Above the Law
The architects of apartheid seldom see the inside of cells. They carve borders in blood, watch children fall like rain on land they’ve stolen, and call it governance.
How is he not behind bars?
The architects of apartheid
seldom see the inside of cells.
They carve borders in blood,
watch children fall like rain
on land they’ve stolen,
and call it governance.
How is he not locked away?
Because power is an armor
woven from treaties signed in smoke,
from alliances that sell
principles for profit.
Because the world turns its face
away from the rubble,
its hands outstretched for gas,
for oil, for weapons.
He sits in his palace of lies,
a butcher in a suit,
his hands stained with decades of grief,
his words a lit match
to the tinder of a people’s despair.
He drafts genocide like policy,
tucks white phosphorus
into his arsenal like a prayer.
And still, they call him a leader.
Still, they shake his hand,
sip champagne with the devil
and toast to democracy.
The Hague gathers dust;
justice waits like a widow
for someone to listen.
How is he not in jail?
Because the world fears him less
than it fears his victims.
Because his crimes are hidden
beneath the shield of statehood,
and the lie that colonizers
can be victims, too.
But history is watching.
It always does.
And the day will come
when no army can protect him,
no ally can shield him,
no lie can outlast
the truth rising like dawn
over a thousand shattered homes.
He should be behind bars.
Instead, he walks free,
his shadow stretching long
over the ruins he’s made.
But shadows do not last forever—
and neither will he.
Netanyahu walks free, not because he is innocent, but because the world was built to protect men like him. Men who rise on the backs of the dispossessed, who twist morality into a weapon they wield against their victims. His hands drip with the blood of children, yet they still clasp the hands of presidents and prime ministers. His crimes are not hidden—they are televised, documented, broadcast in the cries of grieving mothers. Yet he remains untouchable, shielded by alliances forged in the name of profit and fear.
He has mastered the art of reframing atrocity. A demolished home becomes a matter of security. A bombed hospital is a regrettable necessity. He wears these justifications like a cloak, his words turning rubble into rhetoric. And the world, complicit in its silence, nods along. His allies send weapons disguised as aid and offer words of support that echo like hollow promises across occupied land.
But there is a reckoning in the air, an unspoken truth rising beneath the surface. The ground beneath him is not as solid as it seems. His grip on power, while firm, is cracking under the weight of the lies it’s built upon. He is a man of the past, clinging desperately to a narrative the future will not tolerate.
The world asks how he is not in jail, but the answer is too painful to confront. Justice is a construct of the powerful, and when power itself is the crime, who will wield it to bring the guilty to account? The system that should hold him accountable is the same one that props him up. His impunity is not an anomaly—it’s the blueprint.
Yet history is not on his side. Tyrants are always toppled, eventually. Empires collapse. Leaders like him—who mistake fear for respect and destruction for strategy—never outlast the truth. The lies that sustain him are already fraying. His shadow looms long now, but shadows cannot withstand the sun.
And one day, it will rise.