Quotes About Oppression

Uhm, in our universe human civilization has descended into a pseudo-fascist hate-mongering anti-intellectual humorless inflexible lowest-common-denominator corporate fuck-everyone-over paradigm of systemic inequality and suffering and misery except for the chosen few.

Corruption and incompetence. These were rebellion's sparks.

No tyrant could thrive where every subject said no. The tyrant thrives when the first fucking fool salutes.

At a 1937 conference of the Communist Party in the Soviet Union, Stalin's people applauded him for eleven consecutive minutes, fearing that the first to stop would be killed or sent to prison. Finally, one man stopped, the director of a paper factory. "To a man, everyone else stopped dead and sat down," writes Nobel Prize winner Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn in The Gulag Archipelago. That same night the director of the paper factory was arrested and sent to prison for ten years.

By this Orwellian logic, happiness is suffering and suffering is happiness.

Long hair is an unpardonable offense which should be punishable by death.

Historical events never have simple or obvious implications. Some people thrived by using the very instruments intended to dispossess them.

God of compassion, you suffer in the grief of your people, and you are present to heal and forgive. May the sun of your justice rise on every night of oppression, and may the warm rays of your healing love renew each troubled mind; for you are the God of salvation and new life, made known to us in Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Alan said he'd known what to expect from de St Jorre from the kick-off, since in his preface this cretin speaks of banned books being burnt in the same way heretics were burnt by religious tyrants. Alan was quick to denounce the cruel inhumanity of liberal fuckwits who wantonly blurred the lines between human life and products of a literary culture that had yet to escape its commodity form.

Och de dödsdömda kan inte protestera, de kan bara dö. Det är domarna som måste bli annorlunda, mindre domare, mer människor, mindre rättvisa, mer mänskliga.

Our so-called leaders speak With words they try to jail you The subjugate the meek But it's the rhetoric of failure

Now, then, in order to understand white supremacy we must dismiss the fallacious notion that white people can give anybody their freedom.

Black power can be clearly defined for those who do not attach the fears of white America to their questions about it.

I knew that I could vote and that that wasn't a privilege it was my right. Every time I tried I was shot, killed or jailed, beaten or economically deprived.

We had no more courage than Harriet Tubman or Marcus Garvey had in their times. We just had a more vulnerable enemy.

Not only did failure oppress me, but I could no longer deny the pattern revealing itself before me.

They had become distanced from the object of their journey, caught up in the grinding cruelty of the red world, where nations were oppressed and irreplaceable ancient sites violated and destroyed.

Magrast, so huge and busy, had un-nerved Khaster and Valraven at first. They were used to the wild, free air of Caradore. Here they found enclosed spaces, areas of decay and poverty, where the air was almost unbearable. High walls enclosed them, and a forest of bleak turrets, immense domes, elegant spires.

Everyone who knows about us wants to keep us apart from you. Your own people work against you! They want to contain you and control you.

Sitting there, with a tiny glass of cordial clutched in a hand more used to earthenware jugs of murky beer, I was thinking about how alien a concept the family-as it was presented here-to me. I found it oppressive and clammy, nothing more than a breeding ground for spite and intrigue.

All still obeyed the words of Emilia Manden. At one time she had held the whip for the Murkasters in Little Moor.

It seemed that walls were closing around her, walls of fire.

You have to remember we are in a part of the world where prejudice and injustice against women is high.

The enormous towers of the the house seemed to loom over Lily with oppressive intent. She'd never liked it here, not even when she and Owen, as children, had been obsessed with grubbing around old ruins. She wanted to tell Emma how much she hated it, but for some stupid reason, didn't want to say anything like that when the house could hear her.