Fire Your Fucking Government

People cry about their governments the way people cry about storms, as if they were natural disasters beyond anyone’s control. But governments aren’t weather. They are human creations, maintained by human hands. Which means they can also be dismantled by them.

We forget this because bad governments want us to. They wrap themselves in ceremony and stone, build marble halls and monuments, surround themselves with armies and surveillance, so that they appear immovable. They whisper—or shout—that nothing can change, that to resist is futile, that power is eternal. And so people despair, complain, cry, but rarely act.

Meanwhile, they watch Gaza burn. They watch entire families disappear under rubble, white phosphorus falling like modern-day manna, and still they send weapons. They sign off on starvation, call it defence, and expect you to swallow the euphemisms. And when the seas rise, when fires rage, when floods sweep away lives, they gather at climate summits to shake hands and delay. They tell you targets for 2050 will save a child who needs clean air today.

Governments are not parents or gods. They are employees. They exist to serve the people who grant them legitimacy. If they fail in that service, if they betray, abuse, or abandon, then the people reserve the right to dismiss them. To fire them.

But firing a government is not like firing a cashier. It demands risk, sacrifice, imagination. It demands solidarity in a time when everything is designed to keep us apart. And it demands remembering that no matter how many cages they build—legal, economic, psychological—the bars are not indestructible.

The greatest danger is not the government itself, but the belief that we cannot live without it. That resignation is more powerful than rebellion. That is why people cry instead of act: not because they are weak, but because they have been told for so long that they are powerless.

Still, governments fall. They always do. The Berlin Wall crumbled. Apartheid cracked. Dictatorships collapsed across continents. What endures are the communities that rise from the rubble, the people who refuse to be ruled by fear. That is where the future begins: not with despair, but with the simple, radical reminder that no government is permanent.

So when yours fails you—when it funds genocide abroad and ignores catastrophe at home—remember this: it is not eternal. It works for you. And if it refuses to serve, then the task is as old as humanity itself.

Fire your fucking government.