In a development that has the Foreign Office reaching for its most indignant fountain pen, detainees from the latest Gaza-bound flotilla have emerged with tales of Israeli brutality that would make a Bruegel painting look like a children's colouring book. The UK, in a move of breathtaking predictability, has demanded a full inquiry. Because nothing says 'we mean business' like a strongly worded letter.
Let us paint the scene. A flotilla, a flotilla of do-gooders and headline hunters, bobbing towards Gaza with all the nautical nous of a tea cosy. Intercepted, inevitably, by the Israeli navy. A scuffle. Allegations. The usual dance of accusation and denial played out under the Mediterranean sun.
Now, the survivors, if we can call them that, have limped back to tell their tale. They speak of beatings, of humiliation, of the kind of rough handling that would make a rugby player wince. The Foreign Office, that grand old institution devoted to the art of saying nothing while appearing to say everything, has stirred from its slumber. 'Full inquiry,' they cry. 'Transparency,' they demand. One can almost hear the clatter of teacups in Whitehall.
But let us be real, dear reader. In the theatre of the absurd that is modern diplomacy, a 'full inquiry' is the equivalent of a parking ticket on a burning building. It is the gesture of a man who, upon finding his house ablaze, decides to water the petunias. The UK, for all its moral posturing, has the influence of a gnat at a giants' convention.
And yet, the story is not without its gruesome details. Witnesses describe the kind of violence that suggests the Israeli navy has been taking lessons from the more imaginative corners of the internet. There is talk of broken bones, of psychological torment, of a voyage that began with hope and ended with terror. But who is to believe whom? In this hall of mirrors, truth is a commodity as rare as a quiet day in Parliament.
The flotilla, of course, was doomed from the start. A cargo of idealism, a dash of naivety, and a hearty dose of clicktivism. The organisers, a ragtag collection of activists and former barristers, knew the risks. They sailed into a storm with their eyes wide open, and now they cry foul. One might almost admire their audacity, if it weren't so tragically predictable.
Meanwhile, the UK Foreign Office, with the courage of a man who has just discovered Twitter, has demanded answers. They want to know what happened. They want to see evidence. They want, one suspects, to look busy while the world burns. For this is the way of things. A flotilla, a skirmish, a round of indignation. And then the news cycle moves on, leaving only the wreckage of shattered hopes and legal briefs.
But let us not be too cynical. The detainees have spoken. They have described a horror that, if true, demands more than a wrist slap. They have called for justice. And the UK, for all its faults, has at least raised its voice. Whether that voice will be heard above the din of international politics is another matter entirely.
So we wait. We wait for the inquiry, the report, the inevitable whitewash or condemnation. We wait for the next flotilla, the next outrage, the next polite request from the Foreign Office. And in the meantime, we pour a gin, a large gin, and toast the beautiful, bloody absurdity of it all.
