Violence never arrives announcing itself as violence. It comes wrapped in duty, in faith, in law, in nation. First, it asks for your moral consent. Only then does it spill blood. The actor I’m pointing to is not a nation, it is the human ego that converts harm into virtue. The theatre changes but the play remains the same. Only the costumes are updated; the script is ancient.
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Originally published in The Pioneer on 10 jan '26
Violence never arrives announcing itself as violence. It arrives wrapped in reasons and slogans, in duty, in faith, in law, in nation, and demands that you honour it as necessary. It extracts your moral consent first, and only then does it spill blood.
The actor I’m pointing to is not a nation, it is the human ego that converts harm into virtue. The seed of mischief is always the same, the sticky centre called “I”, long before it becomes a flag, a party, a scripture, or a border.
In early January 2026, Venezuela woke up to the language of force. Explosions in and around Caracas, helicopters over a guarded compound, and by the end of it Nicolás Maduro is no longer in his own capital, he is in American custody, headed to a New York courtroom to face charges. Washington calls it law, executed with military muscle. Caracas calls it a violation of sovereignty. The slogans clash, the flags argue, and ordinary people bend down to lift stones, sweep glass, and count bodies.
