💀 🔥 The Culture War’s Open Coffin ⚰️ 🪦

🌀 Polyethnics Cremated Every Illusion & Every Idealistic Fantasy

Ahnaf Ibn Qais watches the coffin crack open, the smoke thick, the chants collapse into coughing. He sees the doctrines of purity, order, & harmony rot into ash, their slogans curling like paper in the fire. In the Silence that follows, only Polyethnics still breathes. Stubborn, tangled, & alive.

The coffin is open, & the stench lingers.

Heavy, sour, clinging to the lungs.

What they still call the Culture War... the shouting in parliaments, the soundbites churned by pundits, the mobs howling like stray dogs... isn’t war at all:

It is theatre with a corpse dragged across the stage.

The politicians wave it like a trophy, the commentators jab at it for ratings, the faithful chant as though noise could conjure life. But there is no breath. No pulse.

Everyone feels it in their bones; few will admit it. The war is finished.

Inside the box, the bodies are stacked like rotten firewood.

Nationalism lies first, chest collapsed, anthem echoing through parade grounds emptied of faith. Once it sang of unity, sacred soil, destiny...

As though they were eternal & everlasting.

Now the flag it clutches is just cloth flapping over crowds that no longer believe.

Beside it lies multiculturalism, dressed in costumes stitched by bureaucrats, plastered with slogans of tolerance. Its skin is wax. Its smile is false.

Festivals are scheduled like maintenance, & heritage is filed as paperwork.

Ethnopluralism is here too, shrunken, barely a shadow;

Its promise of separation was nothing but apartheid in polite words, segregation reheated, a stillborn child nobody mourned.

But the coffin groans with other cadavers:

Assimilationism, bones brittle, the melting pot cracked & leaking.

It demanded erasure: memory gone, language buried, difference dissolved.

Yet, people refused & they mixed anyway... in ways stubborn, chaotic, & unpredictable.

Cosmopolitanism slumps nearby, suit torn, clutching its passport stamped with those faded words: “world citizen.” It thought humans were weightless, abstractions without soil or kin, infinitely malleable.

But men drag their gods & dead behind them; women carry bloodlines & myths in their veins. The dream was emptiness; the corpse proves it.

In the corner, civic integrationism sits pale, clutching its scrap of “shared values.” Thin words dressed as belonging.

Beside it lie apartheid & segregation, walls collapsed, bones gnawed. They tried to carve distance into law, to cut a single city into fragments.

Always the same ending: revolt, collapse, blood.

& the empires lie stacked at the back: Rome, Istanbul, Vienna, Delhi.

Their pluralism was just hierarchy enforced by sword & census.

They fell, but the mixing they feared never ceased;

It seeped under the door, through the cracks, inevitable as rot.

The coffin overflows. Doctrines that promised purity, order, harmony, destiny...

All turned into meat, bone, Silence. Their disciples still whisper, beg, & still think slogans can breathe into cold, Moribund lungs.

But nothing moves, nor should one expect movement. The air is heavy, final. No resurrection. Not now, nor ever.

The Culture War isn’t a war; it is a funeral.

The coffin is open so all can see what they secretly knew already:

Every illusion is dead, & the only thing left standing is the tangle, the mess, the mixture they tried (& failed!) to master.

The fire isn’t for the corpses, for they’ll rot anyway...

It is for the slogans, for those neat words carved into stone.

One should burn the illusions, lest someone else drag them back out, dust them off, & pretend that they still breathe.

Multiculturalism first... God, what a fraud.

The illusion was simple: harmony managed by offices. A festival in June, a heritage grant in October, a glossy brochure saying we all belong. But no, that isn’t belonging:

A poster isn’t love. A grant isn’t trust.

You can’t schedule intimacy on a calendar. The second the budgets dried up, the whole show cracked, & people went for each other’s throats anyway.

Multiculturalism wasn’t coexistence; it was window dressing... into the fire.

Ethnopluralism... smaller, weaker, but maybe more poisonous.

“Respect,” it said. “To each in their own corner.”

Cultures were treated like sealed jars on a shelf. Yet Cultures aren’t said neat jars...

They’re rivers. They move, mix, crash, & erode. Try to freeze them & they die. Ethnopluralism’s respect was sterilization. A tomb dressed up as protection.

Light the match... burn the dignity that was never real.

& then nationalism, the biggest ghost of all:

Its songs are still sung, its flags still wave, but it’s already dead. One people, One destiny, One soil: powerful for a while, sure. But it was always a trick of scale.

Blood works in villages. Swords work in empires. Nations tried to pretend both were eternal, & for a century it looked convincing. Then migration, fracture, decline.

Now the anthem plays to empty stands.

Throw it on the fire, watch the banner curl.

Assimilation... Ah, the melting pot.

Crack it open & what do you find?

Bones brittle, promises broken. It wanted memory erased, languages buried, everything folded into One bland mass. But people don’t work that way.

They fall in love across borders.

They make slang that the school can’t control. They carry ghosts in their pockets, whispers from grandparents, songs they didn’t mean to inherit.

Assimilation mistook force for unity. The flames snap its spine clean.

Cosmopolitanism is just as deluded, only in the opposite direction.

The “world citizen.” Rootless, weightless, free of kin.

Airports as cathedrals, passports as holy books. But no One really lives like that:

Humans drag their gods with them... As well as their dead.

They bring the soil with them in memory, in taste, in smell.

Rootlessness isn’t liberation; it’s exile dressed as glamour.

Watch its glossy passport curl in the fire, watch the suit burn to threads.

The rest follow.

Civic integrationism, bloodless platitudes about “shared values.”

Apartheid & segregation, already bones, walls collapsing again in flame.

Empires too... Rome, Istanbul, Vienna, Delhi... burn like rotten scaffolding.

Their censuses, their swords, their brittle charters... Ash.

& then only smoke.

The words themselves burn: “Unity.” “Purity.” “Harmony.” “One People.”

Letters shrivel, slogans curl, then nothing. Just ash, Silence, air that tastes of finality.

Smoke clings to the tongue, bitter, acrid, impossible to swallow.

That’s what’s left: Not myths, nor order, nor even purity... Only smoke.

Only the fact that none of it worked, none of it could.

The fire burns out, but not cleanly... never cleanly.

The smoke lingers, clinging to skin, hair, & to the inside of your mouth...

You taste it when you breathe.

The coffin is nothing but a charred shell now, with ashes spilling out & black dust that sticks to boots.

The mobs have gone home, their chants turned into dry coughing.

Politicians shuffle like actors when the stage lights cut out.

The pundits keep talking, but there’s nothing left to poke, no corpse to drag around.

The Culture War isn’t alive; it isn’t even dying.

It’s already dead, & everyone knows it.

What’s left?

Not the flags, nor the slogans, nor even the tidy categories in some ministry report.

What’s left is the mess: the kitchens where smells clash, the bedrooms where borders collapse, the streets where languages bleed into each other.

Kids who switch tongues mid-sentence without thinking.

Food stitched together out of exile & memory.

Jokes that don’t translate but still work.

Children born carrying four, five, or six lineages in One body.

That’s what survived.

Not a doctrine, nor even a theory.

Just life, stubborn & tangled, unplanned, unapproved.

Polyethnics doesn’t need a flag. Doesn’t need a policy. It isn’t an ideology at all:

It’s just what happens. It lives in cracks nobody can seal.

It was there before nationalism marched.

It was there before multiculturalism passed a single grant.

It outlasted assimilationism’s demands, cosmopolitanism’s glossy brochures, the empire’s censuses & swords.

Every system tried to discipline it, to fence it, to kill it.

None could.

The fire only made it obvious:

Polyethnics endures because it doesn’t wait for permission.

It doesn’t care.

It just goes on, quietly, relentlessly, endlessly.

So walk away:

Leave the coffin to the mourners.

Let them whisper to bones.

Let them pretend slogans can still rise.

The living have no business in that place.

The living belong in the markets, in the noise, in the half-invented slang of kids who don’t care about purity.

The world isn’t in the graves.

It’s outside, messy, noisy, alive. & it doesn’t need saving; it never did.

The path forward is never clean, It’s always tangled:

Neighbours who share nothing but still share a fence;

Slang mutating faster than dictionaries;

Marriages no nation planned, & food no empire approved.

All the improvisation of survival... that’s what’s real.

Not purity, nor harmony, nor even some bureaucrat’s chart.

Just survival, carried on by people who keep mixing, no matter how many walls are built. & that survival is more honest than any speech, more enduring than any border.

The funeral is done. Dirt falls.

The last illusions vanish under the soil.

The Culture War is gone... Good riddance!

& what’s still standing in the smoke?

The One thing that can’t be burned:

The truth that people mix, endlessly, stubbornly, without apology.

Polyethnics doesn’t rise from the fire as a victor.

It was never fighting.

It simply walks away, still breathing, while every ideology lies dead in the ash.

& the Silence it leaves behind isn’t emptiness;

It is space where life continues, unasked, unpermitted, unstoppable, & beyond the reach of any hand raised to chain it again.

💀 🔥 The DOOM Cometh…! ⚰️ 🌫️