My name is Martyr X and they killed me while I was protesting peacefully, demanding the removal of tyrants and the establishment of the rule of peace. I was chanting, screaming at the top of my lungs, surrounded by people who share my goal. We were all there, united. We screamed, united. We were attacked, united. We were killed, united.
My name is Martyr X and you may know me as any number of things. My name may be one of those trademark ones that rise up every once in a while, or I may have just been labelled a John Doe, identity anonymous, no-one to recognise me. It doesn't matter. My body could have been carried by mourning crowds to my final resting place, or it could have never even been found. It doesn't matter. For I am one, and I am all. I am anyone who died for peace and freedom. I am anyone who got killed for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I am anyone who was ever attacked, violated, aggravated, or mutilated.
My name is Martyr X and they say I deserve it. Why protest, they say? It's your fault! You crossed the red line! You didn't bow down to those who whip you! You brought it on yourself so don't expect empathy, sympathy or anything but malignancy. They mock, deride, ridicule, abuse, and curse my soul. How dare I ever exist, they wonder? It's a good thing I'm gone!
My name is Martyr X and I've been a thug, a spy, a lowlife, a truant, a drug dealer, an arsonist, and a criminal for all intents and purposes. They call me names and they believe them. Those who know, lie; and those who don't, speculate. They flip through their loyal channels, reiterating the disgusting claims, nodding in agreement, yelling at any opposing view. Hidden agendas! they scream. Ruining Egypt! They must be executed, the eye-sacrificing, freedom-demanding, peace-loving protesters. They are our enemies! They have been sent to destroy us!
My name is Martyr X and I have been exposed, every part of my body so brutally beaten until it screamed with ache, my blood flowing, my bones breaking, my eyes bulging. I have been violated, sexually abused and harassed, as if my body were there to do with as they please. But they can't reach my soul, and it provokes them. They think if I bruise badly enough, my heart will break too, but it doesn't. Not even when it's in the cold of the morgue refrigerator. Not even when it's drifting with the current in the Nile. Not even when it's lying, stagnant, in a pile of trash.
My name is Martyr X and you can beat me; you can throw my cold, dead, disfigured body over the parapet of the bridge and out of sight; you can squeeze my throat or kick me in the stomach; but no amount of rifles, tear gas, tanks, rubber bullets or batons will ever bring an end to my spirit. My bruises will fade, my bones will regrow, and I will rise again, to fight again, and become a martyr once again.
For my name is Martyr X and I am free.
My name is Martyr X and you may know me as any number of things. My name may be one of those trademark ones that rise up every once in a while, or I may have just been labelled a John Doe, identity anonymous, no-one to recognise me. It doesn't matter. My body could have been carried by mourning crowds to my final resting place, or it could have never even been found. It doesn't matter. For I am one, and I am all. I am anyone who died for peace and freedom. I am anyone who got killed for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I am anyone who was ever attacked, violated, aggravated, or mutilated.
My name is Martyr X and they say I deserve it. Why protest, they say? It's your fault! You crossed the red line! You didn't bow down to those who whip you! You brought it on yourself so don't expect empathy, sympathy or anything but malignancy. They mock, deride, ridicule, abuse, and curse my soul. How dare I ever exist, they wonder? It's a good thing I'm gone!
My name is Martyr X and I've been a thug, a spy, a lowlife, a truant, a drug dealer, an arsonist, and a criminal for all intents and purposes. They call me names and they believe them. Those who know, lie; and those who don't, speculate. They flip through their loyal channels, reiterating the disgusting claims, nodding in agreement, yelling at any opposing view. Hidden agendas! they scream. Ruining Egypt! They must be executed, the eye-sacrificing, freedom-demanding, peace-loving protesters. They are our enemies! They have been sent to destroy us!
My name is Martyr X and I have been exposed, every part of my body so brutally beaten until it screamed with ache, my blood flowing, my bones breaking, my eyes bulging. I have been violated, sexually abused and harassed, as if my body were there to do with as they please. But they can't reach my soul, and it provokes them. They think if I bruise badly enough, my heart will break too, but it doesn't. Not even when it's in the cold of the morgue refrigerator. Not even when it's drifting with the current in the Nile. Not even when it's lying, stagnant, in a pile of trash.
My name is Martyr X and you can beat me; you can throw my cold, dead, disfigured body over the parapet of the bridge and out of sight; you can squeeze my throat or kick me in the stomach; but no amount of rifles, tear gas, tanks, rubber bullets or batons will ever bring an end to my spirit. My bruises will fade, my bones will regrow, and I will rise again, to fight again, and become a martyr once again.
For my name is Martyr X and I am free.
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