In a development that has shocked precisely nobody, Israeli air strikes have claimed 11 lives in Gaza City, prompting the United Kingdom to do what it does best: issue sternly worded demands for diplomatic pressure while carefully avoiding any suggestion of actually doing anything. The Foreign Office has reportedly drafted a strongly worded letter, which will be delivered via a gold-embossed carriage drawn by ostriches, because nothing says 'we care' like opulent theatricality.
Let us examine this spectacle. Eleven bodies, presumably still warm, lie beneath rubble that was once a home, a school, a street where children played. Meanwhile, in London, a man in a suit stands at a podium, his face arranged into an expression of grave concern. He speaks of 'renewed diplomatic pressure' as if diplomacy were a tap that simply needs turning. He does not mention the bombs, the shrapnel, the screams. He does not mention that 'diplomatic pressure' has historically achieved precisely the square root of sod-all.
This is the dance, you see. The choreography of horror. Israel bombs. Palestine bleeds. Britain tuts. America looks the other way. Everyone pretends that next time will be different. It is like watching a man repeatedly walk into a glass door and then express surprise at the bruise on his forehead.
But let us not forget the real victims here: the politicians. Think of their burden. Having to maintain a posture of moral superiority while selling arms to both sides. Having to express 'profound concern' without actually concerning themselves with the profoundly concerned. It is exhausting work, being a hypocrite. They deserve our sympathy. Or a swift kick to the parliamentary shins, one of the two.
And what of the media? They will show the footage, of course. The crying mothers, the dust-covered fathers, the tiny shoes. They will frame it within a context of 'conflict' and 'tit-for-tat violence' as if both sides were equally armed, equally funded, equally besieged. They will trot out experts who will speak in terms of 'escalation' and 'de-escalation' as if this were a game of poker and not a massacre.
No, the truth is simpler and more grotesque. Power does what power has always done. It kills with impunity, then calls for a meeting. It destroys homes, then demands 'restraint'. It is the oldest con in the book, and we keep buying tickets for the show.
Yet here I sit, scribbling my little missives of rage, knowing full well that my words will change nothing. They will be read by people who already agree, dismissed by those who do not, and ultimately forgotten beneath the next atrocity. Such is the lot of the satirist. We are the court jesters of the apocalypse, juggling skulls while the king laughs.
So I raise my glass of airport gin, which is as warm and bitter as my soul. To the dead of Gaza City, who are already being washed from the news cycle by fresh blood. To the diplomats, who will soon be photographed shaking hands. And to the rest of us, who watch it all unfold on our screens, feeling a flicker of outrage before scrolling down to check the football scores.
This is your world, built on a foundation of bombs and press releases. Enjoy it while it lasts. It won't. None of us will.
