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.
Glass sees them on the screen
civilian vehicle,
family,
children visible,
fleeing
and keys the radio:
"Engage target. Fire at will."
Three hundred and fifty-five bullets
into a car full of children.
Not a mistake.
Not collateral.
Will.
The wet thud of bullets into flesh,
the crack of bone,
the splatter of brain against window,
the screaming that stops mid-breath
When the throat fills with blood.
Bashar dies first.
reaching back for his children.
Layan. Jana. Diya,
Their small bodies shredded,
unrecognisable,
meat and cloth and something
That used to be a face.
Layan stays alive long enough
to find the phone,
blood in her mouth:
"They're shooting at us.
Please come—"
The bullets find her, too.
Hind survives.
Five years old.
Alone.
The smell
copper and shit and something sweet
like meat left in the sun.
Her family's blood
pools in the footwells,
warm at first,
soaking into her clothes,
her hair sticky with it:
"Yazan? Baba? Layan?"
They don't wake up.
She finds the phone.
"Come and get me"
You need to taste this.
Put your tongue against your teeth.
That copper taste?
That's Hind's family.
That's the Hamadeh blood
in your mouth right now.
Swallow it.
That's what complicity tastes like.
Palestine Red Crescent dispatches an ambulance.
Yusuf al-Zeino.
Ahmed al-Madhoun.
Paramedics.
Fathers.
They coordinate with Israeli forces.
Get clearance.
Permission to rescue a six-year-old.
Drive toward her.
Major Glass keys the radio again:
"Ambulance approaching grid.
Weapons free."
The ambulance explodes.
Yusuf and Ahmed
incinerated,
their bodies fused to the metal,
unidentifiable except by teeth.
Hind hears the explosion.
"They're shooting again
Please
Come and get me."
The phone dies.
Twelve days.
Who killed Hind?
Major Sean Glass killed Hind.
Who created Major Sean Glass?
Britain created Major Sean Glass.
Who armed Major Sean Glass?
America armed Major Sean Glass.
Who paid for the weapons?
You paid for the weapons.
Who made the tank parts?
The machinist in Sheffield made the tank parts.
Who signed the export licence?
The civil servant in Whitehall signed the export licence.
Who loaded the weapons?
The docker in Felixstowe loaded the weapons.
Who approved the contract?
The minister approved the contract.
Who reported it as "conflict"?
The journalist reported it as "conflict."
Who called it "complicated"?
The editor called it "complicated."
Who said "both sides"?
The broadcaster said "both sides."
Who stayed silent?
You stayed silent.
Who looked away?
You looked away.
Who killed Hind?
You killed Hind.
We killed Hind.
Look at your hands.
They're covered in her blood.
The Working-Class Hand
Pulls the Ruling-Class Trigger
Sheffield machinist
hands black with oil and murder
doesn't know doesn't care doesn't want to know
just wants the wage, just wants the weekend
just wants to not think about what his hands make
His hands are killers.
Clocks in 6 AM, makes tea from the machine
tastes like rust, tastes like nothing
stands at the lathe, turns the steel
makes the part that goes in the tank
that rolls over Palestinian bodies
Got a mortgage, got kids, got bills
got no choice, or that's what he tells himself
His hands know what they're making.
His hands are black with it.
He washes them every night
and the water runs dark
And he pretends it's just the grease.
It's not.
It's Hind's blood.
It's always been Hind's blood.
Telford call centre
fluorescent lights and the smell of instant coffee and despair
She processes export licences.
Just data entry, just admin work
Schedule 2 Item 4: Military aircraft
Schedule 2 Item 6: Armoured vehicles
Approved. Approved. Approved.
Doesn't read the news.
Doesn't want to know.
Single mum, two kids, council flat
can't afford principles, can't afford conscience
Her fingers on the keyboard
might as well be pulling triggers.
The system tells her she's processed 847 licences this month.
The system doesn't tell her how many children that equals.
Hind Rajab.
That's one name.
846 more to go.
The soldier from the council estate
joined up at sixteen
No GCSEs, no prospects, no future
They trained him at Shrivenham
same place they made Glass
taught him not to think, not to question
Working-class boy
killing working-class Palestinians
so ruling-class bastards
can get richer.
That's the game.
That's always been the game.
Look in the Mirror
Your phone in your hand.
Google. Project Nimbus.
Your search history powering the AI
that found Hind's family car.
Lick your screen.
Taste the glass.
It tastes like Hind's blood.
Your bank statement.
HSBC. Elbit Systems.
Every pound you deposit
funding the weapons.
Check your balance.
How many bullets does that buy?
How many children does that kill?
Your news feed.
BBC. CNN. The Guardian.
"Conflict." "Clash." "Tensions."
Never "genocide."
The headlines that shape
what you're allowed to think.
Your comfort
your warm bed while Hind rotted
Your full belly while Hind thirsted
Your safe street while Hind bled
Your living children, while Hind died
while Hind died
while Hind died
While Hind is dead
is dead
is dead
You didn't kill Hind.
You just didn't stop it.
You just looked away.
You just scrolled past.
You just said, "It's complicated."
You just said nothing.
And your nothing
your silence
That's what killed her.
Rub your face in it.
Rub your face in the vomit of your complicity.
See Hind's face in the mirror.
See her six-year-old eyes.
"Come and get me
Please
I'm so scared
Come and get me"
You didn't come.
None of us came.
Look.
LOOK.
Don't you dare turn away.
Return to Hind's Body
Twelve days.
Hour one:
Hind's alive.
Crying.
Calling.
"Come and get me
Come and get me."
Hour three:
The phone dies.
Silence.
The smell starting.
The flies arriving.
Hour six:
Her lips cracking.
Her tongue swelling.
Still calling but quieter:
"Mama?
Baba?"
No answer.
Hour twelve:
Hind stops calling.
Did she die then?
Or did she just stop hoping?
Day two:
The smell intensifying.
Sweet and thick and wrong.
The flies everywhere.
In the wounds.
In the mouths.
Laying eggs.
Day five:
The maggots grown fat.
The flesh liquefying.
The neighbours know.
Everyone knows.
There's a car full of bodies
rotting in the street.
And no one can reach it.
Day seven:
The bodies black.
The skin slipping.
Day twelve:
They finally reach the car.
The rescuers vomit.
They open the door
and the smell
the smell
The smell hits them like a fist.
The bodies unrecognisable.
Bloated.
Black.
Liquefied.
Except Hind.
The smallest.
Still clutching the phone.
You could still see
that she'd been a child.
You could still see
that she'd died alone.
Rachel Corrie, twenty-three,
who wanted to be a dancer,
who stood in front of a Palestinian home
and believed her American passport would protect her,
crushed by a Caterpillar D9 bulldozer,
flattened into the earth,
16 March 2003.
The driver was never charged.
America kept sending aid.
Tom Hurndall, twenty-two,
British photography student,
shot in the head by IDF sniper, Taysir Hayb
while helping a Palestinian child to safety,
11 April 2003.
Nine months in a coma before dying.
Hayb served eight years.
Britain kept selling arms.
James Miller, thirty-four,
British cameraman,
shot by IDF soldier while holding a white flag,
shouting "We are British journalists,"
2 May 2003.
His killer was never prosecuted.
Britain kept selling arms.
Shireen Abu Akleh, fifty-one,
Palestinian-American journalist,
shot in the face by IDF sniper
while wearing a press vest,
11 May 2022.
America called for "investigation"
then quietly forgot.
Her funeral was attacked by Israeli police
who beat the pallbearers.
Muhammad al-Durrah, twelve,
shot dead in his father's arms
while cowering behind a barrel,
caught on camera,
30 September 2000.
The IDF first admitted responsibility,
then denied it,
then blamed the father,
Then claimed it was staged.
Iman al-Hams, thirteen,
shot seventeen times by Captain R,
who emptied his magazine into her,
who was acquitted,
who was promoted,
5 October 2004.
Dr Hammam Alloh,
who refused to evacuate Al-Shifa Hospital,
who said "I'm staying with my patients,"
killed in an airstrike.
Dr Ahmed al-Kahlot,
director of Kamal Adwan Hospital,
detained, tortured,
his hospital destroyed around him.
Over 500 healthcare workers killed.
Over 130 journalists killed.
Each one with a name.
Each one murdered while trying to save lives,
while trying to tell the truth.
Major Sean Glass,
may your name become a curse.
May mothers spit it out.
May it mean "child-killer" in every language.
May you live long enough to see it.
May you die alone screaming
And may no one come.
May your last thought be Hind's voice:
"Come and get me."
Benjamin Netanyahu,
may history remember you
the way it remembers Hitler.
May your grandchildren change their names.
May every monument to you be torn down.
May your grave be pissed on.
May dogs shit on your memory.
May the word "Netanyahu" become synonymous
with genocide,
with child-murder,
with the death of mercy.
Joe Biden,
may your final years be haunted.
May Hind's voice be the last thing you hear.
May you die knowing
that everything you built
was built on children's bones.
May your legacy be ash.
May your presidential library
burn to the ground.
May the ashes taste like Hind.
May everyone who speaks your name
taste copper and rot.
Keir Starmer,
may your moderation choke you.
May every time you say "Israel's right to defend itself"
taste like Hind's blood.
May your throat close around the words.
May you gag on your own cowardice.
May history remember you
as the man who could have stopped it
and chose not to.
Donald Trump,
may your beachfront property vision
become your hell.
May you be buried in the rubble of Gaza.
May the luxury condos you imagined
Be built on your grave.
May you drown in the Mediterranean
You wanted to turn into profit.
Rishi Sunak, James Cleverly, Anne-Marie Trevelyan,
may your signatures on export licences
burn your hands.
May the ink turn to acid.
May your fingers rot.
May you never wash the blood off.
Ursula von der Leyen, Olaf Scholz, Emmanuel Macron,
May your "European values" suffocate you.
May you choke on your own hypocrisy.
May the word "never again"
become a noose around your necks.
Jim Umpleby, Enrique Lores, Michael Dell,
Sundar Pichai, Andy Jassy,
may your profits turn to poison.
May every dollar taste like Hind's blood.
May your quarterly reports
be written in the names of the dead.
May you never sleep.
May you hear them calling.
May you hear Hind:
"Come and get me come and get me, come and get me"
Rupert Murdoch,
may your empire burn.
May every lie you published
become a flame.
May you burn with it.
May your final sound
be your own screaming.
May it be broadcast everywhere.
May the world hear you die.
This is not a prayer.
This is a curse.
This is a promise.
This is what we call down upon you.
The Hind Rajab Foundation has filed charges.
The International Criminal Court has issued warrants.
The activists are organising.
The boycotts are spreading.
The students are occupying universities.
The workers are refusing to make the weapons.
The dockers are refusing to load the ships.
The call centre workers are leaking the licences.
The soldiers are refusing orders.
The empire is crumbling.
In Sheffield, a machinist walks off the job.
In Telford, a woman deletes the approvals.
In Sunderland, a soldier throws down his rifle.
They're saying no.
They're saying enough.
They're saying not in our name.
The glass is shattering.
Can you hear it?
The cracks spreading.
The empire fracturing.
Major Glass,
Your name is glass
and it's breaking.
We are the hammer.
We will speak their names:
Hind Rajab.
Rachel Corrie.
Tom Hurndall.
James Miller.
Shireen Abu Akleh.
Muhammad al-Durrah.
Iman al-Hams.
Dr Hammam Alloh.
Yusuf al-Zeino.
Ahmed al-Madhoun.
We will carve them into monuments.
We will paint them on walls.
We will shout them in the streets.
We will teach them to our children.
And when we speak their names,
we will spit yours out:
Glass. Netanyahu. Biden. Starmer. Trump.
Like poison.
Like vomit.
Like the foul taste of complicity.
And when the empire finally falls
and it will fall
Hind's name will be carved
into the first stone
of whatever we build next.
Her voice will be the foundation:
"Come and get me
Come and get me
Come and get me"
We're coming, Hind.
For you.
For them.
With hammers.
The glass is shattering.
Listen.
Can you hear it break?
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