Beirut, the city that has turned survival into an art form, woke up to the smell of cordite and hypocrisy this morning. Six souls, as real as the smudge on my reading glasses, have been vapourised by an Israeli strike. And what does the transatlantic duopoly do? They push for a 'ceasefire extension.' Because nothing says 'we care' like a press release drafted over a lunch of overpriced quinoa.
Let's be clear: a ceasefire is not a thing that you 'extend.' It's a cessation. The word itself is a tiny pearl of hope. But in the lexicon of the State Department and the Foreign Office, it's become a trampoline. Boing, boing, off we bounce to the next convenient violation. A few more dead, a few more burned children, and then we can negotiate again over tea and crumpets.
The US and UK, those two great titans of selective morality, are 'pushing' for an extension. They push with the force of a toddler nudging a bowling ball. There is no blood on their hands, you see, only ink. Their ambassadors will issue statements that are masterpieces of obfuscation. 'We deplore the loss of civilian life.' Deplore. A word that sounds like a diplomatic sneeze. Meanwhile, the bombs have the audacity to keep falling.
Israel, of course, will claim it was targeting a 'militant' or a 'command centre' or a 'man with a beard looking vaguely cross.' They always do. And the Western press, my beloved industry of flailing corporates, will dutifully print the caveat: 'Israel says it was targeting Hezbollah operatives.' As if that makes the corpses any less dead. Tell that to the mother in the rubble. She will not be consoled by your footnotes.
And what of Lebanon? That poor, gorgeous, bludgeoned nation. A country that has perfected the art of collapse. Its currency is a joke. Its government is a punchline. And now its people are the corpses in a passion play written by men in suits who have never missed a night's sleep over a foreign policy decision. Hezbollah, the state within a state, the Borges-like labyrinth of resistance and corruption, will fire some rockets. Israel will bomb some more. And the ceasefire extension, that mirage of a talking point, will be 'renewed' until the next massacre.
This is not news. It is a recurring nightmare. It is the same story I have been writing, in different fonts, since I was a cub reporter with hair. The participants change their haircuts but not their strategies. The dead, however, remain refreshingly consistent. They are dead. And they will keep dying until we stop treating the Middle East like a messy divorce that we can mediate from a safe distance.
So here is my headline: 'Six Dead, US-UK Push for Paper Ceasefire.' My subheading: 'World Expresses Concern, Does Nothing.' My editorial: Go to hell, all of you. Especially the ones who think an 'extension' is a synonym for 'peace.'
