[The Admiral]
May Day rallies were a complete joke. A circus. A comedy show. A gathering of egos pretending to care about workers while workers struggle to survive.
Anura, Tilvin and the JVP brigade arrived beautifully dressed in red. Designer red. Revolutionary red. Very expensive red. The true colour of their movement. Red like their rhetoric. Red like their lies. Red like the blood of promises they murdered.
Harini walked drenched in rain. Wet body. Wet hair. Very dramatic. Very sacrificial. She was taking her annual bath. Washing away the sins of lying to the country about education reforms. About women’s rights. About everything she promised and nothing she delivered. One bath per year. Very efficient. Very revolutionary.
The opposition rallies looked like Royal Thomian at SSC. Big match atmosphere. Papare bands playing. Old boys networking. Whiskey flowing. Everyone having a wonderful time. Very festive. Very elite. Very disconnected from actual workers who May Day supposedly celebrates.
The JVP was busy threatening everyone. Jail dates announced. Prosecution promised. Very specific threats. Very revolutionary justice. Very organized prosecution schedule. Just like their organized protection of Jayakody. Very consistent.
The opposition was drinking whiskey and dancing to papare music thinking they are playing the big match. Completely oblivious. Completely drunk. Completely useless. The combined team celebrating while getting destroyed. Very sportsmanlike. Very traditional. Very pathetic.
Anura is the match referee who says only his team can bat. Very fair. Very democratic. Very revolutionary. The opposition cannot even hold the ball. They just sit in Mustang pavilion drinking and watching their own destruction like it is entertainment.
Tilvin is the only umpire. No neutral officials allowed. Only party-approved judgment. Very impartial. Very just. Very convenient. He gives everyone in opposition out. His team never loses wicket. Perfect umpiring. Zero credibility.
Harini runs the scoreboard. Changes numbers whenever convenient. Opposition score goes down. Government score goes up. Math is flexible. Reality is optional. Scoreboard reflects party wishes, not actual game. Very accurate. Very honest. Very Harini.
Lalkantha and Wasantha, the two multi-millionaire Marxists, have fixed the entire match with Indian betting companies. Money transfers through crypto currency. Very revolutionary. Very proletarian. Workers’ champions making millions on rigged games. Perfect irony. Zero shame.
While this theater performs, oil prices are climbing to the stars. Electricity costs have broken through every ceiling. Businesses are closing doors permanently. Jobs are not being created. Jobs are being destroyed. Youth are packing bags and leaving the country. The brain drain has become brain flood. Everyone running away.
The monks are silent. Too busy with their own ganja cases and rape allegations to care about workers’ rights. Very spiritual. Very focused. Very distracted.
The Cardinal is praying for his supper and worried about retirement. Seven years of trusting Presidents taught him nothing. Still praying. Still hoping. Still irrelevant.
The Maulavis are counting cash. Business is good. Faith is profitable. Workers can suffer. Numbers look excellent.
Astrologers are predicting doom. Finally. The one profession that is actually accurate. Doom is coming. Actually doom is already here. Astrologers are just confirming what everyone already knows but nobody wants to admit.
Children are starving. Not metaphorically. Actually starving. Mothers skipping meals so children can eat half portions. Fathers working two jobs and still cannot afford rice. Families breaking under pressure that never stops increasing.
Women have lost hope. The government that promised empowerment delivered poverty. The revolution that promised equality delivered the same old suffering with new slogans. The leaders who said they cared showed they care only about themselves.
Men are drinking kassipu. Not to celebrate. To forget. To numb the pain. To escape reality for few hours. To pretend things are not as bad as they are. To cope with failure. To survive another day of hopelessness.
This is May Day. Workers’ day. The day to celebrate labor. To honour workers. To fight for rights. To demand justice. To build solidarity.
Instead we get theater. Political circus. Ego parades. Whiskey parties. Fixed matches. Empty threats. Broken promises. Designer revolutionaries. Millionaire Marxists. And workers starving while leaders perform.
The rallies happened. The speeches were given. The flags were waved. The songs were sung. The photos were taken. The media reported. The performance completed.
And nothing changed. Nothing improved. Nothing got better for actual workers. The people May Day is supposed to honour were ignored while politicians honoured themselves.
Wake up. May Day is not about workers anymore. May Day is about politicians pretending to care about workers. About revolutionaries who became rich pretending to fight for the poor. About leaders who failed pretending to succeed. About a system that is broken pretending to function.
The match is fixed. The referee is corrupt. The umpire is biased. The scoreboard is lies. And the spectators are too drunk or too defeated to care anymore.
Children are starving. Women are hopeless. Men are drinking to forget. And the leaders are celebrating May Day in designer red clothes pretending they give a damn about workers while workers cannot afford to feed their families.
This is the reality. This is the truth. This is May Day in a country where workers’ day has become politicians’ performance art while actual workers suffer in silence.
Wake up. Before there is nothing left to wake up to.