This Isn't Normal

They voted today in the Knesset to kill Palestinian children legally, 

and Ben Gvir handed out sweets,

Let me say that again

they handed out sweets, they handed out sweets, they handed out fucking sweets,

like it was a birth, like his wife just pushed out something worth celebrating, passed candy hand to hand,

sugar dissolving on tongues while the law passed, making murder clean, making murder parliamentary,

making murder something you can taste, 

But this isn't new, this is the echo, this is the rope still swinging.

1930, Mandatory Palestine, 

Fuad Hijazi, Ata al-Zeer, Mohammad Jamjoum, hanged in Acre prison by the British,

their necks snapping, clean, legal, parliamentary. 

The British measured the drop, calculated the weight,

made sure the neck would break, not strangle, efficient, humane, 

that's what they called it, humane hanging.

for resisting occupation. 

Then they hung more than 100 Palestinians, 

kept the rope warm, 

kept the gallows busy,

made it legal, made it colonial law, 

made it parliamentary procedure, 

made it necessary, for security, for order,

for the mandate, for the empire's throat swallowing Palestine whole. 

And the Israelis, they inherited the rope,

they kept the gallows, they learnt how to measure the drop, 

how to calculate the weight, how to make a neck snap,

clean, legal, parliamentary. 

The echo, the rope still swinging, from 1930 to now. 

The Germans measured too,

measured our skulls, measured our noses, measured how much Zyklon B per cubic metre, 

per body, per child,

wrote it down. 

Nuremberg 1935, 

debated in parliament, voted on, made it legal to kill us, 

made it scientific,

made it clean. 

Roma, Sinti, measured, filed, section two, subsection three, under vermin, under asocial,

under lebensunwertes leben, 

life unworthy of life, parliamentary language for the efficient disposal of bodies,

of children, 

of my grandmother's cousins who were measured and found killable. 

1930 the rope, 

1935 the gas,

2026, the vote. 

The echo gets louder, gets hungrier, gets legal. 

And here we fucking are, watching men in suit in the Knesset, 

built on the administrative bones of British Mandatory Palestine, 

using the legal frameworks

the British wrote in Palestinian blood, 

in Fuad Hijazi's broken neck, 

voting on which children get to be killed legally,

watching Ben Gvir's throat open, close, swallow champagne, 

watching his tongue wet with it, 

watching his mouth work the sugar, 

watching him celebrate 96 years of legal killing, of parliamentary murder, of the rope, 

of the gas,

of the vote. 

I know this throat, my grandmother knew this throat, t

he throat that swallows while voting to kill.

Fuad Hijazi's mother knew, 

Ata al-Zeer's sisters knew, 

Mohammad Jamjoum's family knew the sound of the trap door,

the sound of the neck, 

the sound of men going home to dinner after a day's work hanging Palestinians, legal, filed, complete. 

They counted us. 

The British counted every Palestinian hung, documented the weight, 

the drop, 

the time of death,

filed it, stamped it, legal. 

The Germans counted every Roma killed, tattooed the number into our skin, 

into our arms,

into our children, 

filed us,

 numbered us, 

calculated us into ash, legal. 

The Israelis count every Palestinian, track them,

ID them, calculate them, 

and now vote them killable, legal. 

Ben Gvir's teeth, white, clean, closing on sugar,

and I can see inside his mouth, 

can see his tongue, pink and wet, 

can see his throat opening, 

the same throat that opened in 1930, 

different body, same hunger, same appetite for Palestinian blood, 

made legal, 

made parliamentary,

made sweet. 

The echo is a mouth opening, closing, swallowing 96 years of bodies. 

I want to reach into that mouth,

want to grab that tongue, 

want to pull it out by the root, 

want to feel it tear, 

want to make him taste what Fuad Hijazi tasted when the rope went tight, 

What my grandmother's cousins tasted when the gas filled their lungs,

What every Palestinian child will taste when the state kills them, legal. 

I want to break every tooth that ever bit down on celebration while voting for murder, 

want to reach back through 1930, 1935, 2026, through every parliament,

every mandate, 

every gallows, 

every gas chamber, 

every vote, a

nd snap every jaw that ever smiled, 

that ever swallowed,

That ever said yes to killing children, legal. 

Because that's what this is, don't hide behind security, 

don't hide behind defence,

This is the rope, this is the gas, this is the vote, this is continuation, 

This is an echo, this is the Empire teaching its children how to kill efficiently, legally, parliamentarily. 

And those children became such good students, learnt the measurements,

learnt the calculations, learnt how to make killing clean, how to make murder procedural, 

How to make genocide democratic.

They're drinking champagne, 

Ben Gvir, 

Smotrich, 

the whole fascist coalition, throats opening, closing, swallowing,

just like the British drank after Fuad Hijazi's neck snapped, 

After Ata al-Zeer stopped breathing, 

after Mohammad Jamjoum swung, still, 

just like the Nazis drank after the Nuremberg laws were passed, 

after the measurements were taken,

after the calculations were complete. 

The good champagne, smooth, easy, going down like 96 years of legal murder,

like the rope, like the gas, like the vote. 

1930, the sound of the neck. 

1935, the sound of the gas. 

2026, the sound of champagne swallowing. 

The language won't, the words are breaking, choking. 

1930, 1935, 2026, 

How do you, 

when the rope, 

when the gas,

when the vote, 

When the throat keeps swallowing, 

When the students learnt so well, 

When the occupied became the occupiers,

When they studied their victimhood like a textbook, 

learnt the measurements, the calculations, the efficient methods,

and perfected them on someone else's children. 

Nothing stopped the rope in 1930, 

nothing stopped the gas in 1935,

Nothing stops the vote now. 

We write, we witness, we document. 

Fuad Hijazi, Ata al-Zeer, Mohammad Jamjoum, 

the sound of their necks.

My grandmother's sisters, 

the sound of their lungs filling with gas. 

Every name, every sound, every throat that stopped,

legal. 

And they keep voting, celebrating, swallowing, 

legal. 

That's what the colonised do, 

that's what Roma do,

that's what Palestinians do. 

We watch the rope, 

we watch the gas, 

we watch the vote. 

We witness, 

we document the names,

we document the sounds, 

the neck snapping, 

the gas hissing, 

the champagne swallowing. 

We survive, 

if we're lucky,

if our necks don't snap, 

if our lungs don't fill, 

if the vote doesn't find us killable. 

We tell our children, this is what it sounds like when Empire kills you, 

this is what democracy tastes like when you're the ones it's designed to eliminate. 

Mandatory Palestine 1930, the rope. 

The Reichstag 1935, the gas. 

The Knesset 2026, the vote. 

Every parliament that ever made murder measurable, calculable, procedural. 

The echo is a gallows, is a gas chamber, is a parliamentary vote,

swinging, hissing, swallowing. 

Fuad Hijazi's neck snapping, 

Ata al-Zeer's neck snapping, 

Mohammad Jamjoum's neck snapping

for resisting. 

My grandmother's cousins, lungs filling, for existing. 

And now every Palestinian child, throat closing,

for being killable by vote.

 My mouth is full of Ben Gvir's champagne, 

of the rope fibres, of the gas, 

of my grandmother's ashes,

of Fuad Hijazi's last breath, 

of 96 years of throats opening, closing, swallowing, 

while necks snap, while lungs fill,

while children become killable, legal, parliamentary. 

The echo is in my throat, is in every throat that watches,

that witnesses, 

that survives the rope, the gas, the vote. 

We just witness, we just write.

 Fuad Hijazi, 

Ata al-Zeer,

Mohammad Jamjoum, 

their necks. 

My grandmother, her lungs. 

We just document the measurements, the calculations, the sounds.

We just survive. 

We just, we just, we. 

I want to burn every parliament that ever measured a drop, a dose, a vote.

I want to pour their champagne into every throat that ever stopped, legal, since 1930. 

I want to force the sugar down their throats until they choke, 

until they understand what 96 years of measured killing tastes like, 

sounds like,

feels like in the throat, 

in the neck, 

in the lungs. 

But I can't, 

I'm here writing, witnessing,

like my grandmother who watched them measure, 

like Fuad Hijazi's mother, who heard the snap, 

like every Romani woman, 

Every Palestinian woman

who survived by remembering the measurements, 

the sounds, 

the tastes, 

by saying the names, by writing it down,

So no one can say they didn't hear the rope, 

the gas, 

the vote. 

You heard, you've been hearing since 1930.

You measured, 

You calculated, 

You voted, 

You celebrated, 

You swallowed, 

You handed out sweets. 

You hung them, 

You gassed us,

You learnt from the British, 

You perfected what the Nazis started, 

You continued the measurements, the calculations, the echo.

Normal sounds like this, like the rope, like the gas, like champagne swallowing, 

like 96 years of parliamentary procedure,

of measured drops, of calculated doses, of democratic votes, 

from mandate to occupation to genocide, 

from the gallows to the chamber to the Knesset, legal, democratic, continuous, 

the echo never stops, 

the throat never closing,

until our necks snap, 

until our lungs fill, until we're ash, until we're numbers, measured, calculated, filed, forgotten.

But we don't forget. 

Palestinians don't forget the sound of Fuad Hijazi's neck, 

the sound of Ata al-Zeer's neck,

the sound of Mohammad Jamjoum's neck snapping. 

Roma don't forget the sound of the gas hissing, filling our lungs, our children's lungs. 

We remember every parliament that measured us, calculated us, made us killable. 

And we're watching,

We're listening, we're writing every measurement, 

every calculation, every vote, every celebration, every throat swallowing,

from 1930 to now. 

This is what empire sounds like, this is what it tastes like, 

This is what it feels like in the throat,

in the neck, 

in the lungs, 

When the British measure, 

when the Nazis calculate, when the Israelis vote, 

when the students perfect their teachers' measurements, 

their teachers' calculations, 

their teachers' violence on new necks, 

new lungs,

new children. 

The echo, 

the continuation, 

the rope swinging, 

the gas hissing, 

the champagne swallowing, 

the throat opening, closing, 

from 1930 to now. 

And we're still here, 

still watching, 

still writing, 

still remembering the names, 

the sounds,

the measurements, 

still refusing to let them forget what they've done, 

what they're doing, 

what they will keep doing,

until we stop them, 

or until there's no one left to measure.