LONDON. The British Foreign Office, that sprawling cathedral of bureaucratic hand-wringing and firmly worded letters, has today demanded a full and transparent inquiry into the tragic demise of a Palestinian infant in the occupied West Bank. The baby, whose nappies will never again need changing, was reportedly killed by Israeli military fire. Quelle horreur. Or, as they say in Whitehall, “deeply concerned.”
Now, let us be clear. This is not the first time a baby has been bisected by a high-velocity round in the Holy Land. Nor will it be the last. But the Foreign Office, led by the ever-so-slightly-musty-smelling David Lammy, has decided that this particular infant deserves the full Monty of diplomatic outrage. A statement was issued. It was firm. It was clear. It will be ignored.
The Israelis, with the charming insouciance of a man who has just trodden on a snail, have promised to look into it. They always look into it. They have a special department for looking into it. It is staffed by chaps who look into things and then issue reports that gather dust in a drawer labelled “Things We Looked Into And Decided Not To Do Anything About.”
The baby’s family, meanwhile, will have to make do with a photocopied letter of condolence and a vague promise that the matter is being taken “very seriously.” Which, in diplomatic parlance, means “we will mutter about this at a cocktail party and then forget about it when the canapés arrive.”
But fear not. The Foreign Office is on the case. They will be writing strongly worded letters. They will be making phone calls. They will be expressing grave concern. They might even send a sternly worded tweet. The baby, however, will remain dead. Such is the circle of life in the occupied territories.
The real question, my dear readers, is not whether the inquiry will be thorough. It won’t. The real question is whether the British government will ever do anything that actually stops babies from being shot. And the answer, as you know, is as clear as the gin in my glass: absolutely not. We will continue to sell arms to the Saudis, to the Israelis, to anyone with oil or strategic importance, and we will continue to wring our hands when those arms inevitably turn babies into statistics.
So here’s to you, little one. Your brief, brutal life has been immortalised in a press release. Your death has given David Lammy a chance to look statesmanlike. Your family has been given the gift of our deepest sympathies. What more could anyone want?
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a bottle of Beefeater. The world may be on fire, but at least my martini is dry.
