JUDGEMENT DAY

Art by liliboo

And so here we are again, brought into question once more. Having to defend our way of life, our way of love, our being.

We stand in front of a panel, their eyes fixed on us, expressions a mix of confusion and disbelief. They frown, unable to comprehend our choices, our being. They think it’s madness at best, evil at worst, and they watch as we, weary, try to defend ourselves. We recycle the same arguments because, unfortunately, they remain unchanged. Perhaps we now have more scientific evidence to back us, but from the look on their faces, it’s clear they neither understand nor want to understand the evidence. To them, it is abhorrent. We are attempting to unravel society, they whisper.

The judge watches us, pity in his eyes. He’s seen this before, and with a heavy heart, he delivers the same sentence.

Our defense stands, tired and frustrated, glaring at the panel, nearly throwing the papers into the air, lungs filled with a long, exhausted scream. But they find the professionalism to remain silent, seething with quiet rage. They have done all they could. Perhaps some in the panel were swayed, but even from where we stand, we see it: Not enough. Not enough, once again.

In between trials, we ask ourselves, what more can we do? How can we sway them, touch that part of empathy—if not empathy, then just basic humanity? The more enthusiastic and optimistic among us try every possible approach, convinced that humanity will ultimately prevail. The more pessimistic among us, however, feel only hatred. Pushed to the point of “us” versus “them,” fantasizing about the terror we could unleash if only we had the power. Dreaming of a world with just us, the them gone. Dangerous thinking, yet oddly calming. Because how do you fight hate? Sometimes, you hate right back.

The optimists and pacifists shake their heads. No, they say, we won’t sink to their level. But deep down, we want to. We want to be there with them. Maybe then we could understand each other.

No. The optimists win once more. And so we plead. We reason.

But the pessimists, ever the realists, want to say, Look where we are again. Court. And the judge, we already know what he is about to say. But we can’t even summon that bitterness. Instead, we feel sadness for those of us who still believe in humanity. They watch, teary-eyed, apologetic, and no, it’s not them we are angry at. For them, we are sad that humanity has repeatedly disappointed them. For the rest, they receive nothing but contempt from us. They get rebellion. They get radicalism. The prosecutors have the audacity to smile, confident in their victory. Of course they know they’ve won. These are their people. They know they are right.

The judge sighs deeply, eyeing us as we huddle together. Behind us, our supporters in all their many forms, observe on forlornly. 

He speaks with finality: “You are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment. First count, being different: 50 years. Second count, failing to understand how the social order works: 50 years. Third count, daring to think and want differently: 100 years. Fourth count, corrupting society: life without parole. And finally, because you are a burden to society: life without parole. You may appeal within 90 days. Then your case will be reviewed.”

The gavel slams down, and we wince, jolted back to reality. Then... we hear the cheers and applause. The gasps of despair, the cries of protest, and the silent sobs are drowned out. It would be heartbreaking, but we’ve heard this melody before.

The most persistent of us clench their jaws. They’ll be back. The angriest of us seethe, ready to lash out at anyone who dares to glance at us wrong. The hopeful of us remain calm, quiet, and contemplative, their minds and hearts torn in turmoil. And the youngest—those here for the first time—look to us for permission to cry.

Of course you can. But you must stand. Because on and on we must go; for our place in the world, or until there are no more bodies to fight.