Footage of a prisoner appearing to be sexually abused. Of a man in his underwear tied to a rod. Abuse and torture of Palestinian detainees is documented by rights groups, posted by Israeli soldiers, bragged about by Israeli politicians.
This week's column
https://t.co/cvIxjeYg7P
You know, the killing is so relentless that you almost get used to it. A classroom of children killed every single day. You write about it, you read about it. Someone’s mother digs herself up from the rubble. Someone’s father is split in half. There was a video of wounded man using his arms to crawl across the road. Another man is so hungry he weeps. You read the stories. Each one is more brutal than the next and somehow the brutality is banal. You are numb, for better or for worse. But there are moments in the day, maybe just a singular moment, when you actually contend with the magnitude of the tragedy, when you are able to quantify the loss and in those moments you feel crushed—there are no adjectives. There are people mourning their lovers. Students missing their teachers. Orphans. Widowers. Grandmothers who look just like your own. I cry when I think about the people who were martyred just hours before they could apologize for something, or confess to something, or have something to eat. Or the slain who believed they would survive. And as the rancid rotten people of the world pontificate and debate the definition of genocide, you are at war with yourself, trying desperately to ignore the material meaning of the word. You read the news and you read the news and it is so hard to accept that the dead, the thousands of people they are slaughtering, they are your loved ones and your loved ones’ loved ones. This isn’t just a bad dream.
WOW
A website is DOCUMENTING Israel’s crimes with GEOLOCATION, dates, categories of crimes, and footage of the incidents themselves.
One click and you can see EXACTLY what Israel did.
An enormous digital archive built for ACCOUNTABILITY.
Link: https://t.co/TWKgXJ41NC
Direct Link: https://t.co/qWkrhx1FT7
IN PRAISE OF FRANCESCA ALBANESE
There is a question that visits me in the small hours, when sleep will not come and the mind turns over old stones. The question is this: “What would I have done in the 1930s, on the morning after Kristallnacht?"
Not what I say I would have done. Not what I hope I would have done. But what would I actually have done—when the trains began to run, when the neighbours grew quiet, when the cost of decency became the loss of everything?
Most of us, I think, would have done little. Not from malice. From fear. From the soft, creeping conviction that someone else will speak, that the situation is complex, that we must be 'reasonable'. Lest we forget, the ordinary is the extraordinary's alibi. And how we have clung to that alibi! How we still cling to it!
And then, every once in a terrible while, someone appears who does not cling. Someone who steps forward when others step back. Someone who speaks the name of the thing when everyone else is busy naming something else.
Francesca Albanese is that someone.
She stands before the world—alone, unarmed, armed only with law and language and a rare courage—and she says what the centrists will not say, what the foreign ministries will not say, what the editorial boards will not say. She says: "This is a genocide. And we are watching it happen."
Do not tell me that is hyperbole. Do not tell me the term is contested. She has not used it lightly. She has used it as a physician arrives scientifically at a diagnosis—not to wound, but to warn. Not to inflame, but to name.
And for that, they have come for her. Oh, how they have come for her. Smears. Investigations. Vicious editorials. Frozen bank accounts. Dispossession of the only apartment she had ever owned. The machinery of the respectable turned to crush her. Because the respectable cannot abide what she represents: a mirror held up to their complicity.
Let us, once again, travel back to the 1930s. Back to the few who stood up when the trains began to run laden with Jewish people.
There was Aristides de Sousa Mendes, a Portuguese consul in Bordeaux. He defied his own government. He signed thousands of visas, by hand, for hours, until his fingers bled. He saved more lives than Schindler. And he died penniless, disgraced, erased.
There was a German officer in Warsaw named Wilm Hosenfeld. He hid a Jewish pianist in the rubble. He did not save thousands. He saved one. But that one—Władysław Szpilman—carried the memory. And memory is "the only haven from which we cannot be expelled."
There was Raoul Wallenberg. There were the villagers of Le Chambon. There were the anonymous, the quiet, the furious few who said: “Not on my watch.”
Francesca Albanese is their heir. Not because she carries a gun. Not because she hides refugees in her basement. But because she does something equally dangerous in a world that has perfected the art of not seeing. She sees. And she speaks.
She does not speak as a diplomat. Thank Goodness she doesn't! Diplomats have given us the language of "there are arguments on both sides" and "restraint" and "proportionality." Diplomatic language is the perfumed grave of moral clarity. No, she speaks as a jurist. As a human being. As a woman who has looked into the abyss and refused to call it a "complex geopolitical landscape".
Edna O'Brien once described a character who "had the recklessness of those who have already lost everything worth losing." Francesca Albanese has not lost everything. She has her dignity, her office, her voice, her family. But she has calculated the cost of speaking truth to power. And she has decided that that cost is infinitely less than the cost of silence.
What is that cost? Let us name it. She has been called antisemitic—she, who stands on the ground of international law forged in the ashes of Auschwitz and the fires of Nuremberg. She has been called a conspiracy theorist—she, who cites every source, every footnote, every UN resolution. She has been called naive—she, who understands better than most the machinery of realpolitik.
These accusations are not arguments. They are the spittle of the threatened. Because Francesca Albanese threatens something very precious to the powerful: the right to commit atrocity without being named.
Friends, the 1930s did not arrive with jackboots and pogroms on day one. They arrived in small increments. With "reasonable" restrictions. With "proportional" measures. With the silence of the respectable.
We tell ourselves that we would have been different. That we would have been Sousa Mendes. That we would have been Wallenberg. But most of us, I fear, would have been the neighbours who later said, "I didn't know."
Francesca Albanese knows. And she refuses to pretend otherwise.
So let us praise her. Not with statues or awards she does not seek. But with something harder: with our own refusal to look away. With our own voices, raised in places that are safe for us but dangerous for her. With our own bodies, if it comes to that.
A brave woman, who was injured while demonstrating outside a US nuclear military base in 1982, the infamous Greenham Common, had told me that "the heart is a hunter for what it cannot have." But I say the heart is a hunter for what it will not lose. And what we will not lose is the memory of those who stood up when standing up cost everything.
Francesca Albanese is standing up now. In our time. In our name. Under our indifferent sky.
Let us stand with her.
Not tomorrow. Not when it is safe. Now.
[Extract from a speech in Athens on Sunday 3rd May 2026]
“They took revenge on us through our children.” - journalist Wael Al Dahdouh
“Our punishment was that our sons were killed in front of us and we buried them with our own hands.” Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya
Israel killed their children because they documented crimes and saved lives.
The Hasbara Symphony Orchestra has made it into the Urban Dictionary. Congratulations!
Zionizing
to gaslight someone with such shameless narcissistic psychopathic audacity that you deny reality to their faces while simultaneously playing the victim, engaging in endless circular debates that go nowhere, and displaying a complete loss of empathy and basic humanity.
https://t.co/iahMtesAkx
According to the Gaza Government Media Office, 100,000 Palestinian children under the age of two - including 40,000 infants under the age of one- are on the brink of mass death within days due to the absence of infant formula and nutritional supplements.
100,000 babies.
There have been a few videos like this recently, showing men breaking down during funeral prayers. I keep thinking about how over 20 months we have seen Palestinian men’s faces and demeanor just collapse - the non-stop fatigue, grief, burden & realization of betrayal now shows on them.
Israel's attack on American constitutional rights is many years in the making. Remember when Israel's Prime Minister, the head of a foreign government, took credit for promoting laws IN AMERICA, that attacked our first amendment freedoms? He literally tweeted about it.
How are we so dehumanised, that it barely registers that in a single series of bombardments Israel killed over 170 children in one day?
How are we so dehumanised that Israel blows up the only cancer specialist hospital in Gaza in a controlled demolition and it passes almost without comment?
What is so hard to understand about 17 months of #genocide.
Are we invisible? Again: Are we invisible?
Link to full speech at the @TUCYoungWorkers conference: https://t.co/OEcuFHpxR6
There aren’t words strong enough to describe the cowardice and depravity of a “military” that will methodically execute medical workers, bury them in mass graves, and tell the NYT the vehicles were “advancing suspiciously” without lights on. These soldiers and their superiors are utterly depraved and a threat to all humanity.
Before hiding the bodies in a mass grave, they forgot to grab the cell phone of one of the medics who recorded his own assassination for the world to see — if it cares.
As the “soldiers” are nearing their vehicle, and the medic knows they will murder him, you can hear him saying: “Forgive us, everyone. Oh God, accept me as a martyr and accept my repentance. Oh mother, forgive me, this is the path I have chosen to help people.”