It is we the workers who built these palaces and cities here in Spain and in America and everywhere. We, the workers, can build others to take their place. And better ones! We are not in the least afraid of ruins. Buenaventura Durruti (14 July 1896 – 20 November 1936)
The media’s outrageous and one sided view of the ‘violence’ on the streets of the capital city on Wednesday is to be expected.
It is the propaganda cry of the state, full of sorrow, full of tears.
Their hypocritical statements often reflect a child like fear of everything they can not understand.
But they are the parent who screams at a child for making a mess of the new carpet or upholstery, placing inanimate objects into a category way above that of the human person.
Their petty nationalism drives a chorus of manipulation of ‘truth’.
A memorial becomes sacrosanct.
A shop window becomes the life blood of national identity.
‘Mess with us and we’ll hunt you down’ they cry.
But theirs is the verbiage of history, a mental state they can’t expire.
They call it violence, we call it beautiful.
They call it hatred, we call it love for humanity.
They call it ‘then’, we call it ‘here, now, together as one’.
Forward and never look back, ours into destiny, soon, someday maybe we’ll arrive.
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