That’s the chant you hear from plenty of arseholes who have never seen a war, never lived through one, and certainly have no intention of going anywhere near one.
If some of these people genuinely believe so passionately that Palestine must be “freed”, you’d think they’d be queueing up to put their own arses on the line rather than expecting somebody else to do it for them.
But will they?
Not fucking likely.
It’s much easier to wrap yourself in a fashionable scarf, march down a British high street, wave a flag and shout slogans surrounded by thousands of people who already agree with you.
That gives you all the excitement of being a revolutionary without the irritating inconvenience of actually having to risk anything.
And God help some singer who walks onto a stage and fails to chant the approved phrase before performing.
Then the outrage machine really gets going.
Because apparently screaming abuse at musicians for not repeating your favourite political slogan is now an act of extraordinary courage.
Meanwhile, the same comfortably housed, comfortably fed, avocado-eating keyboard revolutionaries can go home afterwards, stick the kettle on, upload their heroic photographs to social media and congratulate themselves on another successful day fighting oppression.
From Britain.
Thousands of miles away.
With absolutely fuck-all chance of a bullet coming back in the opposite direction.
There’s nothing wrong with protesting against war, criticising Israel, supporting Palestinians or demanding a ceasefire.
But spare me the fucking theatre of pretending that shouting “FREE PALESTINE” from the safety of a British city centre somehow makes you Che Guevara.
If your courage disappears the moment there’s actual personal risk involved, perhaps what you’re displaying isn’t courage.
Perhaps it’s just noise.
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