• woodenghost [comrade/them]@hexbear.net
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    2 days ago

    Longing. I want this to happen again. At the same time, I think about the huge sacrifices, that were necessary to get this far. The person in the picture stands alone. How many comrades were killed on the way to get there? Who is missing and can’t share this moment? Feudalists murdered all those people to protect what? This empty, pointles luxury must feel painfully insulting to the memory of the fallen comrades. In this situation, I would feel like tearing it all down and burning it.

        • Collatz_problem [comrade/them]@hexbear.net
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          2 days ago

          “There were two “Reigns of Terror,” if we would but remember it and consider it; the one wrought murder in hot passion, the other in heartless cold blood; the one lasted mere months, the other had lasted a thousand years; the one inflicted death upon ten thousand persons, the other upon a hundred millions; but our shudders are all for the “horrors” of the minor Terror, the momentary Terror, so to speak; whereas, what is the horror of swift death by the axe, compared with lifelong death from hunger, cold, insult, cruelty, and heart-break? What is swift death by lightning compared with death by slow fire at the stake? A city cemetery could contain the coffins filled by that brief Terror which we have all been so diligently taught to shiver at and mourn over; but all France could hardly contain the coffins filled by that older and real Terror—that unspeakably bitter and awful Terror which none of us has been taught to see in its vastness or pity as it deserves.“

          Also, we need :mark-twain: emoji.

          • Maeve @lemmygrad.ml
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            2 days ago

            I’m thinking we should retire that one. After all, it is a quote about a bourgeois revolution for the bourgeoisie. Perhaps this one, instead?

            When one individual inflicts bodily injury upon another such injury that death results, we call the deed manslaughter; when the assailant knew in advance that the injury would be fatal, we call his deed murder. But when society places hundreds of proletarians in such a position that they inevitably meet a too early and an unnatural death, one which is quite as much a death by violence as that by the sword or bullet; when it deprives thousands of the necessaries of life, places them under conditions in which they cannot live – forces them, through the strong arm of the law, to remain in such conditions until that death ensues which is the inevitable consequence – knows that these thousands of victims must perish, and yet permits these conditions to remain, its deed is murder just as surely as the deed of the single individual; disguised, malicious murder, murder against which none can defend himself, which does not seem what it is, because no man sees the murderer, because the death of the victim seems a natural one, since the offence is more one of omission than of commission. But murder it remains.

            Frederich Engels

    • Okay, head-canon: of course, there were still comrades left, just “off camera”. And after this, they left and hugged and drank to their victory calling out the names of those they lost with every toast.