By Robert Clements
Slap or Shake..!
Israel says it’s made a significant dent.
The US says it’s made its point.
Iran, not to be left out, declares a glorious victory.
It’s the kind of global group project where everyone insists they did all the work and everyone else copied their notes. A kind of international show-and-slap, where grown men in expensive suits and national flags on their lapels, behave like toddlers fighting over a toy in the sandbox — except this toy has missiles, and the sandbox is a war-torn city with no Wi-Fi and no water.
Yes, slap.
Not punch. Not kick. Not karate chop.
Just slap.
That glorious, noisy, open-palmed gesture that carries the drama of Bollywood and the sting of a mosquito bite. Enough to grab attention, not enough to demand surgery. The international equivalent of saying, “Don’t mess with me… but let’s not get into something that affects my GDP.”
“We made our point,” says one side.
“We retaliated,” says the other.
“We retaliated to the retaliation,” says a third, and suddenly you have an entire season of Slap Wars playing out, with every episode darker than the last and still sponsored by global pride and misplaced patriotism.
I imagine a long corridor — somewhere in Geneva, New York, or perhaps an undisclosed bunker — where all the world leaders are seated in a line like schoolboys outside the principal’s office.
Each one comparing who gave the loudest slap.
“My slap made them issue three press releases!” says one.“Oh, my slap made oil prices go up!” boasts another.
“Mine made them cry in their UN speech!” says a third, polishing his palm like a trophy.
But while they slap each other with their surgical strikes and carefully worded threats — down below, far below the geopolitical theatrics — people bleed.
Yes, people. Real people.
Not “collateral damage,” not “civilian impact,” but human beings with birthdays and bad hair days and unfinished homework.
While a defence spokesperson explains on national television why it was “necessary” and “measured,” a mother clutches the lifeless hand of her child.
While experts argue over strategy, a man digs through rubble for his wife’s earrings.
While politicians sign condolence messages in air-conditioned rooms, ordinary folk sign death certificates for loved ones they couldn’t even bury properly.
And somewhere, in a dusty classroom with no roof, a little girl who was drawing flowers on her notebook wonders why her world exploded.
Because while political slaps are meant for headlines, the slap that hits the ground isn’t metaphorical.
It’s real.
It craters streets, crushes homes, burns wheat, and breaks people.
But here’s the cruel irony: this entire performance is practiced. It’s choreographed.
It goes like this:
Step 1: Slap.
Step 2: Deny intent.
Step 3: Express regret for “any unintended consequences.”
Step 4: Wait for the other guy to slap back.
Step 5: Escalate.
Step 6: Ask for peace talks — after enough people are dead to justify them.
It’s practically a Netflix series by now. Except in this one, the plot is recycled, the actors are overpaid, and the audience never gets a break.
And I ask, humbly — and somewhat sarcastically — when did shaking hands become so… unfashionable?
When did dialogue become boring?
When did diplomacy become the poor cousin of drama?
Maybe it’s because shaking hands doesn’t go viral.
You can’t frame a handshake with a patriotic soundtrack.
You can’t show a handshake on national news and expect people to chant slogans.
But you can save lives with one.
Imagine — just imagine — a world where the hand doesn’t rise to strike, but to connect.
Where leaders don’t ask, “How hard did we hit them?” but instead, “How far did we reach across the table?”
Where strength is measured not in decibels, but in dialogue.
“Wait, Bob,” someone interrupts me at my imaginary teashop, “but what about self-respect and deterrence and national honour?”
Yes, yes. Very important.
But what about the children who now wake up screaming?
What about the teenagers who’ve never seen peacetime? What about the farmers who no longer have land to sow, or water to drink, or livestock to feed? Because slaps may be symbolic at the top — but down below, their echoes are catastrophic.
And no, I’m not saying don’t defend your country.
I’m just saying, don’t do it in such a way that the only thing left of your country is rubble, grief, and revenge waiting to grow up into tomorrow’s terror.
Let’s face it: no one really wins a slap-fest.
There are just better publicists.
Better narratives.
Better hashtags.
And meanwhile, the people who were never asked for their opinion — the ones who just wanted to live, study, raise kids, pay bills and complain about taxes — are the ones who end up buried, burned, or broken.
So here’s my humble plea, addressed to every leader out there:
Dear Sirs (and occasional Madams),
Next time your hand rises — in anger, pride, or retaliation — pause.
Pause, and ask yourself:
Is this hand rising to slap… or to shake?
To deepen wounds… or to start healing?
To draw blood… or to offer peace?
And if it’s the latter — thank you.
Because that one shake might just give us all what we desperately need:
A full night’s sleep without air raid sirens.
A conversation that doesn’t start with explosions.
A tomorrow not built on today’s ashes.
As for me, I’ll go back to my cup of cutting chai, and pray that for once, someone somewhere chooses not to slap back, but to reach out.
Because sometimes, the loudest act of courage is not a slap — but a simple handshake.
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