March, and the Lie That Violence Is Neutral

March has returned, carrying with it the tired promise of renewal. Spring is meant to remind us that life insists on itself. And yet, this March, the world feels heavier—not because violence exists, but because it is being defended with frightening confidence.

Some men no longer merely exercise power; they justify cruelty as policy.

When I listen to Benjamin Netanyahu, I do not hear the language of security alone. I hear the steady erosion of moral restraint, where civilian deaths are rationalised, entire populations reduced to strategic obstacles, and conscience subordinated to territorial obsession. When I hear Donald Trump, I do not hear leadership tempered by responsibility, but power unburdened by ethics—where might is celebrated, empathy mocked, and violence applauded so long as it serves dominance.

History will not struggle to name such politics for what they are.

POWER UNBURDENED BY ETHICS VS. THE COURAGE OF RESISTANCE

Across the divide stands Iran—often spoken of with suspicion, caricatured as irrational or dangerous. Yet to dismiss its moral imagination entirely is to misunderstand a deep civilisational current. The legacy of Ayatollah Ali Khamenei is not merely political; it is theological and ethical, rooted in the Shia understanding of resistance. In that tradition, martyrdom is not a thirst for death, but a refusal to legitimise injustice.

To Shia Muslims, martyrdom finds its highest expression not in violence, but in Imam Hussain—who stood against tyranny at Karbala knowing he would be killed, choosing moral defeat over ethical surrender. Khamenei’s invocation of martyrdom drew from this lineage: suffering accepted not to dominate others, but to expose oppression.

There is a difference the modern world pretends not to see.

One kind of death is inflicted to preserve power. Another is embraced to deny it legitimacy. To collapse these into the same moral category is intellectual laziness—and worse, moral cowardice.

What horrifies me is how easily the West now speaks the language of ‘necessary violence,’ while scoffing at the spiritual courage of resistance. Bombs dropped by States are called defence. Deaths caused by sanctioned armies are called collateral. But sacrifice that refuses submission is labelled extremism.

This is not neutrality. It is selective morality.

We are told Israel has the right to defend itself—but never asked whether defence can include annihilation. We are told the United States acts for stability—but never required to count the bodies stability leaves behind. Meanwhile, those who speak of martyrdom are ridiculed, even when their moral framework demands accountability from power rather than obedience to it.

March forces me to confront an uncomfortable truth: violence has not merely become normal; it has become respectable—so long as it wears the uniform of the powerful.

What kind of civilisation explains the deaths of children with talking points?

What kind of world teaches us that borders matter more than bodies?

What kind of moral order praises men who command destruction, while sneering at those who choose suffering over surrender?

This is not a clash of religions. It is a clash of ethics.

On one side stand leaders who believe safety can be built on fear, that peace can be bombed into existence, and that accountability is optional for the strong. On the other stands a tradition that insists injustice must be named—even if the cost is blood.

I know where I stand.

History does not remember power kindly. It remembers courage, restraint, and moral clarity. Tyrants often sound reasonable in their own time. Martyrs are rarely understood until it is too late.

March will pass. Statements will be issued. Wars will be explained.

But the moral record is already being written.

And when future generations ask who defended violence and who resisted it—who explained suffering and who refused to justify it—I hope we will know which side of history we chose to stand on.