We Will Not Look Away

You in the vest.
You in the windbreaker.
You in the “POLICE” costume.

You planned this.
You made the list.
This is you choosing that door.

You chose the hour.
You chose the house.
You chose the fear.

You call it “procedure” because you’re weak.
Because you need a clean word
to cover what you do with your hands.

Say it out loud, since we’re here:
You raid homes.
You split families.
You disappear people into systems built to blur faces and erase timelines.
You do it on purpose.
Then you go home and tell yourself you’re still a good person
because you didn’t “make the law.”

That lie is the uniform.
That lie is the job.

You don’t get to hide behind “orders.”
Orders don’t walk up a driveway.
Orders don’t shove a grandmother back inside.
Orders don’t look past a child crying
like the child is a stain on the day.

You do.

And you want the crowd to believe you’re strong.
But strength doesn’t hunt the softest target.
Strength doesn’t need six adults to snatch one unarmed person.
Strength doesn’t turn a neighborhood into a room full of locked jaws.

You’re not strong.
You’re sanctioned.

A fascist state always needs mindless workers.
Not geniuses.
Not heroes.
Mindless. Workers.

People who can swallow a little more hate each week
and still show up on time.

You say “public safety.”
You mean obedience.

You say “homeland.”
You mean permission to hurt.

You say “security.”
You mean silence.

This is what fascism looks like up close.
It looks like paperwork and boots and a bored face.
It looks like someone saying “Nothing personal”
while making it personal for life.

And yeah, we see the leaders who feed you.
The podium cruelty.
The TV cruelty.
The policy cruelty with good lighting.
They talk like bullies because bullies sell.
They point at a scapegoat because they can’t build a country.
So they build a cage and call it a border.
They build a hunt and call it law.

They need you to do the dirty part
so they can keep their hands clean for cameras.

And you do it.
Because it feels like power
to take it from someone who can’t fight back.

That’s hate.
Not always shouted.
Often quiet.
Often “professional.”
Still hate.

And while you play soldier in the street,
American life keeps tearing.

The empty seat at dinner.
The store that closes early because the owner is gone.
The church that stops announcing events out loud.
The neighbor who stops trusting the neighbor.

That is your real work.
Not “removals.”
Ruptures.

You are ripping the stitches that make a place a place.
Then you act surprised when the fabric frays.

So hear this, and hear it clear:

We are not like you.

We are the people who bring food when somebody disappears.
We are the people who film.
We are the people who call lawyers, translate, drive, shelter, witness.
We are the people who stand in the way with bodies and voices
and make your quiet violence loud.

You want a nation of isolated, scared, compliant strangers.

You don’t get it.

We are done normalizing this.
Done shrugging.
Done looking away.
Done letting “law” mean cruelty with a badge.

Accountability is coming.
In courts.
On records.
At ballot boxes.
In streets full of witnesses.
In a country that remembers what you tried to turn it into.

We will film you.
We will name you.
We will bury you in records you can’t outrun.

To all the people on the right side of history:

Move.

Say their names: fascists in uniform.
Say it again: fascists in uniform.

Rise.

Say their names: fascists in uniform.
Say it again: fascists in uniform.

Resist.

Say their names: fascists in uniform.
Say it again: fascists in uniform.

Overcome.

Say their names: fascists in uniform.
Say it again: fascists in uniform.

We will film you.
We will name you.
We will bury you in records you can’t outrun.

If you can sleep after this, you never had a soul.