Diaspora’s Refugees

Where can you go when you’ve been at war for 300 years?

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We are the children of refugees.

Unwilling ones.

We are refugees from a war that began three hundred years ago.

Sit with that for a second or two.

If you are a person of color of the African Diaspora, the great rape of a continent, where two to ten million people whose lives as they knew them ended in war.

In violence.

In subjugation.

And to be fair, we weren’t the only ones to suffer.

To our brothers among the First Nation whose kindness was repaid with the self-same war, who fought until they could fight no more and only sought peace when the only other peace they were offered was the peace of the grave.

Even their greatest chiefs had to bow to the inevitability of the future. That to have a future they would have to survive first.

Meanwhile half a world away, a plunder of the strongest, fastest, smartest of us were sold into slavery.

For profit. For the promise of opportunity over others less able to protect themselves. And quiet as it’s kept, I believe in the depth of my being, no one who sold slaves to Whites had any idea of what was being considered. In Africa of the time, slavery wasn’t the inhumanity Whites would perfect in the coming Three Centuries War with the easily identified slaves they were hoping to create.

Was there a plan? Was there a consideration for the world being created? Did Whites of the time, the English, the French, the Portuguese, and all of these other expansionists who considered slavery an acceptable means to an end have a plan?


What immoral calculus was performed by men in search of gold, power, influence and the mastery of lives could lead them to believe this should remain the status quo, forever?

Did Cortez weep for the lives he swept aside in his quest for wealth? History says not. Did any lives matter as the race around the promoted death and injustice for the sake of power, chips on a table, to be cast in vast bets which ended in the deaths of millions.

Did the Powers believe this thing they were creating would remain this way for a thousand years? An empire of bones, a legacy of skeletons, the mortar of a civilization greater than any before it? A race to lay claim to a greatness that never set upon it. A creation greater than any save those promised by the church itself in the vaunted Heaven promoted by the pious slavers bringing religion, compliance, prostration and missionary positions to the New World.

A creation to outlast the mighty Church itself? Not if the Church had anything to say about it.

Since we’re mentioning the Church: Weren’t those nations supposed to be Christians of one sort or another? At what point did a Christian think it would be okay to have slaves? Isn’t one of the great narratives in the early Bible include the escape of the Israelites from the subjugation of the Egyptians? This dysfunction which allowed religious men to commit slavery would become a part of a formula which would span the Three Century War.

This dissonance would allow men to commit murder in the name of God. Again and again. Eventually a theme which would underlie every great war ever taken. Every life ever stolen by bolt, arrow, bullet, Tomahawk, or Predator, bringing death from above to an unsuspecting populace.

For three hundred years, a mindset driven by profit dehumanized us. Increasing our value by how well they drove our humanity from us. When we were without internal value, when we were little more than robots made flesh, we were perfect.

When we remembered ourselves, when we fought, when we resisted in any, we were destroyed.

The way you destroy an animal that cannot be tamed. The way nature destroys a field with a plague of locusts, utterly and without mercy. The way we are destroyed is public. Our deaths have no dignity. No means of salvaging meaning from it.

There was only one meaning to be gleaned. If you survivors disobey in any way, for any reason or no reason at all, we will kill you.

Kill you.

Break you.

Until your cries can be heard by everyone, everywhere, everywhen. So broken, your cries will seep into the soil and rise every time a new crop would arrive. As they shuffled to the block, they will hear your cries. See them in the eyes of the men who dragged them there.

Even these hardened criminals could not completely harden themselves to the task. In all but the hardest of hearts, there was a cry of “please just go.”

They learned from the eyes of the men who caused these atrocities, so haunted even these men were forever scarred, changed and would come the heart of the war, the very idea of the inhumanity of man against man.

But millions would die first. Before there was freedom, there was humiliation. Degradation. Suffering on a scale perhaps never seen in the history of the world.

For a period longer than any in recorded history.

In a manner so terrible, we have never been able to depict it on film. No movie about slavery ever made showed the entirety of the truth. They are watered down, made humane, sanitized of their horror, cleansed of the taint of evil.


To be able to depict the horror in its truest form would break the minds of anyone who would do it.

Anyone who would consider it is already beyond human redemption or recognition.

Pol Pot. Stalin. Hitler. Cheney.

These are the minds which could closest relate to those minds. Human life has no meaning. No more than insects, no more than the dirt around a potted plant. Meant to be used to send messages. Bloody ones.

Messages meant to shake kinder souls still fresh with the dew of Humanity.

Chattel slavery was written into the bodies, into the souls, into the epigentic structure, into the very signature of our bodies. Carrying forth our refugee status into the future.

While we toiled they freed themselves from what they deemed an inhumane subjugation. Were they enslaved? They thought so. Their masters rules chafed. There was land to be tamed. There were resources to be had. Their masters demanded their tribute.

They fought for their own freedom, while denying us ours.

They were free and we never noticed. Our heads and backs were bent in labor, in prayer. In subjugation, in degradation, in supplication, begging for our freedom, knowing there was only one freedom for us.

Our shame, our stain, would be the very reason they choose us. This meant no matter how free we were, we would never be so free to escape fully the threat of the chain, the rope, the whip, the box, the ball, the gun.

This has never changed, no matter how long the Three Century War was fought. Different tools but same self-serving, sense of entitlement, the ability to determine the value of black lives, black skin, black sin. That we get what we deserve. Nothing more. Not one thing.

Wait your turn, your skin determines it. Your minds are less than ours. Our weakest is better than your strongest. Know your place. Entertain me. Serve me.

One hundred and fifty years into our subjugation, something changed.

Profit once again altered the equation.

Our subjugation made someone too wealthy. Half a nation decided it would no longer submit.

Their battle would determine our freedom. By design. Not by choice. Those who lost something would spend the next one hundred and fifty years talking about it.

Being angry about it.

Demanding something be done about it. Celebrated, claimed as heritage. Sought as birthright.

Bow down black man. Bow before your master. Know us as such. We brought you here. You can never stand before me, the Dream is not yours. Ever.

You are a refugee. Lost in time. A casualty of a war which has gone on for three hundred years.

A refugee who has no shore to call home. No place where he can lay claim and not worry his would-be master, the proprietor of the hearth, the master of the manor, the thief of souls, harvester of sorrows will sow his seeds of destruction upon our very flesh.

Doubt it? Don’t. You will be gunned down on the street. In plain view. Your death spasm in handcuffs, with a gun being planted on your dying body. Left to rot in the sun, uncovered. With no dignity.

A message to a world nothing has changed.

Now, you see my refugees of the Diaspora, your mark of Ham, the sign of your subjugation is a mark of shame in a nation of murderers, once or twice removed.

The grandsons of murderers who felt so comfortable denying everyone they could the sympathy, the empathy of anyone who might recognize you and yours as people.

Strange fruit, religion on fire, howls in the night.

This was the war once.

As we look around today, you think to your self, which of these people who look me in the eye, who says hello to me, who will serve me food in a restaurant, who may whisper sweet nothings to me tonight, which of them voted for my return to subjugation without a moment’s hesitation.

Which of them said, our War of three centuries with millions of bodies spent, lives lost, potential burned, seared away in the waste of dreams unrealized, in the hearts of people who would have possibly lived in ways beyond our dreams of possibility.

What would these lost ones have done, if they had been allowed to be five-fifths of a person three hundred years ago. Asked to participate fully in the discovery of a New World, to join with the First Brothers in making a peace so inconceivable to us today?

In this day, have we ceded any chance for us to live together in peace to foreign masters to those inhuman monsters obsessed with profit, to the exclusion of good sense, toward the domination of all as their end game?

You know this, right? My mark is no longer enough. My subjugation is no longer their final goal. They would have us all.

Grist for their mills of profit, no difference between us, now. All thralls before their inhuman lust for more. Until the skies blacken. Until the seas are empty. Until the Earth lay bare. No talk of conservation. No talk of protection. No conversation about the future. Nothing but the profits for the next quarter. And the next.

We, the refugees of three hundred years of war, have survived.

We have thrived surrounded by our mortal enemy.

Those who would feast upon us bodily if they thought they could get away with it.

Don’t mistake our recent period of restful contemplation to mean the War has ended. No. In fact, it has entered its final stage.

In this last round, in this last century of the Greatest, Longest, Most Terrible Most Denied, Most Covert, Monstrous War Ever Fought, the final stage has been set. You and yours have had a seat at this war council, like it or not, with your lives as the stakes you play for.

Oligarchy, nepotism, cronyism, plutocracy, kleptocracy, kakistocracy all loom before us but they are not the end game.

The end game is the complete subjugation of the world.

Just sit with that.

The consumption of the world for the sake of wealth, an intangible thing with no meaning, no value, save for the lives spent in the pursuit of it. It is money they plan to use to hold sway over the natural world, to master the machine, to manipulate the minds, to expose of the souls, to create the need for the complete rapacious absorption of all there is.

Until its gone.

Was there ever a plan? Was there ever a consideration of what they would do when they owned everything? Is the endgame simply to say they control the lives of people who live and die because they will it?

In the end it is only the lives of people which have the only real value. To be alive or dead, is the only binary value with any meaning.

It is really that simple?

To be able to say: You live. You die. I said so.

Then to you, my refugees of a foreign shore, of a diaspora against your parent’s will, to you I say this: Live.

To you I say: fight.

They have no plan except to do what they have done before. Because they don’t know anything else.

You must halt this destructive urge. You must realize because they will not.

There is no plan. There never was.

If there is to be a future, it will be up to us. To ask the questions they won’t.

Why are we doing this? How does this help people? How does this make the world safer, cleaner, better, more livable, more alive, more sustainable, more humane?

We must create the plan beyond the profit. We must ask the question, why are we here? Is there anything beyond our world? Is there a way for us to reach it? Is this the only world we will ever reach in a lifetime? If so, shouldn’t we be keeping the world as hospitable as possible?

It will be up to us, because we are used to fighting. Three hundred years can make for very capable fighters.

We are used to winning, too.

In three hundred years, they never managed to defeat us. They never stole the Fire. The lust for life. We continue to thrive when it is thought to be impossible. We made songs, we danced, we dreamed, we fought and we changed them.

We became part of their mythology. And their nightmares. We thought. Our thoughts became part of the worldview, their talk of freedom and liberty were only real once we showed them the way it had to be.

Their music? Our music. Their dance? Our dance. Their songs? Our songs.

There is no place they can go where we do not walk in their shadow, a spook sitting by every door, in every kitchen, on every elevator, in every musical note.

They remind us of our inferiority regularly while they steal our language. They cry about affirmative action while denying their own privileges, their own effortless rise when the right circumstances permit.

Even in our weakness, they fear us. They attribute to us magical powers, a near-divine nature, an unquenchable power they drive themselves crazy trying to quench. So be it.

I claim my power. I realize the truth of all of this.

There is no plan. There is no endgame. This is the planning of the underwear gnomes.

  • Step one: Take power.
  • Step two: Enslave the world.
  • Step three: Profit.
  • Step four: ?

Do you see it? They keep trying to get back to the point where slavery began.

What happens when the pseudo-religious mummery and social media mind control, economic enslavement, intelligence-reduced masses are driven to the point where they are little more than cattle, ready to be driven to whatever labor-induced slaughter lays waste to their numbers through pollution, through accident, through diseases too numerous to count?

Will there finally be peace on Earth as the elite eat the peeled grapes and consumes the suffering of the billions who remain? Will they finally know peace? Will the trolls stop trolling? Will the wars finally end? When the environment is gone, we will certainly stop fighting over it, right?

Is this the best we can hope for?

We can’t let that happen.

Till your last breath, no matter stands before you.

Know you are fighting for a future no one can see.

No one. They never did.

They wanted an empire of slaves.

They still want it.

Look around.

Remove your blinders.

Accept them at their word. Accept they don’t think you are their equal. Accept they will build walls. Accept they will live in fear. Accept they will wage wars you don’t want, sending your children to die while keeping their safe.

Accept they will keep you at work for twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours a day, every day, until you won’t be able to come to work. Accept they will burn through your life, using you up until you are like a faithful dog, too sick to work and too loyal to leave.

Accept you will smoke too much, drink too much, neglect your health, neglect your family for the promise of a raise that never comes. Accept prices will keep rising just out of reach to keep you indebted, unable to have a choice of where you live. Accept that one day you will live and die because they tell you to.

Accept they will drive you from your home without a second thought when you are no longer useful, to die on the street or to be ushered to the incinerators whichever is easier for them to manage.

Accept that ethics, morality, decency have nothing to do with their goals. Neither do justice, fairness, love, family, or any other such words you hold on to at night, your talismans against the coming dark.

Nothing matters. Accept them at their word. Accept the pending reality.

You say: It will never happen. I say to you: those are just words.

Like the word truth. We are post-truth. Like the word facts. We are post-facts. We are now told words don’t mean a damn thing.

So why are you willing to trust them?

Just accept they will murder you, me, anyone to get the world they want. Accept that they will do whatever they want, whatever you allow them…They will burn the world for profit.

Because they already have. For three hundred years. They violated the rights of generations of human beings. Stole them. Threw them over the side of their ships. Enslaved them. Burnt them. Hung them. All while praying to God, believing in the Afterlife, drinking your lifeblood and proclaiming their humanity to anyone who will listen. Humanizing themselves while reducing you to little more than a series of statistics which lie about your failings, your inabilities, your insecurities, your capabilities. Anything the post-truth propaganda machine will allow.

You know now what they want.

They want it to last forever.

What else could it be?

The future of the world will lie on the backs of people who know what they intend to do to all of us.

They will render the world a wasteland.

And make refugees of us all.

Fight for a better future.

Fight for meaning.

Fight for each other.

Fight because…

There is no plan. Besides stripping you of everything you let them.

Just ask them.

They’ll tell you and laugh.



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Author | Editor | Futurist | Activist | http://bit.ly/thowzebio | http://bit.ly/thpatreon

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