Staff Reports
Once upon a time in the whimsical world of campus protests, a peculiar spectacle unfolded as a group of zealous liberal protesters gathered, their voices echoing through the quad like a chorus of angry geese. Imagine the scene: signs waving like they’re auditioning for the wacky world of Whoville, and chants repeating like a scratched record. Their fervor was unmatched, but in their passion, they might have missed a few minor details—like coherence.
These folks seemed convinced they were the last line of defense against a devious plot. It was the kind of plot so secretive, only they had apparently cracked the code. As they chanted, passersby paused, probably trying to figure out if they had stumbled into a real-life drama or an elaborate flash mob. “No weapons to Israel,” they cried, as if somewhere close by, James Bond was handing over state secrets in an unmarked envelope.
In their enthusiasm, someone might have offered the protesters a map, or maybe a reality check, but they wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s genocide,” they proclaimed, a tad unsure if everyone knew they were speaking metaphorically. They had an air of ‘the world is ending and only we can save it,’ which was all very Hunger Games, minus the cool outfits and special effects.
Our heroic protesters, armed with nothing but their earnestness and maybe a gluten-free snack, marched onward. Their absolute dedication to the cause was admirable, even if the logic was a little slippery. The rest of the world looked on, some shaking their heads, others joining in the chant because, why not? There’s solidarity, and then there’s getting swept up in the moment like you’re at a rock concert and not entirely sure why you’re singing along.
Back in the comfort of their safe spaces, seasoned politicians and news anchors probably chuckled softly over their morning coffee. It’s a curious thing, watching the next generation of activists learn that sometimes, it’s not so much what you say, but how you say it—or even better, understanding what you’re protesting about in the first place. But that’s a lesson for another day, perhaps discovered right alongside the mysteries of why people insist on spoiling Game of Thrones endings. Unwrap that riddle the next time the protesters gather, and who knows, maybe they’ll win an award for best dramatic performance in the quad.
