I grew up in and around paddocks full of livestock, the abattoirs where they were slaughtered and dressed to the butchers, super markets and catering companies where they would eventually end up on someones plate. A man covered in blood was a common fixture in my child hood, it was more normal than a teacher in a tweed jumper. I was fortunate to have this appreciation for the world, an understanding of a part of the real world which goes mostly unseen despite the countless bellies it fed.

I could read Upton Sinclair’s, The Jungle and not feel shock or disgust. Despite the exaggerations and his conclusions, Sinclair revealed a world that is gory and twisted, not for nefarious reasons unlike his depictions, in reality it was practical. It’s bloody business killing animals and ensuring the corpses are readied for the chef at the finest restaurant or as a dish served by a loving mother. Inside such a world, I met numerous characters. Mostly men, who had lived in hard work, taken for granted and hidden behind the curtains of public ignorance, one such man was Mike.

He had owned his little shop on Grand Junction road for decades, a relic by the 2000s. Rosewater Meats, was beloved not because it was the only butcher on the road. There were others, and super markets in the vicinity. It was a wonderful place because of Mike. By the time I came to know him, he was in his fifties. Round, with a gentle smile, a comedians wit and the ability to pull any leg with the right amount of timing.

When my dad wanted me to take on a bigger role in the family business, I was given my deck of customer cards. Cardboard with store names, phone numbers and the people to speak with. Along with whatever notes or commentary previous sales men had written down. Details such as what sports team they supported, to best time of the day to ring. With other colourful notes such as, “His Mrs has great tits.” or, “drinks XXXX, hates VB and Fosters,” to “a real cunt, don’t bother.” Such was the stack of cards I was handed.

I would ring, someone would answer to which I would commence with, “Good morning, it’s Kym from Haven Lamb…”

In those early days, I would be met with, “All good for lamb,” “I told you pricks not to ring here,” or “this is fruit and veg.”

Or, I may be given an order. Or, asked what our prices were, or what’s the best I could do. To which I may be told, “you need to sharpen your pencil,” or “I’ll keep you in mind.”

Cold calling, even the regular buyers of the company was daunting. How I spoke, listened and communicated was important. Patience, and not taking anything personal was also an important element. Many butchers were busy, especially at that time of day. They tended to be short on replies and decorum.

One morning I was sitting in the passenger seat of one of our trucks, out for deliveries. One of our drivers was ill, so another salesman, an older man named Nat and I were on the road. We had to do our sales, while also delivering the meat. Not an uncommon event, it was how Dad started the business, dialling and driving, with his then monstrous battle phone of the 1980s. I called Rosewater meats and a tired deep voice answered.

We spoke, he asked why I was ringing and not Nat. I explained, the situation. Mike gave me an order, usually, “two plum, female side lambs no bigger than sixteen kilograms and three plum, female, trad lambs no heavier than twenty-two kilograms.”

Greek butchers preferred female lambs. Mike was very much a Greek butcher.

I thanked him and he commented on my politeness. We spoke for ten minutes, him informing me of his day while telling stories that wandered the span of the globe. Mike became my customer after that conversation and I would ring him for his order daily. A few weeks later, I was on the road, and met him. I was out doing deliveries in his area, so decided to visit his little shop. It sat just off the main road, alongside dreary housing and with cracked bricks and a cluttered window, it welcomed all into it’s modest serving area.

Mike shook my hand over a large wood cutting board. The polished trunk of an ancient tree with a leg of lamb spliced into halves alongside a loin ready to be broken up. Behind the serving counter hang rows of small goods, dusty signs and industry posters that numerous reps had no doubt handed him over the years. The posters likely kept the walls up as much as they covered any cracks.

Even though his shop was over an hours drive from where I lived and nearly two and half hours from the abattoirs where I regularly called him from, I was a regular visitor to Mikes shop. He would always insist on giving me gifts, if not for me, for friends and family. Usually sticks of mettwurst, kabana or what ever other small goods dangled near his head while we spoke. He would wrap the numerous items in paper, hand it to me, and tap my hand warmly with a big smile. Then wave me off, with a grin in his eyes. His customers would update him on all that was occurring in their lives, he would listen. Mike’s wife would make sure, he did not spend all the time talking, while she butchered herself, or prepared meat for him to cut accordingly. She was very much the straight man of the duo, and a lovely duo it was.

Mike’s two sons would often be inside the shop, either after school or after school when they had graduated. One had aspirations to go to university, the other seemed resigned in his role as heir apparent. A role, at that time, I understood all too well. It was a family affair, and when I would stand in his shop, surrounded by customers of every description, each at home there as the other, I would hear stories from Mike’s life or his thoughts on all things from politics, history to food. He loved to discuss history, and had an interest in any conversation related, as he sliced meat from the bone, a customer, myself and Mike would discuss the 1974 Greek-Turkish war, to the Roman conquest of Britain with as much interest and passion. No disagreement or contrarian opinion was met with ill feelings, only smiles, hand shakes and, “see you next week!”

One morning, I had worked the midnight shift and after needed to do deliveries into the day. I arrived at his store around nine, he was coming in late that day. It was likely a Tuesday, some shops were not open to trading or started later. In such an instance Mike instructed me to put the meat behind the wall, on the neighbours side. I placed the pig or lamb, or both alongside the other meat companies deliveries, whether boxed, crates of chicken pieces now defrosting or butts of beef. The stack of meat waited for Mike’s arrival. It was a different era.

One evening Mike rang for an order, it was almost ten pm. He was still in his shop. It had been a long day. At first he was brief, instructing what lambs he needed to come the following day, only to meander into a story about his experience while working in New York during the 1970s. He had been a young butcher, long days, longer nights with territorial unions and the mafia. He recollected with fondness, the excitement of the period in his voice.

“It goes too fast,” he told me not for the first or last time.

It was almost midnight when we said our good byes that night. I had to be up for work at four in the morning, and he a little after.

The end of the year in wholesales is always chaotic. There is never enough meat to go around. The markets close for about a month, so what you buy is all you have until they open in the new year. Keeping lambs in feed lots, rationing out the kills so the slaughtermen and labourers at the abattoir have the right amount of work, while also making sure each customer has the lambs, veal, beef they need to see them through. Plus, back then it used to get hot in Australia during the summers. So, fridges would run warm, break down or in some instances, as was the case at our boning room. A person could find themselves spending twenty minutes, every hour or so hosing water over the fridge units. In my younger years, I had done this on a few occasions. Then, the added drama of trucks breaking down, temperature issues on delivery because a green store man takes the measurements of the hanging meat with inept eagerness and whatever other troubles may occur. It’s Christmas after all.

After the Christmas rush, there was the slow-busy period leading up to New Years. There was no meat to be slaughtered, just what we still had in the fridge and most of this had already been allocated and labelled in advanced. For those customers who knew how to be persuasive or human beings, there was a degree of cribbing in their favour. A lamb set aside for a super market, may end up going to a small butcher instead. No one had paid for the meat yet, it had not been invoiced. It was all just put aside in anticipation. A promise rather than a purchase by that stage.

Mike needed some lambs, the trucks had left and he was in a spot of bother. I promised him he could have them. I drove my van from the abattoir. Spoke with another customer, negotiated the two lambs from his order, met our truck while it was on the road, adjusted the invoice and wrote out another for Mike. He would get his two extra lambs.

Traffic was tedious, the air conditioner blowing into the back of the van, where the lambs were laying was a poor substitute for a fridge unit. It was hot and my Nokia was scorching with phone calls, “wheres the truck? I needed these lambs an hour ago! As soon as I had contacted the driver, rang the customer with an ETA, the phone would ring again, “I needed ten lambs, you only sent eight! Not good enough.” More negotiations, sweet talking and explaining the situation. The phone would ring again, this time it was Dad, “hey mate, I need you to grab bags of sausages from the boning room, and take them them to…it’s a charity job.”

“Can’t the Boning Room do it?”

“They have all gone for the day.”

Typical. A detour into our main office where ‘the boning room’ was out back. It was a factory with processing machines, also the distribution point for our shops and other customers who purchased packaged meat. Plus, at the time we were still doing large Aboriginal community orders. It was a decent sized place, despite being refereed to as, ‘boning room.’

The office lady, Sam greeted me with a stressed though cheery smile. She unlocked the back area for me. I grabbed the hanging bags of freshly made sausages, twenty or so kilograms worth. Laid them on the floor, alongside the lambs, making sure the bags would not split or spill.

Sam handed me the address and added, “good luck, happy new year.”

“Thanks. You too.”

The donation was to one of the countless charities Dad had agreed to donating meat to. Naturally, this one was an hours drive in the other direction. Traffic. Phone. Traffic. Phone. Then the vans player chewed my compilation tape. There was no way I would add the radio into the mix. The sounds of traffic was obnoxious as it was. Back then, we could not play music on our phones, so I grumbled to myself. The usual, woe is me.

I arrived at the church, no one was there. I rang dad. No answer. Sam had left the office. I could not leave twenty or so kilograms of snags on the porch. Dad rang back, “he said he was on his way. Just wait and take it into their fridge.” Half an hour later, an elderly man arrived. He shook my hand, thanking me. He had been doing a spot of running around himself. His wife needed him to deliver the lamingtons she had made to her sisters, as the good man he was. He obliged.

I carried the sausages in, he thanked me for the donation. His handshake was warm and kind. The little red van I drove was ticking over as I worked it through late afternoon traffic. I had been working since five that morning, I was hoping to be home by five that night. Roadworks, phone calls, some fat dude eating a hot dog with no shirt on making strange eye contact with me while he continued to eat the hot dog, more road works, and phone calls. Then, I was on Grand Junction Road, never in the history of Grand Junction Road had a person been happy to say, “I am glad to see you, Grand Junction Road.” Except for me.

Eventually, I arrived. I pulled up at the front of Mike’s shop. He smiled as he saw me, I carried in the lambs, placed them in his crowded fridge. Mike was talking to an elderly lady, I waited. She was in the process of explaining the chronology of her flowers, their offspring and how it all related to the two pork chops she had just purchased. At least, so I remember the conversation. Mike shook her hand, she wished the both of us a ‘Happy New Year’ and we returned it in kind.

Mike could tell I was in a rush, and stressed. He walked around to me from behind the counter, in hand two Greek coffee’s like steaming pitch, “sit and have a coffee with me.”

I did so. He patted my knee, and told me a story about one new years, the ordeal and drama leading up to it.

“…never enough time,” he smiled during his story, he sipped from his coffee, gazed outside, then continued the story.

I listened. I had no where else to be. I had done what I had needed to, why did I need to rush any more. Mike concluded the story, one which I forget with any detail to give him the credit he deserves in his ability to spin a tale. The punch line was, “stress is never worth the time we lose chasing the stress.”

I helped Mike close shop. It was well past five in the afternoon when I left. I was tired. The day had been long but I was able to spend a couple of hours of it with a good man.

Mike passed away a few years later. I miss him, and the many people I had come to know through an industry I did not love. I was born into. Obligated to. It was my family in many ways. I never knew it at the time, only in the years since.

I had aspirations around that time to write a book about the meat industry. Take photos of all the old shops, tell the story of the people who worked in them, share the history of a piece of the world most walk passed or leave in the past. Mike and the many others like him, will be remembered by not just friends and family who loved him. But, the customers who would come to his shop to see and share with him, the salesmen and delivery drivers who at times were in a rush, too busy to entertain his stories, or share in human moments. Those urgent days are lost and forgotten, never really important in the end. The people we shared them with, even brush past, they are.

Mike was right about a lot of things, there is never enough time. But, the time he spoke about wasn’t deadlines or arbitrary make work, he meant real time. Like sitting on a seat, sipping thick coffee while the world drives past a dirty shop window. Listening to stories late into the night, or shaking hands with a man who may not be there tomorrow.

It’s New Years Eve again, twenty years has passed since the time I spent it with Mike in his shop. I’m glad I did so. I wish I spent more time knowing the people better, than just their phone numbers or types of lambs they ordered.

Happy New Years, and thanks for the years I was able to label up your meat.

Anthony Joshua and Jake Paul had a fight, as expected Joshua won. Andrew Tate made a comeback to the ring, he lost the decision. Both Paul and Tate are social media creatures. Tate, among other things, was a former prize fighter. Paul, after fame as a YouTuber took advantage of his youth, athleticism and passion for the sport to become a boxer. How he went about this was unpopular but popular. If he had never been Jake Paul, the YouTuber and entered boxing the ‘honest’ way. Chances are few would ever have bothered to watch him fight or even cared about his fights. He would be like thousands of other struggling prize fighters. As an established celebrity, millions watched his fights, he made millions and now he has a broken jaw after giving a top ten heavyweight a payday.

Jake Paul, could have been like MrBeast, leaned into the fakeness, take no risks, control every optic, edit, filter and produce safe and consumable content. The slop that, clearly most seem to enjoy. The metrics don’t lie. The corporations, equity firms, hedge funds and governments are privy to what we all view, consume, can see just how much Mr Beast, Jack Doherty and all them other ‘creators’ are adored, or hated. But consumed all the same. They are popular because many watch them. Unlike those other content creators, the Paul brothers got in shape, and fought. This, it seems has made them hated.

Taking a risk, training and vulnerability is forbidden. This is the message to the world, not just content creators but children. Don’t take risks. Be insincere, stay behind the filters, don’t dare to do anything legitimate, especially contested competition. Not that you may get a broken jaw, but you will be hated for it. You will be hated for competing.

Oh, but the critics will say, “it’s how he went about it.”

In that case, who are your favourite non-top ten up and coming boxers. Most of his critics have at best watched a Mike Tyson highlight reel or maybe got drunk while sitting on their friends couch during a UFC event party. As for those who are real fight fans, you know the nature of the sport. This is nothing new. Even before the 2017 fight between Mayweather and Macgregor the sport was always about the popular and sellable, rather than best fighters.

There are those who laugh and applaud that Andrew Tate lost. It turns out, he would have been better staying behind the camera, talking shit and doing what all his podcast and content ‘creator’ peers do, sweet fuck all. React, comment and remain inactive. Instead, whether through hubris or the burning call to return, he fought a younger man and in doing so, he lost. It was an ugly fight. Tate was never a good fighter to watch. He fought all the same. He dared, he trained and took risks. His brand leans into the fact, he actually fought. While the Wes Watson’s lean into wealth porn, shrill rhetoric and tattoos, Tate likes to show he fought. Of all the things Tate has done to make him a deplorable and insufferable content creator, daring and climbing through those ropes was a glimmer of masculine bravado, an iota of credibility. Win, lose or bore. To have a fist fight with another man, transcends leasing a Bugatti by far.

But, masculine, alpha brashness does not require one to have a fist fight with another man, let alone compete in any manner. All one needs to do is present themselves as rich, Russ Hanneman like, a pair of limited edition shoes here, millennial beard and a meme coin but above all else, denigrate women. Not in the Norman Mailer, manner, that’s too intellectual, be a clumsy misogynist whose entire status as a ‘man’, is in the boast “women are lesser creatures”, or should be chattel. The female is too emotional, irrational squeals the terminally online bros, in between gaming tantrums and indignant condemnation of a sex, for not dating them. Be entitled, while sharing a Stoicism meme. Make chauvinism an identity or lift weights to phonk music. In any case, climbing inside the ropes and swapping punches with another man is not the best way to be an online Alpha, abusing your pregnant wife, pointing your fingers at OnlyFans models or struggling with opening jar is all that’s required.

I have written many things criticising the insincere and vile depiction of manhood that the Tate brothers project. A fighter he is. Even in losing. Even if Tate now claims, he won money on him losing. Fighter sure, but content creator above all else. We can acknowledge that Mike Tyson was a great fighter, despite being a rapist, domestic abuser, plus the many other interpersonal violent outbursts from him over the years. Tyson is still an all time great fighter, masculine certainly. For better and worse. Tate, took a risk. He lost. It’s not for those who would never turn up to criticise him. The world has enough virgins commenting under porn videos. If anything maybe it’s a call for nuance, critical thinking. Then again, it’s 2025 and I am probably typing this for an AI summary.

If we want to weigh up human character versus talent, we would pick Clifford Brown over Miles Davis. Only true jazz aficionados know the sweet man Brown was. Even non-Jazz fans appreciate the talented greatness, but repulsive man that Davis was. Both men sacrificed and toiled for the passions and craft. They were legends of Jazz and music.

Talent can at times be the narcissistic drive, a piece of which is the abusive nature and self serving recklessness that likely drove Davis to his greatness. Respected for talent and ability, not character. In this age, talent and ability doesn’t even come into account. Just fame. Repugnant and disingenuous grifting for the sake of achieving digital celebrity. If one takes the least risks, responds rather than acts, critiques instead of create, stay safe inside the approved algorithms, dares not take any risk real risk, it doesn’t matter if you are hated or loved, so long as one gets attention. It’s in the attention where the prize is found.

As for Paul, he tried. He took some good blows and while his other test may have been against Tommy Fury, another loss. It’s his win over a near sixty year old Mike Tyson, a fighter who has not looked good in the ring since 1997, besides the Etienne win. But, conspiracies of all sorts abound. How was the fight, or any fight meant to turn out? How did YOU see it in your mind. What is it like fighting over forty? What’s it like fighting at all? The only reason most wanted to discuss these Paul fights is because they were to be watched in that moment by the hive. The individual had no choice, fight fans seek out the real fights. Yet, most who dared to comment and flocked to their screens to watch a Paul brother fight seldom do, if at all. They watched with the hive.

There is no respect or celebration that a 58-year-old man worked hard enough to get back into shape so he could go the distance against a younger athletic opponent. And that young athletic opponent, who not too long ago, was only learning how to throw a punch. These accomplishments, this hard work is just content for an indifferent audience who doesn’t seem to understand sacrifice, hard work. Instead, everything is a scrolling, miasma of slop. Why risk, why dare, why toil. It’s all unrelatable for an audience whose entire value and experience is in watching, voyeurism and conjecture for the sake of speculation.

It’s the age of insincerity. The decline of reason, the mob is outraged and reacting each and every moment, over something. Only for it all to be forgotten as soon as it seemed to matter. Content passing clouds, apparitions to draw eyes, disappearing. Or, a ‘Chinese spy balloon’.

We should celebrate people daring to risk and do. Even if we don’t like them. It turns out, we can see a persons true character, when they are enduring adversity. Even in those we dislike. We understand why we may like, dislike and respect someone based on what they do, or don’t do.

I still listen to Davis more than I do Brown, even if I value the man Brown was. I like Clifford Brown, I dislike Miles Davis. I love Miles Davis’ music.

I only saw these two fights because I was bombarded with requests and comments, endless messages about the fight and it’s all many wanted to discuss. To be criticised, admonished. I’m unsure what any expected the outcome to be. It was spectacle. Clearly people were entertained, I doubt this many discussed a prime Duran or Holmes fight in their times as much as the numbers of people who do a Paul fight. Is that not engagement, entertainment?

For every critic of the Paul’s, those casuals who have conversations about combat sports, when the herd steers them into such a direction, if I sent them good fights past and more recent, I promise they would never watch. This is a problem found in the mirror, not the screen. Why do so many love this sort of gossip? Why do you they hate these men, more than others? Why is taking a risk the point of attack, over all else? Why are cultivate a brand where they are never vulnerable, are never seen for who they are?

This is the message. Remain fake, control every camera shot, production value is in the presentation, not substance. Have no character, only a brand. Aesthetics is all that matters. Do not expose yourself to any uncontrollable contest, control the interactions. Or, instigate a response which favours you. Like, bumping into a retired UFC fighter, it’s OK because your body guard will cuddle you later that night. Above all else, a real man is never allowed to lose. So, never do anything where you lose, it takes character to overcome such a thing. Character is dead. The digital brood, the hive of attention, wants none of it. Some of those who think Mr Beasts smile is real, will claim Joshua’s punches were fake. They don’t care to know, or are incapable of knowing real or fake, so long as it’s content to be consumed. It’s all just slop to digest.

And yet, here I write, a reaction piece. More slop. An apparition to be forgotten as soon as it appeared.

Kony2012 and happy planking.

It has been thirty years since the website Antiwar.com was launched. A defiant reaction to the Clinton administrations interventions in the Balkans during the 1990s. Founded by the late Justin Raimondo and Eric Garris, the site went on to become a platform of information and reporting against US military interventions, and eventually as opposition to all wars. Though, often criticised for being “right wing”, the founders from the modern American tradition of libertarianism. Antiwar.com is principally anti-war, and has contributors and writers from all spectrum’s of politics. The main mission being, peace.

In the thirty years since Antiwar.com was founded, there has not been a decrease in war or US military interventions. Unfortunately, there has been an increase. The website and its dedicated writers and the journalists they cite, not to mention the behind the scenes crew and those involved in the multimedia front remain vigilant and dedicated to the cause for peace.

There is a bitter sweet dignity in opposing war, while on the surface it may seem as a universal belief held by most people. It’s less common than many would realise. There is always a war, or an intervention that proves an exception for many people. Always, a coercive action, an innocent life that should be killed, the victims of policy a reasonable calculation made by those far in the distance, all by those who consider themselves as good and moral people. If not pragmatic. Antiwar.com provides a challenge to power, all power and retains a consistency. If does not bow to preferred nations, or ideologies and instead champions the innocent.

The Libertarian Institute is a sibling of sorts to Antiwar.com. They share some of the same people and are each focused on human liberty, ending the wars. The concept and ideal of Antiwar.com is one that has stood for three decades, seen countless contributors, each with passion and dedication expressing a plea for peace. Reporting on the wars and conflicts with speed and honesty, even in the heated moments of uncertainty.

To those who have dedicated themselves to the Antiwar.com project do so, not for fame or wealth. There are far easier things people of such talent and dedication could focus their energies on. Instead they do so with modesty and humble silence. The nature of war, indifference from the wider population and cynicism of those in power is a toll that wanes on them. To look at the images, the footage of death, human misery, to read the reports, and articles on the policies of indifference to those from the ground where the stench of death and tears of the bereaved are real, wears on the human spirit and haunts the mind. Those dedicated to Antiwar.com don’t see the dead as statistics or the innocent as a ‘them’. They seen them as human beings, no different from themselves.

On the podcast and multi-media front, Antiwar.com with Dave DeCamp , Kyle Anzalone and Connor Freeman have kept up with consistent reporting on the wars and what is occurring for those who may have no time to read the articles or explore the news feed. They do so, following in the footsteps of Scott Horton who over the decades, with thousands of interviews has put anti war and antiwar.com at the forefront of his show with the spirit of the website in the pages of his books. 

The writers over the years have been hard to count,  Doug Bandow, Ted Carpenter, Ramzy Baroud, Pat Buchanan, David Stockman, Daniel Larison, Ted Snider, Danny Sjursen, Ray McGovern, Sheldon Richman, David R. Henderson, and Matthew Barganier. To, Jason Ditz, Praful Bidwai, Alan Bock, Bevin Chu, Mike Ewens, Emmanuel Goldstein, Ran HaCohen, Stella Jatras, Nebojsa Malic, Sascha Matuszak, Christopher Montgomery, Joseph Stromberg, Gene Berkman, Tom Engelhardt, Sam Koritz, Neil Maccalder, John McCarthy, Tracey Milton, Pete Papageorge, Mark A. Petricevic, Rick Rozoff, and Elizabeth Wisniewska. Ramzy Baroud and Danny Sjursen. I know I likely have forgotten some, or neglected to include others. With Angela Keaton as a now behind the scenes executive director, who was once publicly campaigning for peace. With many more who work tirelessly behind the scenes.

It’s not that Antiwar.com is solely fixated on opposing the wars. It’s a landing page of original pieces and articles, with an extensive archive that goes back into the past. It’s an ideal which stands for human freedom, individual liberty, human rights in the purest sense of the word. The freedom to not be coerced, to not be killed and enslaved. It’s anarchist or libertarian in that sense, after all what exemplifies government and collectivism more than war itself. The belief that brutal and naked force can be used on a population to achieve an imperial or political goal, is terror, criminal, repugnant but above all government incarnate. The use of mass violence, to starve and murder thousands, even millions is perfectly legal when inflicted by a government, especially one with power. Small bands of killers, cartels and rogues, led by a warlord, when they murder and torture we understand it to be criminal. Antiwar.com does not disseminate. They speak for the innocent, regardless of who is doing the killing.

In the beginning, in those moments of lead up and during the onslaughts of death, many in the media and among the public and governmental class are certain of the righteousness for each war. They may have reservations in private, whispered concerns, outwardly they are on point with the message of war. Over time, whether because of defeat, attrition, the cost was too high or thanks to whistle blowers the many certain supporters switch and become critics. They can afford to change their minds, it may even be politically expedient to do so. They lost nothing. Antiwar.com is there from the beginning, before it’s popular to oppose the war. Even the wars many, in this moment, think should happen, Antiwar.com stands for peace.

This set of principles and code of honour, has also made the site unpopular at tines. Domestic political partisanship often sees the antiwar sentiments shift from election, not to mention the bigoted bias found inside nationalism or religion, whereby injustice can be ignored, overlooked or even justified so long as it’s the familiar or friendly doing such evil acts. Antiwar.com is secular in this regard. Internationalist, humanist, free minded and independent. To achieve this over thirty years takes both tenacity and willpower, which is only possible when good people stay the course. It is not filled with pacifist hippies, rather human beings who don’t support collective punishment and mass murder.

Behind the scenes and in their intimate moments, those involved at Antiwar.com are all human beings, they tire and waver. Though, regardless they persevere. It takes courage to defy power, to speak truth despite propaganda’s appeal or the emotional irrationality of the mob. Their is a determination of spirit expressed over the years, a human union that defies ideologies, religion or culture, the belief in peace. The fundamental and basic understanding that human beings don’t deserve to be murdered.

On a personal note, whenever I grow weary or stumble, I find strength in the work and consistency of those at Antiwar.com. I recall the first time I came across the site in the late 1990s, it had been shared on a fight forum. Someone posted an article, it sparked conversation. I returned often to the site. It’s format and up to date links and articles was a super power for knowledge. I may have been helpless but I was informed and found an energy in the existence of the page, the dedication of those behind it. In the 2003, protests against the Iraq war, I saw a lady who had written in texta on her shirt, “Antiwar.com.” I felt pride in seeing her in that makeshift shirt. I know feel pride in knowing those who work so hard behind the scenes. They are my heroes. I hope in time, more people find the site, are informed and become antiwar. The innocent, the planet deserves peace. If more people visited and read Antiwar.com, it’s safe to say it would be a better world.

“Truth is treason in the empire of lies,” Ron Paul.

Happy 30^th birthday and thank you all for what you do. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Yea of Peace to everyone.