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...

Dad (Right), with Derek Beackon campaigning on the Isle of Dogs, 1993. ... A Failed Fascist & Father. There is so much confusion around exactly who I am. A Romani woman who was a child of a Neo-Nazi father. A Neo-Nazi father who, despite all my philosophical protestations otherwise, probably has been the most impactful influence on me. An anti-racist activist whose voice shakes in the guilty shadow of childhood memories of pride performing adult encouraged Sieg Heil salute. Yet, I owe a debt to my father. I am who I am, whatever that is, because he was who he was. Not that I think he knew who he was either. Adopted by a Birmingham Catholic family and no traceable adoption records must have have him an existential void that he tried to fill with fascism. Finding a family in West Ham football hooligan gangs, singing his rage out to Screwdriver, finding a uniform to wear in the worse sides of the Skinhead movement. The only stories I heard about this childhood was a ...

Verdict in Viscera

The nation is a white room with no corners. It smells of bleach. It smells of the sharp, metallic tang of the law. The state is not at the keyhole: it is the cold, clinical light that refuses to flicker. It is the sudden chill of the sheet against my spine. The hard, unyielding edges of the iron frame. Your mouth is a trespass on a map they have not yet digitised. A secret union of the rain-heavy moss of the island and the iron-red dust of the road. Two stolen territories finding a common border in the dark. I want to drown the sirens in the heavy, industrial heat of your throat. To feel the interior labyrinth of my blood opening like a raw, wet pulse in a room of glass. We are a tide of salt and sweat moving against the rigid architecture of the census. Our limbs tangling like the roots of a tree they tried to pave over. I feel the ceiling descending. The walls leaning in with the slow, grey gravity of an exclusion zone. But I find my space in the way your teeth catch my lower lip: a ...

710 Days

They finally said the word. 710 days too late, but they said it. Genocidal acts. The careful counting while children stopped breathing. The documente d death, delayed decisions. The shuffle of papers while families screamed. My Inner-Roma child asks me: "Why did they wait so long to say what we could see?" I taste ash when I try to answer. We know this rhythm how institutions measure murder in acceptable doses, how they academic-ise annihilation until it fits their forms. The commission's words sit heavy in my stomach. Truth that burns the throat to speak: Recognition without action is just another form of complicity. 710 days of choosing to look away, to gather evidence instead of stopping bullets, to debate definitions while defining a people out of existence. But some threw their bodies into the gears: Students occupying campuses, workers refusing to load weapons, artists breaking complicit silence. The machine can be sto...

The Sound Of Bo Belle

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