The preacher was a middle-aged man, his robes loose, his face weathered by the Shams.
"You cannot claim moral superiority when asking for support, but then moral equivalence to excuse your crimes!"
He continued, pointing a finger at the sky as if condemning the heavens themselves.
"This city bleeds! It gasps! And who, I ask, is to blame? Ah! 'The Twelvers,' they say! The ones who control us. But I say no! You might wonder—if not them, then who? Ah! The rebels! They wish to free us, you say? But I ask you this:"
He let the words sit, let them settle in the air.
"When has a fire ever saved a house?"
"When has a sword ever mended a wound?"
The crowd nodded, faces grim. Others turned away, muttering.
"They tell you—'We fight for you!' But do you eat better than before?"
His hands swept over the gathered people, calloused palms open, as if he was daring them to answer.
"..."
"..."
"..."
Silence.
