{ThePizza/HotDog/Children’s Revolution}

This is not an analysis or quip on what is currently happening. Not even a poem, or well written homage just a way to let the words come.

To make sense.

With the sights of mortally wounded, bloodied misshaped bodies strewn on unnamed streets, the majority of those fallen have one thing in common; they were children.

Between the ages of 13 and 22, some still in their school uniforms, some still wearing their safinjas, some in their shorts, fresh hair cuts, some twisted locks & afros, some with smooth cheeks, some with facial hair, slack mouths, bloodied heads, tissue and brain parts hanging, shirts soaked in blood, being carried by identical versions of themselves.

Pumped with the antagonizing words of their President, the obscene rise of prices on everything, seeing the lines of worry deepen on their parents, older siblings, uncles & aunties, and cousins faces, and the deepening void of inaction of the so called ‘opposition’, and the abandonment by those older, more educated, better off living versions of themselves, they reacted.

Some were quick to applaud them, and some were even quicker to trivialize them. Unorganized, directionless & reckless what had begun as a show of frustration turned, in some cases, to chaotic looting & destruction of property. But in all honesty, who could blame them? A generation raised on the have and have nots, of ‘whats your tribe?’ and skin tone and family name is all that matters, and you take, you steal, you cheat, you distort your deen to get whatever you want.

Their government as prime example, how could they know any better?

Their strides sure and wiry frames marching, wanting to prove a point, to be heard, to be taken seriously, or to just have fun I wonder… Did the thought ever cross their mind that they’d be rained on with live bullets? Or stabbed with hidden knives & beaten with rods? Their bodies left in hospital morgues, refused to be released into the waiting arms of devastated parents?

From protestors they became rioters and already we have lost sight of their humanity by labeling them as nothing more than hooligans, vigilantes, bastards with no proper upbringing or families, thugs, shameful monkeys not worthy to carry the name of revolutionary.

This is not Egypt,

or Syria,

or Tunisia,

or Libya.

These were boys, trying to speak of the injustice but not knowing the words because they were never taught properly how to express them. They gave their lives to speak up, to spill their blood for you, for us.

Whether their deaths were in vain is still uncertain, but those hoping for a full fledged revolution can rest assured that it will come, what with the gas/bread/bus/food lines already forming which only proves that it isn’t lost lives that moves, but the constraints of our pockets that will shake Khartoum.

But in what form, that remains unknown.