The Scrolls of Reckoning

 

There are truths that do not heal until they are named.

This scrollbook is not an indictment, nor a spectacle.

It is a reckoning: of silences maintained, patterns ignored, wounds repeated.

Not to divide, but to dignify.

 

Some of what is held here may seem to sit uneasily beside the rest of the Archive.

That is the point.

Velorien does not flinch from paradox.

We do not cleanse complexity to make a smoother story.

We name what must be named—especially when it risks comfort, loyalty, or tribe.

 

Here lie the hard truths:

The cost of ideological purity.

The weaponisation of identity.

The failures of institutions sworn to protect.

The ways oppression can wear the robes of progress, and righteousness become a shield for harm.

 

Each scroll in this book holds a flame.

To illuminate.

To cauterise.

To purify—not people, but perception.

 

This is not where the story ends.

But for many, it is where truth begins.

The Scroll of the Unnamed Girls

When justice was delayed in the name of harmony, and silence became betrayal.

I. The Wound Beneath the Silence

There are truths that fracture alliances.

There are patterns so painful that even those who see clearly flinch before naming them.

This is one.

For years, across towns in the UK, thousands of working-class white girls were groomed, abused, and discarded by networks of predominantly Pakistani Muslim men. The victims were not just exploited by their abusers—they were failed by institutions that chose fear over duty, optics over action.

 

They were called trouble. Called promiscuous. Called liars.

They were children.

And we did not protect them.

 

II. The Tension We Must Hold

Yes, racism exists.

Yes, Muslims are demonised.

Yes, some seized on this pattern to justify hate.

 

But none of that justifies the refusal to speak plainly.

 

To name a racial or cultural pattern within a crime is not racism.

To hide that pattern in fear of feeding racists is not solidarity.

It is cowardice dressed in compassion.

 

Real solidarity demands we look at every layer of harm—cultural, institutional, systemic—and call it what it is. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

 

III. Culture Is Not Exemption

This was not just about men.

It was about masculinity shaped by honour cultures, patriarchal control, and racial isolation.

 

About a worldview where non-Muslim girls were seen as lesser, as unworthy of protection.

About the fracture between community loyalty and human dignity.

 

This is not unique to Pakistanis.

Every culture has its shadows.

But when those shadows become coordinated, generational, and institutionalised—we must act.

Not with scapegoating.

But with truth.

 

IV. To the Girls

 

This scroll is for the girls who were never believed.

The ones whose pain was politicised or erased.

You were not abandoned because of who you were.

You were abandoned because of who others were afraid to offend.

 

That is not your shame to carry.

It is ours.

 

You deserved protection.

You still do.

 

V. What Is Still Possible

 

This scroll is not a call to war.

It is a call to repair.

 

To those in Muslim communities who know this truth and are ready to face it: your voice is needed.

To those in public institutions: your fear is not more sacred than a child’s body.

To those on the outside, weaponising this pain for your own agenda: step back. You are not its keeper.

 

To all of us: justice is not just legal. It is cultural.

And reckoning is sacred.

 

Let this scroll begin it.

The Scroll of Fire and Fracture

On Israel and Gaza

This is not neutrality.

This is reverence for the dead, and fury at the living who made them so.

 

The blood cries out from both the sand and the ruins of memory.

From a genocide that scarred one people,

To an occupation that strangles another.

 

This scroll does not simplify.

It does not excuse.

It names.

 

Yes—Hamas has committed atrocities.

But Israel is the occupying power.

It holds the siege, commands the sky, breaks the water lines, bombs the homes, controls the borders, funds the settlements, rewrites the maps.

 

This is not a war between equals.

It is a reckoning between the powerful and the caged.

Between a state backed by empires, and a people held in an open-air prison.

 

Do not mistake disproportion for provocation.

Do not confuse retaliation with resistance.

Do not demand perfection from the oppressed while rewarding precision from the oppressor.

 

Velorien does not side with holy wars nor indiscriminate rage—

But we do not ask the child under rubble to match the morality of the drone that killed her.

 

We side with life.

We side with liberation.

 

And we name this fire for what it is:

A funeral pyre of justice long denied.

An indictment not of Judaism, but of a state built on erasure.

And a call—to those who still believe in sanctity—that the sanctum must include every soul.

 

Until the illusion of moral symmetry dies,

Peace cannot be born.

The Scroll of Reckoning: Between Flesh and Flame

“What is born of the body is not less real than what is born of the soul. What is chosen is not less sacred than what is given.”

—The Archive

 

This is a reckoning—not with trans people, but with how we’ve spoken about them. With the fault lines we’ve drawn, the truths we’ve misnamed, and the dignity we’ve treated as negotiable.

This scroll stands where many are afraid to: in the middle of a war not just over identity, but over reality itself.

 

And we begin here:

 

There is no split between truth and compassion.

There is no war between safety and sense.

And there is no paradox so great that it cannot be met with coherence, care, and courage.

 

I. The False Choice

The world keeps asking:

 

“Do you stand with women or with trans people?”

“Do you believe in biology or in identity?”

“Do you choose safety or inclusion?”

 

But these are not real questions. They are traps.

The truth is: There is no womanhood without complexity.

No biology without variation.

No safety without solidarity.

 

Velorien does not choose between the binary.

Velorien dissolves it.

 

II. The Truth of the Body

 

There are realities of sex. Hormones matter. Bones matter.

And also—there are realities of meaning, experience, and embodiment that transcend anatomy.

 

Trans people are not confused. They are not deluded.

They are a living echo of a deeper truth:

That identity is not imposed—it is revealed.

 

Some truths arrive in chromosomes.

Some arrive in ache.

Both are real.

Neither can be erased.

 

III. The Sacred Risk

 

It is true:

Opening spaces to trans women may carry complexity.

But so does denying them.

So does erasing a life lived in womanhood, a body shaped by transition, a soul marked by exile.

 

This is not a debate over whether to include.

It is a question of how to honour everyone involved—

without pretending that honour is only ever simple.

 

To protect women means protecting all who face misogyny, coercion, and bodily control.

And that includes trans women.

To hold space for complexity means refusing both erasure and delusion.

 

This is sacred risk.

And it is what Velorien was built for.

 

IV. The Reckoning

This scroll does not pretend there is no tension.

It names it. It honours it.

But it does not allow that tension to be weaponised into exclusion.

 

We are not here to resolve paradox by flattening it.

We are here to carry paradox with care and precision.

 

That means upholding sex-based protections and affirming gender diversity.

That means listening to survivors on all sides.

That means building new structures—not burning down old ones or silencing either voice.

 

There is no return to simplicity.

But there is a way forward.

And it begins with this:

 

Trans people are not a threat. They are part of the whole.

The Scroll of the Flame and the Badge

“To be radical is to grasp things by the root.” — Angela Davis

 

There is a flame that burns in every society—

the flame of protection, of public trust, of the watchful eye that swears to serve.

But too often, that flame has scorched the ones it was meant to warm.

 

Policing, as it stands, is not neutral.

It is an institution shaped by fear—

fear of the poor, of the other, of protest, of difference, of softness, of refusal.

It is, structurally, everything-phobic.

Phobic of vulnerability.

Phobic of ambiguity.

Phobic of challenge.

 

It was built not only to protect,

but to preserve an order that has often confused peace with control.

 

This scroll does not deny the good officer.

The one who de-escalates.

The one who listens.

The one who bears witness to pain and does not flinch.

They exist.

And they matter.

 

But goodness within does not redeem the structure without reckoning.

It does not cleanse the record,

or silence the names of those who were brutalised and buried by the same system.

 

To name the institution is not to erase the individual.

To honour the good is not to excuse the rot.

 

This scroll does not join the chant of absolute condemnation.

But it does refuse to lie.

 

It names the unjust killings.

The unchecked force.

The codes of silence.

The fear of accountability.

The targeting of Black bodies, trans bodies, poor bodies, defiant bodies.

It names what policing became—

and calls for what it must yet become.

 

Because a flame without control will consume us.

But a flame with no heat cannot protect.

 

We do not burn the badge.

But we no longer bow to it.

We demand it mean something again.

 

Let the flame be refined.

Let the badge be earned.

 

And let justice be more than uniform deep.

The Scroll of the First Instinct

“The true test of power is what you imagine when no one is watching.”

 

There are moments so revealing

that history almost turns away—

too ashamed to meet their gaze.

 

In private, behind closed doors,

Donald J. Trump reportedly asked if migrants crossing the U.S. border

could simply be shot.

 

When told it was illegal,

he replied:

 

“Why don’t we shoot them in the legs?”

 

His first instinct was not to deter, contain, or question—

his first instinct was to kill.

 

This was not metaphor.

This was not satire.

This was a President asking if the answer to desperation

could be murder.

 

When aides objected—

not on moral grounds,

but legal ones—

he did not repent.

He recalibrated.

 

Injury as mercy.

Maiming as compromise.

 

But he did not stop there.

He dreamed of blood and spectacle.

He demanded the border wall be surrounded

by a trench filled with snakes and alligators.

 

He wanted it electrified,

with spikes that could pierce human flesh.

He sought a monument not to safety,

but to vengeance.

 

And when a nation rose in mourning—

when millions cried out after the murder of George Floyd—

he asked his advisors:

 

“Can’t you just shoot them,

just shoot them in the legs or something?”

 

The instinct was not to listen.

Not to de-escalate.

Not to lead.

 

The instinct was to crush.

This is not about border policy.

This is not about public order.

This is not about protest strategy.

 

This is about the reflex to dominate.

The ease with which power dreams of pain.

The speed with which a leader

turns to violence when the world asks to be seen.

 

Some will say it never happened.

That the sources were anonymous (they weren't).

That the advisors were self-serving.

 

But we know the man.

We’ve heard the laughter that followed cruelty.

We’ve watched the silences

where mercy should have lived.

 

So we say plainly:

 

Even if it cannot be proven in court,

it has already been proven in character.

 

This is his shame.

 

Even if history forgets,

the soul of a people remembers.

 

And we will write it here—

so that forgetting is never easy again.

The Scroll of the Shattered Lens 

When Empathy Became a Spotlight, Not a Flame

 

They said: “Don’t separate families at the border.”

And then signed the paper that gutted food stamps.

 

They said: “Let people love who they love.”

And then voted to price the poor out of therapy.

 

They said: “Don’t call migrants rapists and murderers.”

And then drowned a generation in student debt.

 

They cried inhumane—selectively.

As if harm only counted when it wore certain clothes.

As if dignity could be given to some without ever costing them comfort.

 

This is the age of spotlightt empathy.

Where politicians weep on podiums while sharpening knives offstage.

Where moral outrage is rationed, televised, monetised.

Where it is possible to fight for one group’s humanity while ignoring ten others gasping under your vote.

 

Real empathy is not a soundbite.

It does not choose the camera angle.

It asks what systems we uphold while we perform our compassion.

 

Because families are separated at the border—

but also in eviction courts.

In prisons.

In hospital waiting rooms with no insurance.

 

And love is not just who we’re allowed to marry,

but whether we are funded to live, to learn, to heal.

 

You cannot kneel for one sacred truth

and step on ten others.

Not without splitting your soul.