Poison Penmanship and Politics: Twitter and The Armchair Activist


The ever growing number of online freedom fighters has been an issue since the advent of the notorious Kony campaign by Invisible Children. At first impression, you must be wondering why it would even be an issue. Why would the increase in conscious citizens using Twitter to tackle real world issues be an issue? Romance.

Freedom fighting has often been romanticised as something heroic and courageous, filled with grit and bloodshed, something noble. The camaraderie, the union of men and women bound by oppression and fighting for a single ideal, freedom. Now this may be a cinematic description of what the Syrian rebels or PKK soldiers may be doing but nonetheless it paints a picture that does not exist. Now I do not doubt nor am I talking ill of those around the world in these political positions – however the fusion of the Internet and the romance of anti-establishment has created a new battleground for these online Guevara-influenced guerillas.

Social media was at the forefront of the Arab Spring and the ones I speak of bear no resemblance to them. I am talking about those who tweet excerpts of The 48 Laws of Power, nationalistic views and the odd picture of Karl Marx or Fidel Castro smoking a cigar with an abstract comment like “the ashes fall like my comrades in battle”. For the readers who get the impression I am a right wing nut with a disdain for anything red or left – no, I am quite the opposite. I was born and bred in London to Kurdish refugee parents. I’ve been submerged in politics, completely out of my control, since I can remember. Now rather than parade what I believe in and what I have learnt, the point I am making is that these armchair activists take themselves too seriously and honestly believe they are waging a necessary war via the Internet.

One click of a hashtag on Twitter and you are sent into a warzone of regurgitated facts and angry polemicists seemingly trying to build a nation with 140 characters. The romance of it attracts the superficial ones. Some do like being oppressed, most may not know it but they are driven by it, they like fighting for a cause and without it, feel redundant. So what do they do? They fight fire with fire. An endless war that they initially tried to end by taking up arms online and as a result they unknowingly become a victim of their own circumstance. The oppressed and oppressors are no different in this case, just two sides of the same coin. For people who are supposed to believe in the welfare of mankind and basic human rights, they are very quick to incite violence on their oppressors or those who disagree with them.

Now I get the same response over and over: “They’re raising awareness, it counts for something”. Yes it does but where does awareness end and action begin? The internet is a great tool and a great tool must be utilised, it is not intended to just add ease. It is easy to tweet a 140 character war cry from your armchair. However, I am not suggesting you get the next flight to Tibet and spearhead an independence movement. My intention is for you to be critical of superficial tendencies that get in the way of something so integral as peace and safety for your neighbour.

There is an undeniable romantic appeal towards freedom fighters and anti-establishment. As a result, people become so concerned with the supposed flashy and glamourous life of a guerilla. They do not act like thinkers and builders on Twitter. They act like the very same soldiers they “fight” against. Thus the internet is another battlefield and everyone is equipped with weapons ranging from Twitter to Facebook. People need to understand that the revolution will not be Youtube-d. Actually, it already has.


Poems on War



Natural Phenomena 

In the beginning,

It was sticks and stones breaking bones but soon enough we grew smarter,

Like sultry whores we taught the bow to ejaculate the arrow,

Discarding it as soon as the prints on our fingers learnt to tread artfully, doing the danse macabre back and forth, along the worn metal trigger

All for the dirt beneath the fingernails,

The moon grimaces and the stars blink uncontrollably looking at the state of nature in nation states from trebuchets to torture,

Hearing the bugle and drums outplay each other in unison, the beat muting hearts,

The dead buried on top of the dead leaving debris and dust to be stored upon forgotten men of forgotten ages with forgotten names from forgotten battles,

Did it really matter?

Was it really worth it?

Does THAT even matter?

As the gas erodes the organs and the mouth froths crying its ghastly tears horrified at the pungent taste of extermination,

The broth of war boiling in passions of rage burning the base of humanity’s melting pot, spurts of blood and whisky, dripping out of the exit wound leaving mother Earth to guzzle it down as we do the wine,

Disease intruding on the ligaments of the Land slowly shredding our bonds and creating disability where once moved unity,

As the heart surrenders and the brain makes it final defiant stand,

The spears of thought stabbing at our soul,

All that could of been,

Never to be,

Because of old men and new desires.


The brain’s vile streak surrounded by white marble pillars erected in its honour,

Is this is what it means to be living?

The sea goes only as far as the shore and I’m sure if it had the chance it would drown the lakes that separated from its idea of unity,

I see beauty in the world only as an absence of evil…

Ask yourself what if right at the start our sin wasn’t forgiven?

That the sadistic demon of fire sought not to banish the existence of our two curious ancestors and torture two spirits endlessly but an eternity of souls for eternity

That we bred, and with it burnt bread, birthing brutality and bloodshed as Beezlebubs backyard bloated,

The pendulum of life thwacking upon you like the swing set would, with all the force and urgency of the vitality of youth bringing us

To our knees,

As it first splits the skin,

the fresh blood oozing gently onto the scraped surroundings of starved white pores and the physique trembles uncontrollably welcoming our first experience of misery,

With stumbling uncertainty we back onto the merry-go-round of life tortured & terrorised in a trail of routine,

vomiting whatever we can sacrifice to present our presence,

so we are remembered,

Dizzy, we wander aimlessly with Few flinging themselves onto the climbing frame  imprinting their fingerprints as hard as they can, gripping onto trivialities forgetting Life beneath them,

Then they fall,

Body on concrete,

Bones crunching and joints popping,

They fall,

All being privy to the irony of the slide as we climb time only to regress lower  and lower,

What if this was already hell?

and because it’s not pitiful pits of lava where pins pierce the eyes and the charred tongue becomes a blind palate in the toothless mouth leaving only the ears to be serenaded by an orchestra of wails and shrieks,

Is because Lucifer’s most coveted virtue is sloth and all other traits are pygmies in comparison to the magnificence of this one,

As he warms up singing holes in the ozone layer in what to him is foreplay,

An intricate game pulling the strings of his most rotten toys,

Wetting our lips with the brandy so we  slowly sink softly deeper into the lullaby of the last rites

Soon to be students in his class of Scholomance,

What if,

This has always been,

And will always be,

The Devil’s Playground.