404: humanity not found.

They crawled out the woodwork when little Hind died,

six years old,

bleeding in that car for hours

while they typed "but Hamas" under every post,

their fingers getting sticky with digital blood.

One post about the flour massacre

and here come all the bots

with their blue and white flags,

screaming about human shields

while Israeli snipers pick off kids

queuing for bread

in Rafah.

They turned up at the London march too,

these Zionist counter-protesters

with their "Hamas is ISIS" placards,

drowning out Palestinian mothers

whose sons are rotting

under rubble.

Same energy as the EDL really,

different uniform,

but the same hate.

They heckled the students at Cambridge,

called them terrorists for camping

while Gaza universities

burn to ash.

Remember when they doxxed a teacher

for showing solidarity with Jenin?

Got her sacked

for saying occupation is wrong

while settlers dance on Palestinian graves

and TikTok it

for the algorithm.

They spam every thread about Shireen Abu Akleh,

that journalist they murdered

in broad daylight,

claiming she was caught in crossfire

while the footage shows deliberate shots

and their government

shrugs it off.

Bot farms working overtime

when we post about the West Bank raids,

flooding comments with whataboutism

while children get dragged from their beds

in Nablus,

in Tulkarem,

in Jenin.

Here's the sickest twist of all:

they've weaponised Holocaust memory

to justify Palestinian extermination.

That's not Jewish values,

that's colonial violence

wrapped in sacred trauma.

My people burned in those same camps,

Roma children gassed alongside Jewish kids,

but they tell me I can't understand,

that only they know what a genocide looks like,

only they earned the right

to inflict it.

and it's like they trademarked suffering,

copyrighted trauma

for political cover.

Jewish voices calling this genocide

get branded traitors

to their own people.

Miko Peled threatened for speaking truth,

Norman Finkelstein blacklisted

for refusing to let his mother's camp tattoo

become a license

to kill Palestinians.

Zionism has poisoned Jewish identity,

turned it into an ethno-supremacist project

that would make the Nuremberg defendants

proud.

They've built an apartheid state

and called it

self-defence.

Meanwhile British politicians grovel,

Starmer bows down to lobby money,

Lammy sells them more bombs

while foodbanks overflow in Oldham

and pensioners freeze in Newcastle.

They've got billions for genocide

but nothing

for our crumbling NHS.

The trolls keep typing while Gaza starves.

The bots keep spamming while children die.

But Palestinian resistance outlasts

every digital assault,

every manufactured narrative,

every paid-for lie.

We document their war crimes.

We name their victims.

We refuse their gaslighting

and their blood-soaked propaganda.

The dead will testify louder

than any algorithm.

Comments

My Dad Was A Sweet & Tender Hooligan...

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Amir

Twelve kilometers blistered small feet walked through another rubble-strewn Gaza morning seeking what children should never have to seek— survival measured in handfuls of rice, half-bags of drug laced flour, lentils counted like their unheard prayers And when the scraps came Poured into such small palms how hunger makes gratitude of dust and fragments he kissed a hand and said thank you for what should have been his birthright Those become the last words before the bullets found him before mercy became murder before gratitude became gravesite Twelve kilometers to die for daring to be hungry for daring to be grateful for daring to exist And somewhere in offices with minimum wage polished floors they will call this collateral they will call this justified they will call this anything but the murder of a child who walked twelve kilometers to say thank you But Amir is a name to carry now Here—where witness still exists Here—where the forgotten raise their voices for small hands that will n...

Glass

Hind Rajab, five years old, who liked to draw flowers, who was learning to read, who spent three hours on the phone begging someone to come, who died alone in the heat surrounded by her family's bodies, who waited twelve days to be found— This is where we begin. Not with policy. Not with geopolitics. With a child's voice saying "Come and get me" into a phone slippery with her cousin's blood. Major Sean Glass wakes in a settlement His grandmother never saw. Glass. You can see through him the hollow where a heart should beat, the transparent skull where three hundred and fifty-five bullets ricochet eternally. Commander of the Vampire Empire Company. They named themselves. Chose the monster. Became it. Trained at Britain's Defence Academy, Shrivenham, where they teach you how to say neutralise instead of murder, where they teach you the paperwork that turns a six-year-old into a ' hostile target' . 29 January 2024. Tel al-Hawa. The Hamadeh family flees. G...

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