Poetry By Umamah Farooq
Do you not feel like a felon
in your own skin when you talk about
justice all the time online but never really
care about anything apart
from post insights and maximum
retweets so that the world
can know that you are on its side.
You are blind to your own hypocrisy and lies
claiming to be an activist for black lives
when I’ve seen you bully your friend;
The girl who once proudly dripped
melanin now burns her skin bright with layers
of fairness creams since
you shattered her self-esteem.
Ranting on live videos to tell them how angry
the murder of an under-age domestic worker
makes you but your rage is confined to the Facebook page,
I know about the 10 year old
maid you don’t even appropriately treat or pay,
a silent accomplice in the shadows you sway.
Carry around the tag of feminism
for your followers to see, and upload the
manliness of your bravery. Yet, the bruise
on your wife’s cheek screams the truth
about the man behind the screen, who’s scared
of the woman raising her voice against abuse.
He shares a post about how he condemns the guy
who killed his own daughter, his hypocrisy in full display.
Activism doesn’t mean shit if you only ever do it online,
typing away but without a genuine cause in mind.
You may not be the knee holding a man to the ground
or the bullet in someone’s heart but you are the one
hovering your fingers above the keys,
waiting for another person’s plea to turn into a
worldwide hash tag spree.
In this digital age, your cause may seem bright,
But actions speak louder than retweets at night.
You might talk the talk and share the news,
But do you walk the walk, or is it just for views?
Hypocrisy lurks in every click and share
When will real change stop being an online affair?
