“Never again.”

Those words were spoken in the wake of the second world war, the revelation and realisation that a sophisticated, educated and civilsed nation of people could commit atrocities of such a scale. Not merely a genocide, a regime of torture, slavery and human misery under the guise of scientific enquiry and chauvinistic supremacy. The victors of the Good war satisfied their sacrifice and accomplishments in knowing that they had conquered an evil. Myths were born. It was the feat of the greatest generation. All other wars and enemies would be judged by this one, the second world war. The enemy were known to be evil because of what they had done.

The first world war, was known as the Great War. It was also, promised to be ‘The War to End all Wars’. So great was it’s scale and the magnitude of it’s destruction, a global conflict that destroyed the old world, ended the long nineteenth century and gave birth to an endless twentieth century, which lingers on to this day. The war to end all wars, only birthed more. Not just the sequel but those to this day.

“Never again,” as empty as, “to end all wars.” The myths and supremacy gained from the second world war, created new empires and institutions that promised stability and an end to genocide and injustice. Instead, they allowed for it. Proxies and empires fought despite a United Nations. Unlike it’s predecessor, the League of Nations which had the good sense to dissolve into shame, it remains as a pathetic monolith. War never ended, it gained new definitions, legalese and branding re-defined it. “Police action”, “Intervention”, or “sanctions” all under the auspices of peace and beneath the umbrella of self righteousness born in the victories over evil, in world war two. Two super powers, and a world divided among the victors, both responsible for their own imperial ambitions and mass murders in foreign lands.

Nearly a century after, “Never Again,” was promised a genocide runs with the blood of innocent into the Earth. A dystopian tehcnowar like that which we saw glimmers of in the mid to late twentieth century. Robots fighting alongside men, automated as much as steered by distant human operators. It’s not human. It’s terribly human. The rationalisation to kill children as pragmatic as it has always been. “Ethnic cleansing”, is a pariah concept that only barbarians and the enemies of ‘good’ would deploy, we are lied to know. When conducted by allies, it’s omitted as an act on scale or the innocent, are not innocent. They are all tarred into a collective, guilty by birth, identity or proximity. To be starved, exterminated or ejected. When the Serbian nationalists did this in the 1990s, we the voyeurs were allowed to be repulsed. When the Israeli government continues to do it today, it’s ignored or phrased differently.

Those who proclaim world war two as the, ‘good’ war will ignore the very bad that has been done since. Or, during. The legal institutions and international organisations set up have done nothing to prevent genocides each decade, the world over. They have not deterred authoritarianism, despotism or infringements on human rights. Instead these organisations, work with the repressive and mass killers as partners, have them as members or massage the definitions of what a human right is, according to the ideological needs of power.

The imbalance of concern for the innocent tends to satisfy the powerful. It’s with a disdain and omission of reality, that children are be obliterated, starved and murdered in plain sight. Photographs of burned Korean children consumed by Allied newspaper readers, who are taught to understand it’s is for ‘their’ own good, to stop communism. Vietnamese children naked, skin melting from napalm burns, the television viewer at home hears over the images, “we must burn the village, in order to save it.” It is a known truth. The CNN effect let’s the world watch with excitement a Neo-blitzkrieg, the enemy another Hitler. After the war, Iraqi children can die from starvation and an inability to get medicines because of ‘peace time’ embargoes, a fat woman of government can mutter on television, “eggs need to be broken to make an omelette.” Two decades later, what did that omelette taste like, was it even made, despite so many eggs smashed? We, the West clearly have eaten those omelettes, it’s reflected by our obesity.

Most recently, a fetus lay exposed, burned into death and the world’s voyeurs see it. Did it matter what ethnicity the baby was? Where they were born? What language the mother spoke? Should any of that matter? Because, we understand that it does matter. We have learned to know this. A Palestinian baby, mother are not important. They may as well be Biafran, doomed to the forgotten memory of newspaper clippings and history books, no longer read. Instead, now, they are lost in algorithms on screens of those scrolling for content. A mother, a child, their charred remains, forgotten to memes and content. Ever to be remembered by those nearby, who kissed them, held them, loved them, could smell them before and after, and who would go on to bury them.

It seems that we need narratives. Those born from an obedience to myth, the appeal to authority is all that matters, most depend upon it now. That baby, may, become a terrorist or is associated by proximity to terrorists. What is terrorism? If not the murder of children. Then again, the murder of children is apparently needed, reasoned to be an important outcome to achieve a goal. To make, omelettes. It’s not murder when the lawmakers of your land do so, otherwise their laws would become illegitimate. The babies, their ash and dirt mixed remains, collateral.

That declaration, “never again,” was Utopian. A sincere expression by people who mostly meant it. Cynically, it could also have meant that the victims of that genocide and oppression, would themselves as a group never suffer pogroms and mass death either. In becoming a truth. For the chauvinistic Zionists and their backers, this is true. When expressed however, it was meant for all human beings. Regardless of faith, race and culture. To assume supremacy because of nation, race, ideology and religion is wicked, vile. To see the innocent as an enemy because of nation, race and religion, is evil.

Piles of naked, lifeless bodies outside the death camps of Auschwitz may as well be those heaped masses of dead innocent at Dresden. Innocent murdered. Scorched, shadowy remnants of human life, lost in Nagasaki and Hiroshima, vaporised innocent people, the rationale of their guilt because of the deeds conducted by the government that coerces and rules them. Just the rationale that led to the terrorism of 2001, New York cities innocent as undeserving. Except inside the minds of mass murderers, political and ideological killers.

The world set forth with, again, again and again. The reasons always certain. The policy ambitions made sense for most of the generation involved. Until the attrition of extermination and war grew to be too much. Then, what was the original point. The invasion of Iraq was a mistake, Vietnam? In the case of settler colonialism, genocide is crucial, it is the bedrock of Manifest Destiny.

Ignorance is now, more than ever, a choice. Though, knowing seems as impotent as not knowing. The reality is that no matter how heinous, and unjust the outcomes turn out being. The ends, do seem to justify the means. The ends, are ever fluid. The ends, it turns out is endless power. More government, it’s avatar and identity may change. Though, it’s essence remains. The killers are retained. The appeal to authority is certain. The myths of the past, a skeleton that gives today a bloody shape.

The innocent must die. They will die. Those eggs will be smashed. The omelette, is power itself and those who are addicted to it, and love it. That’s how good people can do bad things. That’s why nice people, look the other way. That’s why most don’t care. They simply can’t care. Their world view, and living depend upon it.

For those that care, there will be an endless parade of innocent lives ruined and killed for us to witness with pornographic voyeurism, to be haunted by with impotent misery. Those who don’t care, the bliss it brings will only certainly ensure that it goes on. The innocent, they shall suffer ever more. The anguish, terrible, The laws and moral proclamations a disgusting epitaph to be spat across countless unmarked graves and graveyards full of those who should never again have been killed.

The promise of, “Never Again,” felt and still feels nice. Because it was uttered, unfortunately, it ensured, ever again and again and again, another murdered child, like a senseless rhyme spoken in bullets and bombs, again and again.

She just turned ninety, her body withering along with her mind. She dithers and smiles, walks slowly among the isles, she is never alone when outside, she remains lonely. She has always been a pensioner, never worked. Her husband died thirty years ago, now with three adult kids. She is without want, despite wishing she had her youth back.

Her middle son, in his fifties, has never worked. Now, full time carer, paid to look after his own mother. He has no kids, never married. He boasts about his pokie wins, and treats himself to a massage twice a month, each ending happy. He takes pride in his car, a V8, regularly upgraded and tweaked. He is without want, except maybe he lays alone at night burdened by his mother in the other room.

His older brother, also no kids. Worked until his twenties, now is on benefits, he collects comics and pigeons for races. His shed recently modified to accommodate the birds, with a garage full of collectables. He didn’t have to pay for either upgrade. He coughs and sputters as he goes through his list, in search of low number Phantom comics, “it gives me something to do,” he says. He is without want, except maybe he could get on better with his family.

The younger sister, in another era would have been called, ‘a little slow’. She is sweet, overweight with a deep voice. A Star Trek fan, she loves Klingons. A mum, one boy now in his late teens. Like his mother, he has been diagnosed with conditions, the handles of which change names over time. Her husband no longer works, once a painter, on a pension like her. Both now forty. She is without want, except maybe her husband takes her for granted.

Her husband hobbles with discomfort in his foot, he throws cash about with ease as he buys as much Lego as possible. A large shed, and fixtures were made to their Housing Trust home, accommodating their hobbies. Displays of model trains, expensive and elaborate Lego stands in monument to their passion. He is without want, but for the pain in his legs. The drugs he is given, ‘makes me sleep like a baby.’

Their son has a support worker and like his parents has his hobbies. Trains are his. He smiles with excitement while he talks about them, like his parents he is lovely. Sharing in the ticks and quirks of each as he absentmindedly drones on about early 20^th century steam locomotives to the point of fascinating clarity. He has no want other than he can never go back to see those engines run in their prime.

His support worker also loves toys. He often walks with bags full to the brim of those he has just purchased. He pays cash for the toys. He has an expansive repertoire of knowledge and eager desire to increase his collection. Nay, his museum. Indeed, it is such a thing, two blocks and shipping containers dedicated to his toys. A nostalgic dream for children and those who wish to relive childhood. He is without want, other than he will never have enough toys, or room.

He has a friend who runs a “business”, it doesn’t have customers and is tax payer funded but he calls it, “his business”. It raises awareness, organising walks and the selling of merchandise, public cost, private profits. Most are already aware, but in raising awareness there is money to be had. Business is good, for him. He is without want, when he gazes into the mirror, he sees empty eyes.

He has a divorced sister, a full time mum. Her child has a learning disability, she mentions it every social gathering. The other parents understand, they do the same. She frequents community work shops, where they performed a welcome to the country ceremony, no first nation people are in attendance, so they find it appropriate to do it on their behalf. Nodding her head, six white suburban mothers raise awareness about domestic abuse and men, systemic racism and the likes. The solutions, more awareness and inevitably more money. She talks about, ‘self love, self care,’ often, all she does is for herself. That is said to be brave. She is without want, except for the one true love, she yearns for like in the movies.

She knows a man, he is large. A family friend. He plays video games, and each night downs two litres of cola, full strength. His body swells, barley into his thirties and he is a regular cast member in the local medical waiting room. His fingers shovel his ailments into his mouth, one bite and swallow at a time. He has every streaming platform and opinions on each film, show and game. He smiles many smiles of happiness. One of his support workers once tried to get him to eat better. A new house was recently built for him, with more room down the halls, and frames to assist with toilet and showers. He is without want, except he can never fit enough into his mouth at a time. Many have seen him try.

That man has a niece, she is in her teens. She went from shy and awkward to a bustling conversationalist. She has quirky fashion sense and passionate hobbies, obscure dark music and care bears. She recently discovered horror films but still loves Strawberry Short Cake. Her mother hobbles to keep up, single, the father is not in the picture. Dear mother is often sick, and worries often but loves her little girl. That little woman is ‘different’, teachers and support workers clamour about her with funding in their eyes, while hers innocently search for that next album on CD or Care bear toy. She has become the income stream for mother and others. She is without want, except she yearns to be free, the lyrics she hears whisper to her one note at a time.

She knows a They, at school. Once a He. Years have past and They and them, that being the family and professionals, helped to steer the teen into a decision. So now, They dress as they please at school. Boys in the same school are banned from mullet hair cuts, facial hair and shaved heads or any piercings. The girls are not allowed piercings other than the designated regions of the ears. However, the transitioned boys and girls are allowed these things, as are the non-binary. They has a nose stud. They, not the above mentioned They, rather them who are the adult professionals with vested interests and careers that govern and dictate childhood to adulthood, for them it’s income and funding and ideological, for Them it’s their life. So, they make the rules and the kids have to try and navigate them, without clarity and ever transitioning distinctions and definitions. They, is without want some days they (here either applies) come to school barking in furry attire and other times, dressed as a non-binary Sailor Moon. They, have been raised to know their want is inclusion.

He is fourteen, full of energy and confused. He wants to run outside, work with his hands. His mind craves inputs and stimulation, instead he is pushed down into a seat, like dough for the cookie cutter to shape, he is told that he must learn. Learn what is unclear, what is mandated, what the professionals of childhood require. Student support officers do his homework when he struggles or refuses, He is told repeatedly he is the problem, an alien to be exercised, re-programmed. He seeks digital avatars that tell him otherwise, they seduce. He is both problematic and diagnosed, depending on the professionals, medication he is fed. School is good, summer days now grey, the grass less vibrant. He is without want, except occasionally through the haze of pills, he yearns to run and climb.

His older brother was the same, now nineteen his hands are dirty with brick dust. He helps to build homes, addicted to energy drinks. He learns a trade alongside men who were also like him. One brick at a time, they turn builds into houses, to become homes. All his life he was told he was stupid. ‘You can always be a dumb tradie,” teased one girl. She now sits at university, a government job awaits her, maybe she will raise awareness too. A new home built by dumb men like him, await those like her, the important. The men around him are not unhappy, just stressed, depressed, some of them are the worse kind of criminals, they avoid income tax ‘obligations’. Unable to live and work if they paid it. He listens to them complain, an impending realisations they will be punished for working. Once fit and healthy men, battered by years of labouring, “what you get for not getting an education,” they are reminded by those who look down on any who build, repair and creates. For him, that’s the future. Now, he is young. He has want, to one day own a home, like one he helps build. He can’t afford that, not for a long time, if ever. He still lives at home, where his parents work and struggle as well.

On their street is a man, just turned forty. He has a wife and two kids, he works six to seven days. He is a carpenter, his body hurts but he works hard. He takes his kids to sport, and makes sure they have what he never had. His wife works as well. She aches from a work place injury. They do it together, despite him spending hours some days on the phone with the tax office. We all know fellow trades who took their lives, death by taxes. But who cares? He works too hard you see, he ‘owes’ them money. He struggles, the more he works, the less his family is allowed to have. His want is for his family and kids to be happy, free.

A lady who also has two kids, her body wracked in injuries from a car crash. A driver slammed into her from behind while she was parked. She works long and hard taking care of elderly patients. A growing population, many abandoned by their ‘kids’. Her husband works also, they coordinate their shifts and parent, each week a battle to save a little and make ends meet. With every hour worked, another bill, fee and tax burdens them. Her want is for her family to be happy, to be free.

She has a brother, he is Fly in Fly Out. Weeks away, and a week back. It gets lonely working in the mines. He services the big trucks. The pay can vary, though “the tax is murderous”. “The mines are always chasing,” he tries to entice his sister. “Everywhere is chasing workers,” she replies. He will do it long enough to buy a house, even then it’s too expensive. He saves, still living with his parents. Hard for a single man to get a rental, even with his pay. His contracts are not full time, “liability,” the real estate agent said. He spends his days swiping on Tinder, he will never get a date. He keeps to himself, his best mate was recently arrested for posting a meme online.

A family friend of theirs remains isolated, she prefers it that way. Bashed and raped, left for dead. The wounds had mostly healed, scars remain. Her memory stained, that pain shall always remain. She closed her business, overheads and costs too high. Stress. Now she works as a barista, “government workers and those on benefits will always buy coffee,” she bitterly notes. The man who did it, he is protected, on a scheme. ‘Mental health’, not his fault, awareness was raised, money made. Her want to be left alone, never allowed, she pays so men like him may live safe, comfortable. Revenge, justice, that’s forbidden.

She knows an old man, he walks by and smiles most days. Rod thin, always in blue. His hat covers his eyes. He worked all his life. Since he was a boy. He makes do with his pension. He was forced to pay super, “they will come for that,” he remarks. He was promised if he saved, he would be able to live into retirement, especially since he worked near all his life in the railways, keeping their infrastructure running. He complains to any who will hear. He is proud of his daily drive, a 1969 Chrysler, “no bullshit software.”. He takes care of himself, no vices, only lingering pain is from the hours at work. He collects nostalgia, remnants from back when. He misses the past, now is not what was promised to him, what he worked hard to help build.

He was born overseas, studied one career but when he arrived had to work a different job. Skin too dark, from birth, not the sun. He knows that he is not liked, he is blamed for all the problems. Crime, traffic, no rentals, housing cost. The blame is for his kind. A courier driver, twelve hour days. He struggles with his bills, the tax burden is worse than he was told it would be. He loves the beaches, some of the people are kind and nice. Behind his back the slurs bounce, “why don’t you go back home,” he hears while driving to his home. His wife is a nurse, her hours can be as long as his. They want to have kids. To be free.

They are not born, yet. Parents still uncertain if they can afford them. The future brings debt. They have not even lived, yet they will be burdened with it. Obligated. Should they choose to work, especially in a dying private sector, they will suffer for that choice. Maybe, the professionals will decide that they won’t have to, then they will be without want too.

Utopia and Dystopia in one suburb.