Beirut. A city that knows more about explosions than most people know about their own postcodes. Last night, while the world’s attention was fixed on a reality TV star’s mildly irritated tweet, the Israeli Air Force decided to remind us all that real life doesn’t come with a remote control. They bombed Lebanon. Again. Because why not? It’s Tuesday.
This latest fusillade of righteous indignation from the skies comes despite former President Donald Trump’s very stern series of capital letters on social media. One can only imagine the scene in Tel Aviv: a cabinet meeting interrupted by a buzzing phone, a weary general reading aloud, “YOU ARE MAKING A VERY BIG MISTAKE. I WOULD NOT DO THIS IF I WERE YOU.” Pause. Cigarette lit. “Anyway, as I was saying, target coordinates…”
The irony, of course, is thicker than the smoke rising from the rubble. Trump, the man who moved the US embassy to Jerusalem and recognised the Golan Heights as Israeli, now playing the voice of reason. It’s like watching your drunk uncle suddenly lecture everyone on the dangers of alcohol. But the bombs fall anyway, because bombs don’t read Twitter. They just fall.
And caught in the middle, as ever, are the British peacekeepers. Those brave souls in blue helmets, armed with a UN mandate and a prayer, now facing a heightened danger that the Foreign Office will doubtless describe as “regrettable” before serving tea. These are the same peacekeepers who are supposed to keep the peace, but who now find themselves in a warzone where the only thing keeping the peace is the absence of a bigger bomb. They stand, as they always do, between factions who hate each other more than they hate having their windows smashed by a blast wave.
Meanwhile, in the hallowed halls of Westminster, MPs are no doubt preparing a strongly worded letter. “We condemn these strikes in the strongest possible terms,” they’ll say, while simultaneously selling arms to both sides. It’s the British way. We condemn, then we convene. We tut, then we trade. We send our boys in blue to stand in the middle of someone else’s civil war, and we call it diplomacy.
But let’s not forget the real story here: the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it all. A former US president, impeached twice, now acting as the global conscience. An Israeli government that treats American criticism like a fart in a hurricane. And Lebanese civilians, who just wanted to go to work, raise their children, and avoid being turned into craters. They are the ones who pay the price for this geopolitical Punch and Judy show.
So raise a glass (of gin, naturally) to the British peacekeepers, the unsung heroes in a forgotten war. Raise another to the journalists who will risk their lives to report on this, and then be called biased by both sides. And one more to the sheer, unending, tiresome stupidity of humans who think bombs solve arguments.
But don’t raise a glass to peace. That would be far too optimistic. For now, we settle for survival. And perhaps a slightly weaker G&T, because the world is running out of tonic. And sense.
