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#antiwar — Public Fediverse posts

Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #antiwar, aggregated by home.social.

  1. The Sabbath Sabotage

    They told us
    holiness was neat,
    pressed flat like Sunday clothes,
    folded into bulletins,
    spoken in indoor voices,
    kept safely between hymns
    and handshakes.

    They told us
    Sabbath was a soft thing,
    a nap for the soul,
    a gentle pause
    before returning
    to the holy machinery
    of earning, buying, proving, becoming.

    But Sabbath was never safe.

    Sabbath is a wrench
    thrown into Pharaoh’s gears.
    A door barred against the market.
    A candle lit
    in defiance of the floodlights.
    A refusal
    to kneel before the stopwatch.
    A holy no
    rising like thunder
    from tired bones.

    Six days, they say,
    you shall labor.
    And the seventh?
    The seventh is mutiny.

    The seventh day
    the fields are not your masters.
    The ledgers do not own your name.
    The inbox may howl
    like a beast outside the gate,
    but you will not feed it.
    The empire counts bricks.
    Sabbath counts blessings.
    The empire demands output.
    Sabbath gathers manna
    and says, enough.

    Enough for today.
    Enough for this body.
    Enough for this earth.
    Enough for a life
    that was never meant
    to be fed into furnaces
    just to keep the towers warm.

    Sabbath is not laziness.
    It is revolt
    with bread on the table.
    It is trust
    with dirt under the fingernails.
    It is the slave
    remembering he is human.
    The widow
    remembering she is seen.
    The ox
    remembering grass.
    The land
    remembering how to breathe.

    And maybe that is why
    they sabotage Sabbath.

    Because rest breaks rank.
    Because silence interrupts slogans.
    Because delight cannot be monetized forever.
    Because a people
    who learn to stop
    may also learn
    they can refuse.

    Refuse the lie
    that worth is measured in production.
    Refuse the sermon
    of profit without mercy.
    Refuse the fear
    that if we cease for one day
    the world will fall apart—
    as though we were the ones
    holding up the stars.

    No.
    Sabbath is the admission
    that we are not God,
    and the miracle
    that God is still good.

    So let the engines choke.
    Let the schedules stutter.
    Let the tyrants call it weakness.
    Let the anxious call it waste.
    Let the merchants stand bewildered
    before shuttered stalls
    and unhurried hearts.

    For this is the sabotage:
    to rest in a restless world,
    to feast in a famine of joy,
    to loosen your fist
    when all of history
    has trained it to clench.

    To stop.
    To breathe.
    To bless.
    To remember
    that we were not made
    for endless extraction,
    but for communion—
    with God,
    with neighbor,
    with creature,
    with soil,
    with our own forgotten souls.

    And so, on the seventh day,
    we commit our small rebellion:
    we light candles against consumption,
    set tables against despair,
    sing psalms against the grind,
    and call this shattered life
    still sacred.

    This is no small thing.
    This is how the kingdom enters:
    not always with trumpets,
    but with napping children,
    unbought hours,
    shared bread,
    and a people audacious enough
    to believe
    that the world can turn
    without their frantic striving.

    Blessed are the saboteurs of empire.
    Blessed are the keepers of Sabbath.
    Blessed are the tired
    who lay their burden down
    and find, beneath the weight of all they carried,
    a joy the masters could not confiscate.

    For every Sabbath kept
    is a crack in the idol.
    Every prayer whispered at rest
    is a seed beneath the pavement.
    Every holy pause
    is a hammer blow
    against the myth
    that Caesar owns time.

    He does not.
    The clock does not.
    The market does not.

    Time belongs to God.
    And God,
    in mercy,
    has given some of it back to us.


    #AntiWar #biblicalImagination #ChristianPoetry #ChristianReflection #empireCritique #faithAndJustice #holyResistance #Nonviolence #peace #peaceWitness #propheticImagination #propheticPoetry #resistanceToEmpire #restAsRebellion #Sabbath #SabbathAsResistance #SabbathRest #SabbathSabotage #sacredRest #spiritualResistance #SpokenWord #steampunkArt #symbolicArt #theologyOfRest #warMachine
  2. The Sabbath Sabotage

    They told us
    holiness was neat,
    pressed flat like Sunday clothes,
    folded into bulletins,
    spoken in indoor voices,
    kept safely between hymns
    and handshakes.

    They told us
    Sabbath was a soft thing,
    a nap for the soul,
    a gentle pause
    before returning
    to the holy machinery
    of earning, buying, proving, becoming.

    But Sabbath was never safe.

    Sabbath is a wrench
    thrown into Pharaoh’s gears.
    A door barred against the market.
    A candle lit
    in defiance of the floodlights.
    A refusal
    to kneel before the stopwatch.
    A holy no
    rising like thunder
    from tired bones.

    Six days, they say,
    you shall labor.
    And the seventh?
    The seventh is mutiny.

    The seventh day
    the fields are not your masters.
    The ledgers do not own your name.
    The inbox may howl
    like a beast outside the gate,
    but you will not feed it.
    The empire counts bricks.
    Sabbath counts blessings.
    The empire demands output.
    Sabbath gathers manna
    and says, enough.

    Enough for today.
    Enough for this body.
    Enough for this earth.
    Enough for a life
    that was never meant
    to be fed into furnaces
    just to keep the towers warm.

    Sabbath is not laziness.
    It is revolt
    with bread on the table.
    It is trust
    with dirt under the fingernails.
    It is the slave
    remembering he is human.
    The widow
    remembering she is seen.
    The ox
    remembering grass.
    The land
    remembering how to breathe.

    And maybe that is why
    they sabotage Sabbath.

    Because rest breaks rank.
    Because silence interrupts slogans.
    Because delight cannot be monetized forever.
    Because a people
    who learn to stop
    may also learn
    they can refuse.

    Refuse the lie
    that worth is measured in production.
    Refuse the sermon
    of profit without mercy.
    Refuse the fear
    that if we cease for one day
    the world will fall apart—
    as though we were the ones
    holding up the stars.

    No.
    Sabbath is the admission
    that we are not God,
    and the miracle
    that God is still good.

    So let the engines choke.
    Let the schedules stutter.
    Let the tyrants call it weakness.
    Let the anxious call it waste.
    Let the merchants stand bewildered
    before shuttered stalls
    and unhurried hearts.

    For this is the sabotage:
    to rest in a restless world,
    to feast in a famine of joy,
    to loosen your fist
    when all of history
    has trained it to clench.

    To stop.
    To breathe.
    To bless.
    To remember
    that we were not made
    for endless extraction,
    but for communion—
    with God,
    with neighbor,
    with creature,
    with soil,
    with our own forgotten souls.

    And so, on the seventh day,
    we commit our small rebellion:
    we light candles against consumption,
    set tables against despair,
    sing psalms against the grind,
    and call this shattered life
    still sacred.

    This is no small thing.
    This is how the kingdom enters:
    not always with trumpets,
    but with napping children,
    unbought hours,
    shared bread,
    and a people audacious enough
    to believe
    that the world can turn
    without their frantic striving.

    Blessed are the saboteurs of empire.
    Blessed are the keepers of Sabbath.
    Blessed are the tired
    who lay their burden down
    and find, beneath the weight of all they carried,
    a joy the masters could not confiscate.

    For every Sabbath kept
    is a crack in the idol.
    Every prayer whispered at rest
    is a seed beneath the pavement.
    Every holy pause
    is a hammer blow
    against the myth
    that Caesar owns time.

    He does not.
    The clock does not.
    The market does not.

    Time belongs to God.
    And God,
    in mercy,
    has given some of it back to us.


    #AntiWar #biblicalImagination #ChristianPoetry #ChristianReflection #empireCritique #faithAndJustice #holyResistance #Nonviolence #peace #peaceWitness #propheticImagination #propheticPoetry #resistanceToEmpire #restAsRebellion #Sabbath #SabbathAsResistance #SabbathRest #SabbathSabotage #sacredRest #spiritualResistance #SpokenWord #steampunkArt #symbolicArt #theologyOfRest #warMachine
  3. The Sabbath Sabotage

    They told us
    holiness was neat,
    pressed flat like Sunday clothes,
    folded into bulletins,
    spoken in indoor voices,
    kept safely between hymns
    and handshakes.

    They told us
    Sabbath was a soft thing,
    a nap for the soul,
    a gentle pause
    before returning
    to the holy machinery
    of earning, buying, proving, becoming.

    But Sabbath was never safe.

    Sabbath is a wrench
    thrown into Pharaoh’s gears.
    A door barred against the market.
    A candle lit
    in defiance of the floodlights.
    A refusal
    to kneel before the stopwatch.
    A holy no
    rising like thunder
    from tired bones.

    Six days, they say,
    you shall labor.
    And the seventh?
    The seventh is mutiny.

    The seventh day
    the fields are not your masters.
    The ledgers do not own your name.
    The inbox may howl
    like a beast outside the gate,
    but you will not feed it.
    The empire counts bricks.
    Sabbath counts blessings.
    The empire demands output.
    Sabbath gathers manna
    and says, enough.

    Enough for today.
    Enough for this body.
    Enough for this earth.
    Enough for a life
    that was never meant
    to be fed into furnaces
    just to keep the towers warm.

    Sabbath is not laziness.
    It is revolt
    with bread on the table.
    It is trust
    with dirt under the fingernails.
    It is the slave
    remembering he is human.
    The widow
    remembering she is seen.
    The ox
    remembering grass.
    The land
    remembering how to breathe.

    And maybe that is why
    they sabotage Sabbath.

    Because rest breaks rank.
    Because silence interrupts slogans.
    Because delight cannot be monetized forever.
    Because a people
    who learn to stop
    may also learn
    they can refuse.

    Refuse the lie
    that worth is measured in production.
    Refuse the sermon
    of profit without mercy.
    Refuse the fear
    that if we cease for one day
    the world will fall apart—
    as though we were the ones
    holding up the stars.

    No.
    Sabbath is the admission
    that we are not God,
    and the miracle
    that God is still good.

    So let the engines choke.
    Let the schedules stutter.
    Let the tyrants call it weakness.
    Let the anxious call it waste.
    Let the merchants stand bewildered
    before shuttered stalls
    and unhurried hearts.

    For this is the sabotage:
    to rest in a restless world,
    to feast in a famine of joy,
    to loosen your fist
    when all of history
    has trained it to clench.

    To stop.
    To breathe.
    To bless.
    To remember
    that we were not made
    for endless extraction,
    but for communion—
    with God,
    with neighbor,
    with creature,
    with soil,
    with our own forgotten souls.

    And so, on the seventh day,
    we commit our small rebellion:
    we light candles against consumption,
    set tables against despair,
    sing psalms against the grind,
    and call this shattered life
    still sacred.

    This is no small thing.
    This is how the kingdom enters:
    not always with trumpets,
    but with napping children,
    unbought hours,
    shared bread,
    and a people audacious enough
    to believe
    that the world can turn
    without their frantic striving.

    Blessed are the saboteurs of empire.
    Blessed are the keepers of Sabbath.
    Blessed are the tired
    who lay their burden down
    and find, beneath the weight of all they carried,
    a joy the masters could not confiscate.

    For every Sabbath kept
    is a crack in the idol.
    Every prayer whispered at rest
    is a seed beneath the pavement.
    Every holy pause
    is a hammer blow
    against the myth
    that Caesar owns time.

    He does not.
    The clock does not.
    The market does not.

    Time belongs to God.
    And God,
    in mercy,
    has given some of it back to us.


    #AntiWar #biblicalImagination #ChristianPoetry #ChristianReflection #empireCritique #faithAndJustice #holyResistance #Nonviolence #peace #peaceWitness #propheticImagination #propheticPoetry #resistanceToEmpire #restAsRebellion #Sabbath #SabbathAsResistance #SabbathRest #SabbathSabotage #sacredRest #spiritualResistance #SpokenWord #steampunkArt #symbolicArt #theologyOfRest #warMachine
  4. The Sabbath Sabotage

    They told us
    holiness was neat,
    pressed flat like Sunday clothes,
    folded into bulletins,
    spoken in indoor voices,
    kept safely between hymns
    and handshakes.

    They told us
    Sabbath was a soft thing,
    a nap for the soul,
    a gentle pause
    before returning
    to the holy machinery
    of earning, buying, proving, becoming.

    But Sabbath was never safe.

    Sabbath is a wrench
    thrown into Pharaoh’s gears.
    A door barred against the market.
    A candle lit
    in defiance of the floodlights.
    A refusal
    to kneel before the stopwatch.
    A holy no
    rising like thunder
    from tired bones.

    Six days, they say,
    you shall labor.
    And the seventh?
    The seventh is mutiny.

    The seventh day
    the fields are not your masters.
    The ledgers do not own your name.
    The inbox may howl
    like a beast outside the gate,
    but you will not feed it.
    The empire counts bricks.
    Sabbath counts blessings.
    The empire demands output.
    Sabbath gathers manna
    and says, enough.

    Enough for today.
    Enough for this body.
    Enough for this earth.
    Enough for a life
    that was never meant
    to be fed into furnaces
    just to keep the towers warm.

    Sabbath is not laziness.
    It is revolt
    with bread on the table.
    It is trust
    with dirt under the fingernails.
    It is the slave
    remembering he is human.
    The widow
    remembering she is seen.
    The ox
    remembering grass.
    The land
    remembering how to breathe.

    And maybe that is why
    they sabotage Sabbath.

    Because rest breaks rank.
    Because silence interrupts slogans.
    Because delight cannot be monetized forever.
    Because a people
    who learn to stop
    may also learn
    they can refuse.

    Refuse the lie
    that worth is measured in production.
    Refuse the sermon
    of profit without mercy.
    Refuse the fear
    that if we cease for one day
    the world will fall apart—
    as though we were the ones
    holding up the stars.

    No.
    Sabbath is the admission
    that we are not God,
    and the miracle
    that God is still good.

    So let the engines choke.
    Let the schedules stutter.
    Let the tyrants call it weakness.
    Let the anxious call it waste.
    Let the merchants stand bewildered
    before shuttered stalls
    and unhurried hearts.

    For this is the sabotage:
    to rest in a restless world,
    to feast in a famine of joy,
    to loosen your fist
    when all of history
    has trained it to clench.

    To stop.
    To breathe.
    To bless.
    To remember
    that we were not made
    for endless extraction,
    but for communion—
    with God,
    with neighbor,
    with creature,
    with soil,
    with our own forgotten souls.

    And so, on the seventh day,
    we commit our small rebellion:
    we light candles against consumption,
    set tables against despair,
    sing psalms against the grind,
    and call this shattered life
    still sacred.

    This is no small thing.
    This is how the kingdom enters:
    not always with trumpets,
    but with napping children,
    unbought hours,
    shared bread,
    and a people audacious enough
    to believe
    that the world can turn
    without their frantic striving.

    Blessed are the saboteurs of empire.
    Blessed are the keepers of Sabbath.
    Blessed are the tired
    who lay their burden down
    and find, beneath the weight of all they carried,
    a joy the masters could not confiscate.

    For every Sabbath kept
    is a crack in the idol.
    Every prayer whispered at rest
    is a seed beneath the pavement.
    Every holy pause
    is a hammer blow
    against the myth
    that Caesar owns time.

    He does not.
    The clock does not.
    The market does not.

    Time belongs to God.
    And God,
    in mercy,
    has given some of it back to us.


    #AntiWar #biblicalImagination #ChristianPoetry #ChristianReflection #empireCritique #faithAndJustice #holyResistance #Nonviolence #peace #peaceWitness #propheticImagination #propheticPoetry #resistanceToEmpire #restAsRebellion #Sabbath #SabbathAsResistance #SabbathRest #SabbathSabotage #sacredRest #spiritualResistance #SpokenWord #steampunkArt #symbolicArt #theologyOfRest #warMachine
  5. NOW ON VERDANT SQUARE RADIO ==

    NOW PLAYING == Democracy Now! 5/14/26: Xi Warns Trump of Potental "Conflict" over Taiwan in Beijing Summit on Iran, Trade, Tech, & Morehttps://youtu.be/5Eu90jrkyOg?si=050AWrGxGX8mxzbp#news #war #peace #uspol #geopolitics #antiwar #journalism #independentmedia #democracynow #AmyGoodman #JuanGonzález #Ne1rmeenShaikh #vsn #radio #SupportIndependentMedia #DiverseSpectrumOfTheLeft #Resist

    mastodon.social/@VerdantSquare

  6. Das Boot: The Limit of Human Endurance in The Boat 🌊

    Wolfgang Petersen’s claustrophobic classic Das Boot (The Boat) remains one of West Germany’s most famous films. It was adapted from Lothar-Günther Buchheim’s 1973 semi-autobiographical book.

    Set during WWII, the story follows the German submarine U-96 and the difficulties its crew faces. A relentlessly bleak film, it holds a clear anti-war message alongside several Nazi characters clearly having reached a point of total disdain for the regime. Timely, then, and still a very impressive film.

    The Very Strong Anti-War Message of Das Boot

    Interesting starting point, but Lothar-Günther Buchheim (1918-2007) didn’t make much of the film adaptation. He felt it didn’t properly convey his book’s anti-war message.

    Our first viewing of the film wasn’t that at all. It has very clear anti-war messages and the bleakness of its ending alone makes that abundantly obvious. Not a big spoiler here, but after some horrendous ordeals out at sea the U-96 crew is all blown to smithereens by the Royal Air Force. On Christmas Eve when back on land.

    What’s impressive about the film is how it portrays the ship’s crew. Although Nazi members, some have clear anti-Hitler stances, such as Kapitänleutnant Philipp Thomsen (Otto Sander). Suffering PTSD and a clear raging alcoholic, he mocks Hitler during a party.

    And if that seems like too convincing a bit of drunk acting, it’s because Sander was very drunk when he filmed it. Method acting.

    Another cynic is the submarine’s Kapitänleutnant (Jürgen Prochnow) who openly mocks Nazi state messages and propaganda. His crew also just come across as desperate, trapped in the submarine whilst being bombed and spending months out at sea.

    For viewers, Das Boot is a psychological onslaught. Seeing this in a cinema must have been draining, but the message is very clear. At 149 minutes, you don’t get any room to breathe.

    There are the tense conflicts in confined quarters, flooding, and then the long periods of intense boredom for the crew. And as the viewer, you live through all that and feel the cold, sweat, and tears.

    PTSD kicks in for several crew members. With Kapitänleutnant fighting to uphold morale as his belief in the war effort dwindles. All of which builds to a crushing conclusion of total nihilistic defeat—all the suffering, for nothing.

    Yes, then, not an uplifting film in any respect.

    But a technically very impressive one, with a very convincing set of actors. And as you can read below, they were so convincing as they genuinely had to endure a hellish time of it.

    The Production of Das Boot

    This was a major West German production involving the studios Bavaria Film, Radiant Film, Westdeutscher Rundfunk, and SWR Fernsehen. They cobbled together the impressive budget of DM 32 million (€17.4 million in 2021 cash).

    The film was a hit, too, making a 2025 equivalent of $283 million.

    Production initially began in 1976 with Robert Redford involved in the project as Kapitänleutnant. But then the effort was cancelled, before being picked up to become the most expensive German film of its day (only beaten in expensive come 2006).

    Rutger Hauer was also offered the lead role, but chose instead a role in a certain film called Blade Runner (1982).

    Filming took 12 months and was chaotic and gruelling, with most of Das Boot shot in sequence (unlike most other films). This meant beard growth and weight loss is very real in the film, alongside the increasingly haggard looking actors.

    The actors were warned to avoid sunlight as much as possible. The guys do end up looking very pallid by mid-way into the film and that’s why.

    For scenes inside the submarine, a giant mock-up was created for the actors to do their thing in. Crew members would shake it, rock it, and tilt the shell at angles.

    The director’s obsessive approach paid off with critical and commercial success.

    It got six Oscar nominations, too, but didn’t win any. On the plus side, he did win the German Film Award for Best Film. All good going, even if the book’s author didn’t rate the work.

    #antiWar #Cinema #DasBoot #Films #History #LotharGüntherBuchheim #Movies #TheBoat #War #WolfgangPetersen #WorldWarII #WWII