It is a most peculiar and troubling spectacle to behold that J. K. Rowling, once exalted in the public imagination as a benevolent architect of whimsical childhood narratives, has instead refashioned herself into a crusader of antagonistic commentary, a self-appointed sentinel of “women’s safety” whose rhetoric, far from protecting, has functioned as a sharpened blade against other women, most notably those, like Emma Watson, who dare to articulate a vision of feminism that is inclusive rather than exclusionary. The paradox is almost Shakespearean: the very author who built her legacy on tales of courage, loyalty, and triumph over cruelty now appears to wield her influence as a weapon of cruelty itself, engaging in a pattern of online disparagement and public belittlement that seems less concerned with safeguarding women and far more invested in punishing dissenters. It is both astonishing and profoundly dispiriting that a writer of children’s literature, whose moral universe was once populated by lessons on compassion, solidarity, and the necessity of standing against bullies, has so visibly embraced the role of bully herself, hurling invective and fostering division under the guise of principle. The dissonance between the professed ideals of protection and the observable reality of aggression is so glaring that one cannot help but describe it as a tragic inversion, a betrayal of the very values her audience once sought within her pages. It’s tragic! To say the very least.
JH
Monthly Archives: September 2025
Autumn is here
The air grows cool with whispers low
As leaves drift down in a golden flow
The trees wear crowns of russet and flame
Each day arrives yet never the same
A hush of smoke curls from distant fires
The dusk draws near with tender desires
Crisp apples gleam in the orchard light
And owls awaken to sing through the night
The earth now rests in a slower song
The season knows where hearts belong
In fields of bronze and skies of grey
Autumn invites us to linger and stay
JH

I Am / I’m Not
I am a voice that listens,
a heart that leans forward,
a soft light in the corner of the room.
I’m not the door that slams,
not the echo of anger
that bruises the air.
I am a hand reaching out,
a thread tying strangers
to the same bright sky.
I’m not the scissors of cruelty,
not the knife of silence
that cuts connection in two.
I am curiosity,
the spark that asks why
and keeps asking.
I’m not the wall that blocks,
not the heavy lock
on imagination’s gate.
I am a messy, learning. human
a traveller carrying both shadows and suns.
I’m not perfect,
but I’m not done,
and I won’t be done
until love has the final word.
JH