In a development that has sent shockwaves through the collective conscience of the international community (or at least through the gin-soaked synapses of this correspondent), a gaggle of self-styled humanitarian buccaneers has emerged from Israeli custody with tales of mistreatment that would make a Victorian workhouse blush. The activists, who were intercepted en route to Gaza in a flotilla that resembled a floating jumble sale more than a relief mission, are now bleating about 'abuse' with the righteous indignation of a vegan who's just been served a pork chop.
Details remain as murky as the bilge water those dinghies were probably leaking, but the activists claim they were subjected to everything from rough handling to a shortage of organic hummus. Meanwhile, the UK government, ever eager to wring its hands on the world stage, has called for an independent investigation, presumably to ascertain whether the Israelis were insufficiently apologetic while confiscating their cargo of cement and sympathy.
Let's be clear: this is not a column about whether Israel's blockade of Gaza is a proportionate response to decades of rocket fire and tunnel-building. That would require nuance, and nuance is for people who haven't had three G&Ts before breakfast. No, this is about the sheer, unadulterated theatre of it all. These activists, these Knights of the Mediterranean, set sail with the intention of getting caught, of getting roughed up, of becoming martyrs for a cause that has more twists than a bag of pretzels. And now they have the audacity to complain when their script goes off-book?
The 'abuse' allegations are, of course, as predictable as a priest in a schoolyard. Israeli authorities, with all the charm of a dentist's drill, have denied everything, claiming the activists were treated with the same tender loving care they'd give a stray cat. Which, given Israel's record on stray cats, is probably not much. But then, the activists' version of events is about as reliable as a politician's promise. One can almost hear the PR machines grinding into gear on both sides, churning out press releases like sausages from a factory farm.
And what of the UK's call for an investigation? A splendid bit of diplomatic tap-dancing, this. It allows the government to look principled without actually doing anything. Because let's face it, an independent investigation into a flotilla that was never going to reach Gaza anyway is about as useful as a chocolate teapot. But it makes for good headlines, and that, in the end, is all that matters in this carnival of absurdity.
So here we are, once again, watching the same old pantomime. The activists, with their rainbow flags and their protest songs, will probably be deported, free to regale their local mosque or church hall with tales of Israeli brutality. The Israelis will continue their blockade, convinced that they are the only adults in a playground full of screaming children. And the UK government will pat itself on the back for its even-handedness. Meanwhile, the people of Gaza will still be there, trapped between a rock and a hard place, wondering when the world will stop treating their misery as a spectator sport.
But what do I know? I'm just a gin-soaked scribbler with a typewriter and a grudge. The only independent investigation I'm calling for is into the quality of tonic water at Heathrow Airport. Cheers.
