Communism Is And Is Not Love

Communism is not love.

Not unconditional, anyway.

How can one love in a loveless world?

Where is the love in a concentration camp?

A prison cell? A slum? A sweatshop? A plantation? A grave?

Who do you love? Your family?

What if your family is fascists? Or exploiters?

Or Klansmen?

Your comrades? Your class? Do you, really?

Are you doing all you can to prove your love?

Are you slack in study? Apathetic?

Is it a hobby? A train you jump on and off? A meme?

What is Communism to you?

Is it a necessity you feel in the deepest marrow of your bones?

Is it a toy, a trifle, a game?

We don’t have much time left. Do you despair?

Wall yourself off in your room and hope for a quick death?

Escape? Use dope? Cry?

This is not love.

You don’t love yourself, how can you love the people?

How can you be a Communist?

Do you love your enemies? Do you love your enemies so much

That you spare them the unfettered and rawest expressions

Of our organized, disciplined, merciless rage?

Do you vote with one hand

And condemn the bourgeoisie with the other?

Do you make excuses? For them?

Tolerate weakness in ideology?

Fail to grasp the beautiful weapon

That countless have bled and died for?

Or have such a weak grip on our weapon

That fools take it and run amok?

To love your enemy consciously

Or unconsciously

Is reactionary suicide.

Communism is not love.

Love is a class thing.

It’s not a poem, or a song, or a story.

It’s blood — people kill for love.

People die for love.

Do you love yourself?

By yourself I mean your class — you are not an island

You are the product of countless generations of toil and tears

Communist love is Fred Hampton waking his comrades up

At 5:00 AM to work out

And working so hard he had to be tied to his chair to rest

Because he knew that his people were dying

And he loved them

And for this love he died in flesh

But lives forever in spirit and the soul of his people.

Communism is love.