, is Albert. I am a Marshal with the Washington Burst Survivor Community, and I am transporting-” 

“This gives you the right to steal from the Riders of the Bright Horses?” the Rider asked. Albert paused and looked away, shamefully. He should have realized this makeshift smorgasbord would have a vigilant owner. But his accuser was a man of justice, and Albert was on a mission of justice, so his appeal would be sound. 

“Sir, I have no excuse,” Albert said. “Like you said, we’re not just moochers or scavengers. I’m charged by my leaders with serving justice to a murderer. I hope you can understand how important it is that I keep my strength up. I hope you can show mercy.” 

The Rider casually looked from Albert to the prisoner and raised his eyebrows. “This man committed a murder? What will you do with him?” 

“He’ll be afforded a trial, and sentenced if found guilty.”

The Rider scoffed and shook his head. “Your Council is ridiculous. You travel hundreds of miles, bind this murderer to you, give him precious food and shelter, even stealing ours to do so?” The Rider dug his heels into the belly of his horse. The beast leapt down off the embankment and landed gracefully in the sand below, two or three yards from the prisoner. “Such practices would never keep your strength up,” he said. “And you ask me to show mercy for such weakness?” 

Albert looked at the prisoner. His smug, cynical scowl was evident even through his exhaustion. “Save us,” Albert whispered. Then, louder, “Save us.” The prisoner looked at him as though he was mad. Albert accepted the implicit accusation, then turned to the Rider. “We traveled the stars. Now we scrounge in the dirt. We’re not supposed to be like the roaches. I couldn’t face my wife in heaven if she knew I died without hope. We tried to build something bigger, but you’re right, we’re weak. So save us. Please.” Albert felt tears stream down his cheek. “That’s what we hear. The Riders of the Bright Horses will save us!” he shouted, accusatorily, angry at the Rider for not already turning the world to the Eden he saw in his haze and setting his wife back by his side. He looked at the prisoner. His eyes lacked their former light. He looked at Albert, and then they simultaneously lowered their heads, and it felt like solidarity to Albert. 

The Rider looked at him like an old dog needing to be put down. He and his horse exhaled, so heavy, like they were heaving fate into Lake Erie. 

“We will save you, when the time comes,” the Rider said, calmly. “But not with the creature comforts of the old world. Your hope is small. Human aspiration is forever changed. In this time of death, glory never dies. I am equipped with the spirits of the Riders and old world warriors before me.” He brandished his torch, and the jewelry on his fingers and wrist clinked together. “You are both insufferable fools,” croaked the prisoner. He kicked the ground and sand shot up into the air. Albert saw every grain. First light had come. 

The prisoner spoke with strength he had not displayed in days, with the volume to issue his challenge to all the Riders in the Bright Pasture. “Hope is not for your aspirations, it is for sustenance. When everything around you is blackness and perdition, to persist with poetry in your heart and to push back, to lift what is too heavy, and rise, and to hold each other through the fear of a bright, full sun. This world, any world, becomes sufficient. That is hope. When we cower at dawn, we do so together. When we cheer as twilight breaks, we do that together. Humanity doesn’t need glory or godhood. You old worlders raised humanity as high as we would go, and the cosmos slapped us down. Yet we still fight?” 

Albert had served only the Council, never himself, for years, and aside from lacking physical comfort and fulfillment in dogged pursuit of justice, he had also deprived himself of emotional comfort and fulfillment. In this moment he remembered who he’d been before the Burst. He looked at the prisoner, both of them still nearing death from starvation and exhaustion, and now saw a man to whom he would’ve shown mercy and understanding, a man he would’ve been happy to have a drink with, a complex man whose mind did not offend, but rather offered harmony, despite his transgressions in this hard time. Albert thought of the faces of those he’d turned in who had not bothered to speak as much as this man. He looked at the trash can piled high, and again saw a wasp flit down and land on the nutritious bounty of reddish leaves.

The prisoner hung his head. The Rider sighed and shook his head. “Marshal Albert,” the Rider said. “I have decided I will show mercy. You may eat and be on your way. Go in peace. I will show true justice to this cynical degenerate.” 

The prisoner’s head shot up and he locked fearful eyes with Albert. The Rider kicked his horse, which reared up and neighed fiercely. The horse then turned around and the Rider drove his heels into it once more. Albert could see what was coming, and moved his thumb to the yellow button on the hilt of the telescopic pole connecting him to the prisoner just in time. As the horse’s rear legs flashed through the morning mist at the prisoner’s chest, the pole extended, and the horse’s back hooves collided not with flesh, but with the steel joint of the pole. The prisoner and Albert were both knocked on their backs from the immense force of the kick. 

When Albert picked his head up, he saw the prisoner free of their forced connection, and frozen on his feet, his eyes alone in flight, moving between Albert and the Rider. Albert scrambled to his feet with great difficulty. The Rider turned his horse back around. Albert tried to grab the pole and lift it, but the cold steel felt like dry ice on his old, withered, weak hands, and his hand recoiled from the sting. The prisoner took note of what Albert was attempting, and shouted “Here!” He darted towards the pole and kicked it up into the air, so that the end that had been attached to him soared towards the Rider. As it arced over the magnificent mane of the white steed, Albert pressed the red button. The end of the pole crackled in the morning mist and then made contact with the Rider’s immense chest. The Rider seized up and shook, and tumbled down off of his Bright Horse.

The prisoner mustered a weak smile and nodded at Albert, then ran, as fast as his legs would carry him, to the east along the shore, most likely in search of shelter and a way to free his arms from the prison Albert had set them in. Albert pressed the yellow button again and the pole retracted totally, no longer than a kaleidoscope. Not wanting to cross near the writhing Rider, he ran off south. It was really more of a trudge. His shin bones felt like they were made of old particleboard, and could crumble at any moment. 

He ran two whole blocks into what was once Downtown Cleveland. He looked back and couldn’t see the Rider chasing him, so he stumbled over a fallen wall into a nearby building. There were faded shards of glass all over the floor, a couple of tables and chairs strewn about, and behind the counter at the far end of the room were dusty ovens and toasters. Albert chuckled at the fact that he was about to die of starvation in an old sandwich shop. 

The air was thick and he struggled to breathe. He heard two or three voices shouting down by the lake. He took off his backpack and lay down. When the Rider knocked him over he must have fallen into that patch of irradiated sand, because globs of black cesium mud dripped from his rolled-up nylon tent. The nylon material deteriorated and disappeared quickly. The Council delayed in addressing his suggestion, and now the failure of his mission was truly certain. 

Rather than being disenchanted by his potential failure, he was now content with his certain failure. He didn’t know justice and strength beyond what the Council told him, but if that Rider was a man of justice and strength, Albert wanted no part of it. There was no harmony in bringing that prisoner in. There was no harmony in bringing any of them in. Just like his prisoner, he had transgressed in these hard times. He was not himself. He was twilight rising and dawn falling. 

Still, his failure had been a success. The prisoner was free, and he was a true survivor. Albert hoped with all his heart that despite his transgressions in these hard times, he could still offer that harmony to a pained young man. 

Dawn broke. The deadly sun burst through the gray sky and filled the streets outside. Albert looked out the window and saw the sturdy brick wall of a church. How lucky he felt, to not have chosen this shelter, but to take what the city offered. 

His breath got shallow and his vision got blurry. The voices approached as he departed. He heard the church bells ringing, he heard his wife singing. He closed his eyes and stared into the blackness. 

Albert cast his heart into the past, with his wife and daughter, with good food and a peaceful life. With his last ounce of hope, he cast his mind into a future where he would stumble upon the true Bright Horses, prancing in their Bright Pasture, lit up by their fiery manes and wild spirits. The old world and the new would be set ablaze by the burning beasts of myth, and we could cast off the tired tasks of redeeming justice and serving aspirations, and persist with pleasant poetry in the paradise of a glorious dawn.

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Ash Patel-Brown is now on an eight-day streak. COW24’s new meteorologist has accurately predicted the weather eight days in a row, an unthinkable feat that has never been attempted until now. One can say she’s taking the meteorology world by storm. This is John Maynard reporting for XYMN from Boston, MA.

July 10 

Sir, the viewers are irate! We are getting more phone calls, letters, and emails than we’ve received about any story or subject we’ve covered in the twenty years I’ve worked here. People are confused. They’re angry. They have no idea what to do with accurate weather forecasts. An elderly couple got soaked because they left their umbrellas at home—Ash had predicted rain. They’re threatening to sue the station, and Ash because she’s changing the old way of doing forecasts. Others are upset that we’ve made their lives more predictable and boring. Today we received a letter from Congressman Jordan’s office. He plans on launching an investigation into Ash’s liberal education and elite credentials. By the way, he’s also threatening to subpoena all of our internal correspondence. 

July 12 

Ash, consider this your first warning. This station has a long and storied history. While we appreciate your work ethic and commitment, you are changing too many things, and too fast. First, you insisted on ditching the traditional blue/black/gray suits for dresses and then last Thursday, you wore a print! On air! I’m surprised we haven’t been targeted by the Epilepsy Foundation. But really, for Pete’s sake… Haha, get it? I’m Pete!… Haha, anyway, you have to bring inaccuracy back to the forecasts. People are not ready for change. Nosireeebob, they are not. It has to rain when none is predicted. It should be sunny when you forecast a storm. You can’t mess with traditions!

July 13 

Are you kidding me? That witch predicted a sunny day and it’s fucking sunny! I already cut the patio servers thinking it will rain. Now the guests are complaining they have to sit outside on a beautiful day when they were expecting to be told patio seats weren’t available due to rain. Goddamnit! I’m going to have to put on an apron and serve the cranky beasts myself!

July 15 

Dear Asha, 

This is to inform you that the Meteorologists Association & Glaciologists of America is suspending your membership. You have brought disrepute to our noble profession with your “revolutionary” practices. Scientific theories and fact-based predictions have no place in our modern world. We are also worried that you will lend credence to climate change believers and socialists. Please return your official ID and weatherman’s raincoat at your earliest convenience. Sincerely, 

Donald Goodwin 

President, MAGA

July 16 

Yes, Ma! I’m going to stop thinking so much… 

…Yes, I want to keep my job. 

…Of course, I want a husband and family someday. 

… I threw out my analysis. I’m going to predict a snowstorm… Yes, exactly. It’s July, I can’t possibly be right. 

…I’ll give them what they want. Don’t worry. Give Dad a kiss for me.

July 18 

This is John Maynard reporting for XYMN from Boston, MA. A freak snowstorm is causing panic around New England. Sub-zero temperatures have been recorded throughout the region. At grocery stores, shelves have been emptied of bread and milk while other retailers are struggling to meet demand for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas decorations.

A growing chorus of voices is blaming this anomaly on meteorologist Asha Patel. In the House of Representatives, a bipartisan resolution condemning Patel for her hysterical behavior has over 400 cosponsors. Station owners offered no comments but sources close to COW24 President Eric Murdoch Jr. confirmed that the station has already launched an internal investigation into the veracity of Asha Patel’s birth certificate.

July 20 

Asha Patel was seen wearing a tan suit.

July 22 

Comedian Bob Whitefellow was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom for his critically acclaimed skit featuring an interview with an Asha Patel mask made to look like a severed head.

July 24 

Extradition proceedings against Asha Patel grind to a halt after the mayor of Jacksonville, FL refused to acknowledge her birthright city-zenship. Patel has already been declared a persona non grata by the state of Florida. State lawmakers in the Sunshine State are filing emergency legislation to replace teaching about slavery with a course on the horrific failings of Asha Patel.

July 30 

Asha Patel offered a tearful apology for being a woman, brown, scientist, and anything else that might have caused offense to the American people.

At a hastily scheduled competing press conference in the parking lot of a Hobby Bobby, former presidential candidate and retired American hero, Rudolph Plump urged Americans to reject Asha Patel’s apology.

July 31 

Breaking news: Asha Patel’s emails were leaked to the media by an anonymous Danish activist. Among other gems, the emails revealed that Patel had turned down offers to appear in the next season of the Indian Matchmaker as well as Bravo’s hit reality show Idle Women of Jacksonville.

August 1 

LGBT+ activists are alarmed by Patel’s Bravo snub.

August 2 

Young Republicans and Democrats voice concern and confusion over Patel’s use of a Hotmail email address.

August 3 

MEN365 reports that Asha Patel has been granted asylum in Afghanistan. Patel told MEN365 reporter Mitchell Crank that she is looking forward to feeling safe again and to the anonymity granted by being wholly excluded from public life and employment opportunities.

August 15 

Sen. Warren Liz cast the lone vote against bombing Afghanistan for harboring Asha Patel.

August 30 

COW24 President Eric Murdoch Jr. announced that Kandi Kardashian has been selected to replace Asha Patel as the Chief Meteorologist for the station. “I hope that Kandi’s appointment helps us turn the page on the recent controversy. The American people are ready to move on,” Murdoch said in a statement released by the company. 

It seems that people on the street agree with Murdoch. Our intrepid reporter John Maynard checks in with the people.

“I’m just bored of the whole thing. It’s time to talk about things that matter. Did you see Kandi’s TikTok reel?” Brittany Lavoie, Burlington. 

“I don’t even know where Afghanistan is.” Matt Mattson, Portland. 

“I’m sick of the media’s gotcha questions. No, I cannot spell the name of that place.” Farah Malin, Juneau. 

“They need to have better special effects and actors if they want us to care about the war.” Loren Hobert, Graspen. 

This is John Maynard reporting for XYMN from Boston, MA.

The post A Perfect Storm appeared first on The New Absurdist.

With some help from you, reliable sources, and our editorial team we have put together a brief guide for learning about what is currently happening in Palestine, around the world, and what we can do to support people in the face of genocide and ethnic cleansing. While the New Absurdist is not a news source, it is a place for education, activism, and promoting positive growth in the world. It is both our privilege and our responsibility to elevate the voices of people who are being censored for speaking out for peace and basic human rights. 

At this time, we’d like to invite artists and writers who are passionate about anti-fascism, anti-capitalism, anti-racism, and Palestinian support to consider submitting their work to The New Absurdist, and as always we will do our best to elevate these underrepresented voices on our platform

Introduction 

In the Western world, and as we can see in the United States, many people, including students, are being doxxed for speaking out against the ongoing genocide and ethnic cleansing of Palestinians. And although there has been a slight shift after much public protest to offer a more ‘balanced’ perspective, much of mainstream media has been offering biased reports dehumanizing and downplaying the plight of suffering Palestinians.

In stark contrast, when Russia invaded Ukraine, international leaders applauded Ukrainian resistance against occupation, because they were people that “looked like us” — essentially people that didn’t look like brown skinned refugees — but blond and blue eyed people, “civilized people” that deserved our empathy. 

Gaza is currently, and has been, an open air prison where Palestians have no right to free movement, a situation made exponentially worse by the incessant and indiscriminate bombing by the IDF. Thousands of people have been killed in an extremely short amount of time, with 74% of them being women, children and the elderly. Around half of the Palestinian population are children. Public infrastructure such as hospitals are now practically nonexistent due to Israeli bombing and war crimes. Like many others around the world, we demand a permanent ceasefire, and an end to genocide, occupation and apartheid. 

This article is divided into three main sections which you can click on below to jump down.  

1. The Occupation of Palestine
2. The Humanitarian Crisis in Gaza
3. About the Cover: The Watermelon
4. What can we do to support Palestine

The Occupation of Palestine

For many people in the US and the western world, what is being called the “Israel-Hamas War” seems to have started in a horrifying attack on October 7, 2023 when Hamas killed around 1000 people and abducted around 200 people to the Gaza strip.  For many others, especially those in Palestine, the violence goes more than 75 years back, with Palestinians facing illegal occupation by the Israeli military. 

Nakba

After the Partition Plan (Resolution 181) passed in 1947, Palestine was divided by the United Nations into 3 parts: a Jewish state, an Arab state, and the City of Jerusalem under UN administration. This plan was rejected by the Arab world, on the grounds that it was unfair and violated the UN Charter. Israeli militias launched attacks against Palestinian villages, destroying hundreds, killing thousands of people, and forcing a mass exodus of Palestinians to flee, never able to return to their homes. 

More than 1 million Palestinians were left living in Israeli occupied territories. This forced exodus became known as nakba, translated as “catastrophe” in English. It is considered to be a core part of the shared trauma, history and experience of being Palestinian. 75 years later, Palestinians continue to have their rights denied, whether it’s by dispossession and displacement by Israeli settlements, evictions, land confiscation or home demolitions.

Apartheid 

The situation in Palestine has been aptly described by Amnesty International as apartheid. 

Apartheid may ring as a big buzz-word. There is a misconception at best, and a Zionist sentiment at worst, that the situation in Israel cannot be at all akin to apartheid, at least as people know it from South Africa.  After all, as the Jewish Virtual Library (published by the American-Israeli Cooperative Enterprise) puts it, “Jews are the majority within Israel, but the non-Jewish minority…enjoy full citizenship with voting rights and representation in the government.” It’s giving ‘I’m not racist, I have a black friend,’ or ‘I don’t see color’ energy to justify systematic racism and oppression. The Palestinians in the Bank are considered to be in a ‘different situation’ because of what is called “incessant terrorism” and there is denial of any injustice done to civilians living in Palestinian territories illegally occupied and controlled by Israeli military and settler violence. 

Amnesty International describes apartheid as “territorial fragmentation; segregation and control; dispossession of land and property; and denial of economic and social rights,” Palestinians currently do not have the same rights as Israelis in the illegally-occupied territories of Palestine. Checkpoints, roadblocks, and settler-only roads make daily tasks almost impossible to complete. Getting to work, school, or even the hospital requires an extensive amount of bureaucracy and luck in the permite regime. For these reasons, Amnesty International has written extensively on Israeli war crimes and officially considered the treatment of Palestinian citizens in these occupied territories as apartheid.  Human Rights Watch has also pointed out these injustices, without directly using the label.

In 2022 for the first time in history, the United Nations commemorated nakba, or The Catastrophe on its 75th anniversary, and proposed to make it officially recognized in 2023. Just months after this international recognition of Israel violence against Palestinians, we are once again witnessing Israeli militia indiscriminately bomb people and infrastructure, killing exponential numbers of Palestinian civilians. The Israeli response to the Hamas attack and subsequent kidnapping of hostages, has turned into an attempt at ethnic cleansing and further establishment of a Zionist and Nationalistic military state. 

It is very important to note that governments do not necessarily represent their people, and the Zionist movement does not represent all Jews. Zionism is a Jewish nationalist movement that calls for the creation of a Jewish state, which gathered much more support after the horrifying events of the Holocaust, and as a response to the rise of both nationalism and Anti-Semitism on a global scale. But in practice, Zionists are engaging in settler colonialism, including creating illegal settlements, driving out and ethnic cleansing of indigenous Palestinians with the justification of returning Jews to their ancestral homeland. Before 1948 and the formation of the Israeli ethnostate, Muslims, Jews, and Christians in various empires had coexisted in Palestine for generations. 

 In addition to recognizing that it is difficult to deprogram from philosophies and politics that we may have grown up with, it is also necessary to combat our own anxiety and fears and deprogram ourselves from Anti-Semitism, Islamophobia, and Zionism. Ethnic connotations and stereotypes associated with religion are used as a tool to dehumanize people and ‘other’ them. With the power of the internet and spread of information, people are not only learning about the liberation movement for Palestine, but for the Congo, Sudan, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, and many others. 

The Humanitarian Crisis in Gaza

Gaza is a small strip of land (28 by 6 miles) populated by 2.3 million Palestinians, making it one of the most densely populated places in the world. About 50% are children. The vast majority of Palestinians in Gaza are refugees who were uprooted from their ancestral homes in Israel occupied land. Most of them are unable to leave Gaza.

In response to the 240 hostages taken and 1,000 civilians killed by Hamas on October 7th, Israeli forces have killed 15,000 Palestinian civilians (more than 10 times the amount). 

While it’s difficult to compare tragedy, as a frame of reference, about 10,000 people were killed in the Ukraine War over 2 years, and 3,000 lives were lost on 9/11. Entire families have been killed as a result of Israel’s indiscriminate bombing, and it is estimated that a Palestinian child is killed every 10 minutes on average, since October 7, 2023. 

Palestinians in Gaza face dire conditions in Gaza due to Israeli occupation and international humanitarian war crimes. This includes:

• White Sulfur bombing, an international war crime with a loophole used for ‘signaling’ as an excuse over civilian areas, which can cause severe burning down to the bone. 
• Restricted Water supply and Hazardous water quality – Israel controls the water resources of the West Bank. Palestinians receive only 20% of the water resources, and are unable to drill new wells or install pumps without permits from Israel, which are nearly impossible to attain. They aren’t even allowed to collect rainwater without having cisterns destroyed by the Israeli army.  (See Climate Diplomacy for more information on the Israel Palestine Water Sharing Conflict.)
• Extremely dire living conditions – In some shelters, 400 people share 1 toilet.
• Destruction of communication infrastructure and targeting of Journalists and their families
• Collective punishment involving civilians- international war crime
• Cutting access to food, fuel, electricity, water, medicine, and internet 
• Bombing of civilian areas including Refugee Camps, Schools, Hospitals, and Mosques – An international war crime
• Military detainment of Palestinian children – hundreds of children are detained and prosecuted in the Israeli military court system  every year
• Crumbling War-torn infrastructure

About the Cover: The Watermelon as a symbol of Palestinian solidarity and resistance

We invite you to print this cover and use it freely at Pro-Palestinian protests. 

This cover is inspired by how in  2023, protesters in Tel Aviv used images of a watermelon captioned with “This is not a Palestinian flag” in response to a ban on the Palestinian flag and its colors, enforced by the Israeli military.   

This is not the first time the Palestinian flag and its colors have been banned by Israel. Israel banned the Palestinian Flag and national colors following the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, when Israel captured Gaza, the West Bank, and East Jerusalem from Historic Palestine, displacing more than 500,000 Palestinians and effectively more than doubling Israeli territory. 

In the 1980s, artists in the Palestinian city Ramaallah were forbidden by Zionist forces to use the Palestinian national colors in any capacity. This meant that artworks containing red, green or black could be confiscated by the Israeli police. Not even a painting of a flower, or a watermelon could make it through. This idea lent itself for the watermelon to become a symbol of Palestinian solidarity.

This image, and others like it,  of “Not a Palestinian flag,” or “Not a Watermelon” (paired with an image of a watermelon) might remind you of Rene Magritte’es famous image of “This is not a Pipe.” Artists like Rene Magritte were part of the Dada movement in the early 20th century, who made surreal and nonsensical images in protest and reaction to World War 1, nationalism, violence, and modern capitalist society. 

To add another layer of cultural significance, watermelons were a world-renowned speciality of Palestine before the 1948 Nakba when Israeli Zionist forces destroyed hundreds of Palestinian villages, killing and forcing out thousands of Palestinians to gain territory. As the IDF and Israeli settler authorities started occupying Palestinian neighborhoods, they also drove the large and remarkable Palestinian watermelons out of competition with Israeli seed companies. 

In 2021, after an Israeli court ruling allowed settlers to forcefully evict Palestinian families from their family homes, the watermelon resurfaced as a symbol of protest and resistance for Palestinian solidarity once again. 

Despite how the 1967 ban was officially lifted in 1993, Palestinian flags are still taken down and banned in Israeli occupied territories in the name of ‘keeping the peace’. And in recent crackdowns, Israel’s national security minister Ben-Gvir, has ordered police to ban Palestinian flags from public places. (Hence, the 2023 Tel-Aviv Bus Protests)  Ben Gvir belongs to the far right Otzma Yehudit/ Jewish Power political party (Described by Professor Eva Illouz as a Jewish fascist group)  and is known for his history of racism and pro-settler stance. The ban on Palestinian flags and colors is just one of Ben Gvir’s continued bids for power in government, including trying to make it his position to direct police policy.

As the saying goes, “where one burns books, one will soon burn people.”  When political powers begin to dictate what is appropriate and inappropriate for society in art, such as Nazis labeling art as “degenerate” it is only a matter of time before people start to be targeted and persecuted. The banning of Palestinian national colors and symbolism during protests in Western countries, even in a painting of a watermelon, is yet another example of how systems of oppression are imitated throughout history. Consider how the censorship of media such as arts and literature applies to the censorship of people’s right to exist, such as the Florida Book Bans, which have removed around 300 books in the last school year.

Now, we see these sentiments reborn once again in watermelon emojis and symbolism in a reaction to capitalism, fascism, nationalism, and violence. Absurdity and nonsense in art, writing, and media function to point out the absurdity of the injustices we face in the world. 

What can we do to support Palestine?

A special thank you to contributor and reader Rowan M. for her help with compiling research and writing out ways to help and protest. Read her article “5 Palestinian Films and Documentaries to Watch” on The New Absurdist. 

There is a place for all forms of protest in the face of oppression, and we’d like to emphasize our take on efficient or sustainable protest. For example, protesting in the streets may not be an option for disabled people. For People of Color, speaking out publicly may affect their livelihood much more than white counterparts.

We encourage you to ask yourself what is the way that I can help best: Is it a conversation with your peers? Is it monetary? Is it using your art? Your writing? Are you a good speaker? Do you have a platform? We have compiled some resources on ways that you can make a difference below. 

BDS! Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions 

• BDS is a Palestinian led movement for freedom, justice and equality. This movement uses economic and cultural boycotts against companies that financially support Israel’s apartheid regime and violation of Palestinian human rights. 
• The three main goals of BDS are to urge nonviolent pressure on Israel until it complies with international law by meeting 3 demands.

1. End Israel occupation and colonization of all Arab lands and dismantling the wall
2. Recognizing the fundamental rights of the Arab- Palestinian citizens of Israel to full equality
3. Respecting, Protecting, and promoting the rights of Palestinian refugees to return to their homes and properties as stipulated in UN Resolution 194. 

• Check out the official BDS website to see what major companies to boycott. 
• You can also use https://bdnaash.com to identify which companies do and do not support the illegal Israeli occupation of Palestine. 

Donate to Doctors Without Borders to provide much needed medical care to people in Gaza and the West Bank

• Unlike Israel, which has strong emergency and health care systems, Gaza and the West Bank urgently lack medical personnel and supplies. As Doctors Without Borders puts it, “Medical facilities and personnel must be protected and respected, hospitals and ambulances are not targets”— not that that has stopped Israel militia from bombing hospitals and necessary public infrastructure. 
• Doctors without Borders is completely funded by independent donors to mobilize and save lives when a crisis strikes. Click here to Donate to Doctors without Borders. 

Send an E-sim to Palestine

• In addition to killing thousands of people in the Gaza Strip, Israel has been cutting off power and fuel supplies to more than 2 million people in Gaza. These internet and electricity blackouts mean that families cannot communicate with their loved ones and Palestinians cannot contact the outside world. 
• The internet has been key in debunking falsehoods, and helping spread first hand information and experiences. These blackouts serve as covers for human rights violations in Palestine, preventing people from both receiving and broadcasting vital information and updates. 
• Sending an E-sim helps connect people to the internet, their loved ones, and communicate with the outside world. E-sim cards are pieces of software that act like traditional SIM cards that allow people to activate a new cellular plan with  phone and internet access on their existing phone.
  • To buy an Esim: 
  • 1. Download one of these eSIM charging apps: Holafly, Nomad, Simly, Airolo. HolaFly is the most in demand right now, but all are needed.  
  • 2. Choose the location and number of GB you want to purchase. Over 30 GB would be great, but all amounts are helpful. 
  • 3. Email a clear image of the QR code (not the link, but the QR code itself) to gazaesims@gmail.com. Then @mirna_elhelbawi and the @connectinghumanity_ team will distribute to folks in need on the ground in Palestine
  • Slideshow Instructions from @bintmeetsworld  

Buy from Palestinian Businesses

• Buy an original Palestinian Keffiyeh from the last keffiyeh factory in Palestine here, from Hirbawi.
  • The Keffiyeh is a traditional scarf traditionally worn by nomadic peoples and villagers in Palestine to protect wearers from the harsh sun and sand. Nowadays, it has become a symbol of Palestinian pride, identity, and resistance. 
  • Along with Pro-Palestinian Protests, the Keffiyeh has been banned in many Western countries.
  • While visiting family for Thanksgiving, 3 Palestinian students in Vermont were shot while wearing keffiyeh, and a woman charged with a hate crime assault attacked a man who was wearing a keffiyeh with his 18 month old son. 

• Use Palestine Portal to buy Palestinian goods
• Palestine Online Store is an activist-run store whose mission is to promote Palestine through its handcrafts, foods, films, books, and solidarity apparel.
• 8 Palestinian businesses for you to support

Contact your Representatives

For our US readers, Jewish Voices for Peace and US Campaign for Palestinian Rights both offer instructions and caller scripts for how to contact your representative and senator’s office for a permanent ceasefire and refusal to send American weapons and funding to the Israeli military. 

Consume, Elevate, and Support Palestinian voices and content. 

For example, consider these independent journalists in Gaza who are showing their experiences first hand, in a raw and powerful way on instagram:

• @hindkhoudary
• @byplestia
• @wizard_bisan1
• @motaz_azaiza
• @ahmedhijazee

You could also follow other influencers on social media who are sharing updated information on the ongoing genocide. Some examples of who you can follow on instagram are:

• @wissamgaza
• @rosypirani
• @jenamatari
• @quillmistress
• @voice_of_palestinians_
• @resist_zine 

• Watch Documentaries and Films by and about Palestinian people. See Rowan M’s article “5 Palestinian Films to Watch” on The New Absurdist. 
• Read both Short and Long Form Content about Palestine. The following links have reading lists for books regarding Palestinian history and perspectives, including colonization, violence, economy, LGBTQ, culture, and fiction.
  • Decolonize Palestine Reading List
  • Haymarket has a Free Palestine! reading list. All of these books are currently 20% Off, and come with a free ebook where available. 

Protest

We invite you to print this cover and use it freely at Pro-Palestinian protests.

• Shut it Down for Palestine has information on marches, walkouts, sit ins, and other forms of direct action
• Resist Zine has visual guides for:
  • Dealing with Police at Protests 
  • Guide for Youth Protesters 
  • Protest Anxiety

Resources and Useful Links

• Jewish Voices for Peace
• STOP GAZA GENOCIDE Ceaasefire Now Public Tool Kit 
• Contact the White House 
• American Friends Service Community 
• The United Nations: The Question of Palestine: Timeline of Events
• Reuters: Mapping the conflict in Israel and Gaza

Thank you for reading. Once again, at this time, we’d like to invite artists and writers who are passionate about anti-fascism, anti-capitalism, anti-racism, and Palestinian support to submit their work to The New Absurdist, and as always we will do our best to elevate these underrepresented voices on our platform.

The post This Is Not A Watermelon appeared first on The New Absurdist.