Here in No Man's Land

Here in No Man's Land,

trapped in between two armies.

A lull in battle.

Each side with its certainties,

only I am filled with doubt.

What is it with all these people and their certainties? Everywhere I turn now, the world is choking on its convictions. People blabbing endlessly as if they knew what's what, when in truth, all their information came from the television and their newsfeeds. A constant chattering, like school boys on the playground. The same old, tired stories mind you. The same conspiracies and simplifications. Making out like they formulated these ideas all on their own, when they're simply regurgitating the dregs of The New York Times or some conspiracy nut whose unhinged views they take for gospel.

Oh, they're not shy about sharing these opinions, are they? Firing off another barrage—whether you want to hear them or not. Shoving their views down our throats without even asking if we've eaten.

And pray, tell me, why is it I am expected to have an opinion on every topic underneath the sun? Really, how can one form an opinion in this deranged age of misinformation and intentional obfuscation?

Here, in this fading Western era of moral relativism, insanity now reigns supreme. Information bombards us from all four quarters. Feelings trumping facts. Political dogma gunning down reason and science without a second thought. Indeed, centuries after the inquisition, new moral orthodoxies have been created. Millenia since men roamed Athens in sandals and bedsheets, ostracism has been dusted off and brought back onto the field of battle.

Dare you hold a differing view? Be careful what you say, my friends. I tell you, they'll hang you from the ramparts, or else line you up in front of a firing squad, if you're not careful.

Ah, and still, everybody wants to know what you think. Everyone hopes to hear what you have to say, salivating at the thought they might catch you out and send you off to another kangaroo court where suspicion alone is sufficient to warrant your execution.

Yes, still the questions come ...

"Are you an anti-vaxer, or a pro-vaxer? Do you reckon it's a pharmaceutical conspiracy or a lab-leak from China?"

"What do you think ... was Oswald the lone gunman, or was there another shooter on the grassy knoll?"

"Do you support Trump or Biden, Stay or Leave, the Labor Party or the Liberal Party?"

"What are your thoughts on hormone treatment for pre-teen, transgender children?"

"How about Putin's invasion of Ukraine, eh? Do you believe Europe provoked him by bringing so many ex-Soviet nations into the NATO fold? Do you suppose Zelensky is a Nazi?"

Yeah, right, a Jewish Nazi ... now I've seen everything! Next you'll be telling me that Communism wasn't trounced in the battle of ideas due to the Gulags, the secret police, the mass famines and the tens of millions of corpses it used to fertilise its fields. Oh no. If they were in charge, they would have certainly ushered in the promised utopia. Hell, I've even seen Che Guevara banners at LGBT rallies, the ignorance of our age now runs so deep.

Yet, still the questions come ... All these god-damned questions. And really, how the fuck would I know the answers? Everybody wants a straight answer. Something neat and tidy, cut and dried, and then, to finish, tied off with a little pink bow. Oh, and watch out that you don't provide a reply that isn't in keeping with your friendly interrogator's narrow-minded views. Everything has been turned on its head. Once it was the progressive Left that fought censorship and defended freedom of speech. Now they'll have you put in the stockade for even questioning their current orthodoxy. And before you accuse me of membership in the alt-right, it's not just the left front that deserves this harangue. No, no. The right front is just as deranged. Electing a snake oil salesman who shits on a gold toilet, yet believing he supports the working class. Loathing the very immigrants their elected officials hire to do their gardens.

And still the battle rages on. Overhead, the shells fly to and fro, from one side to the other. Tracer fire spits out from another machine gun nest. Another explosion rocks the ground beneath my feet, and dirt and and debris falls all around me. A severed leg landing in the mud a few feet away, a rainbow-coloured Converse sneaker still attached to the foot. And in a murky puddle not too distant, I see a severed head still proudly wearing a bright red MAGA cap.

I wonder, will this lunacy and bloodshed ever end?

And yet, even as these Culture Wars rage on, out here in No Man's Land, I still find a strange peace sometimes. At night, for example, when the soldiers on either side are sleeping their guiltless sleep. I creep out of my little hole, wiping the blood from my brow and managing a slight smile. The eyeless skull of another dead zealot grins at me from a shell crater. Another blind fool. Yes, out here, as a member of neither army, I still maintain at least a little dignity. Sure, a stray bullet might fell me yet, but at least I can admit my doubts and refuse to choose a side.

Call me a fence-sitter if you will. I'll gladly accept such a spurious charge. After all, what are your opinions to me? The fact is, I see no point in choosing between Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin, when in No-Man's Land I can fly my own tattered banner, unmolested.

What was it that gnarled, outcast drunk and poet, Charles Bukowski, said?

The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts while the stupid ones are full of confidence.

What do think about that? Personally, I think that old acne-scarred German had a point.

Sure, it can be lonely out here sometimes. I'll admit it. But at least I'm not entirely alone. That's right, on occasion, I do receive a rare visit from a fellow outcast. Somebody of a similar persuasion. A reformed leftist, or an ex-rightist, for example. Another poor soul who has woken up to the false convictions of their tribe. Some of them broke ranks some time ago. While others have only recently made the conversion. Creeping out from their trenches at night to join me out here in between the lines. Throwing off their old uniforms in the barbed wire. Shedding all the opinions their propagandists soaked their poor brains in for so many years straight.

We hunker down in my flimsy bunker out here and light a few candles. We pour drinks and make a toast to our small tribe of misfits and malcontents. Doubters, one and all. Passing a joint around between us. Huddling close for warmth. we smile dryly and talk in a low whisper. Discussing ideas that once would have had us shot, we relish the small freedom allowed us out here in No-Man's Land.

And later, at the approaching dawn, when they have all left to scurry back to their holes, I smoke the last of the joint and wonder when all this madness will end.