A one I will leave without much comment:

On a Thursday afternoon,
I sat and watched some Louis Theroux.
In lands of dust and windblown dunes,
He filmed with smart and somber gloom.

“There’s no such thing as settler violence,”
I heard it said—with cold defiance.
Both gods seemed to just consent
To humans steeped in discontent.

Is it worth an outraged scream
When what I saw, they didn’t mean?
Or just a lens, a point of view,
That leaves me staring, lost, unglued?

All the complaints under the sun
Sound like a lie, an unintended pun.
But this is real—too real to bear—
For those who live still trapped in fear.

I’d usually stop to overthink
Who’s wrong, who’s blind, who’s on the brink.
It’s hard to “agree to dissonance”
When the images hit with resonance.

The other side’s story isn’t neat—
Where sand burns hot beneath the feet,
And blood not even yet has dried
From where that little girl had cried.

It’s hard to grasp, not easy to know
What truth lies deep in what they show.
But one thing settles in my chest:
The truth is often not what’s best.

It’s complex, cruel, and rarely fair—
So be at peace if you don’t despair.
And pray your neighbours never see
Themselves as god-sent destiny.