Genocide survivor Eman Alhaj Ali says Palestinians want dignity, not pity. New footage of Yahya Sinwar during battle and more.

Bombarded Palestinians in Gaza face hazards both visible and invisible.

Forty Labour and independent MPs call on Steve Reed to take ‘important step’ of defining anti-Muslim hatred

More than three dozen Labour and independent MPs have written to the housing secretary calling on the government to adopt a definition of Islamophobia, after recent figures revealed hate crimes against Muslims were up by nearly a fifth.

Forty MPs, including Labour MPs Diane Abbott, Dawn Butler, Kim Johnson and independent Andrew Gwynne, were among the signatories on the letter from Afzal Khan who wrote to Steve Reed on Friday asking him to adopt a definition of anti-Muslim hatred as an “important step” in addressing discrimination, prejudice and hatred the community faces.

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A thug takes a brick to the groin in last year’s racist riots.

A few years ago I saw someone say on Twitter that people would happily call each other feminazis or grammar Nazis, but would not call a Nazi a Nazi. In the past year or so since the Southport murders and the subsequent riots and since Donald Trump returned to office in the US and launched his war against legal and illegal immigrants, citizens and anyone else who “looks foreign”, racists have got increasingly strident in pretending that they are the ones who are in danger: the likes of Matt Goodwin have issued ‘warnings’ about the ‘dangers’ of calling people racists or “far right”, as it might lead to another politician or commentator being assassinated, as was Charlie Kirk last month (though the actual motives for that are unclear). Meanwhile, Muslims and others who march against the genocide in Gaza are branded as “antisemitic marchers”. I have noticed a climate in which it is considered unwise or dangerous to call people racists, and this has to be opposed.

The other day a video came up on my YouTube feed which was about the ten most unpleasant people in rock music. The eight men and two women were not the actual criminals — no Ian Watkins or Jim Gordon, for example — but mostly people who treated other musicians badly or who walked off stage or had fans ejected, for example. I noticed that one of those listed was a racist and another was known for exploiting young women, but neither of these facts was mentioned in the video as if being a racist was not something worth mentioning in that context. Did he think it would alienate some of his viewers, or does he sympathise with the views in question? I did point out that he’d left those details out, but he didn’t acknowledge or reply to my comment. Another case in point comes from the New Statesman at the end of September: an article instructing Labour activists, in the run-up to the Ellesmere Port by-election, not to call Nigel Farage racist because the “median voter” did not consider him to be; by doing so, Labour activists were scolding the voter and telling them they were wrong. A poll, sourced from “Merlin Strategies”, whoever they are, claims that even among current Labour voters, only 46% of voters considered Farage to be racist and among northerners, it was only 33%, with 47% disagreeing. The word ‘racist’ is generally considered derogatory, and someone who actually is a racist will generally not call themselves that; people “not considering Farage to be racist” thus includes those who agree with him as well as those who somehow, after hearing all he has had to say throughout his political career, continue to believe that he is not.

We are also seeing the racists and far-right in politics in the media increasingly playing the victim. The assassination of Charlie Kirk has given them additional licence to cast themselves as being the ones in danger, when in fact racism is what puts people in danger. Goodwin, two weeks ago, accused “the Left” of “[setting] the stage for the attempted assassination of Donald Trump and the murder of Charlie Kirk”, both of whom had enemies on the neo-Nazi far right as well as the Left and elsewhere; Kirk’s alleged assassin may well have been a ‘groyper’ although his motives have yet to be fully investigated. However, the historical facts are that while anti-racism may produce the odd assassination (often in the midst of intense racist violence, as with the assassinations of Ernst von Rath and Reinhard Heydrich, which provided pretexts for early Nazi atrocities), racism itself results in far greater levels of destruction and death than anti-racism, or false accusations of racism, ever have; even the raft of false accusations of antisemitism during Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership of the Labour party did not kill anyone. Goodwin tells us off for calling Nigel Farage an enemy; the same language was used in the Tory press during Theresa May’s premiership for judges and others they saw as trying to frustrate “the will of the people” on Brexit. (They, of course, still happily throw the Antisemitism slur around, as well as calling Black politicians racist for identifying white racism.)

A number of years ago, the Muslim Tory peer Sayeeda Warsi observed that Islamophobia “passed the dinner-table test”: that prejudice towards Muslims could be expressed in respectable circles with no fear of censure. In 2025, many more forms of prejudice not only pass that test — Islamophobia, anti-Black and anti-Asian racism, blind hostility to refugees and other real or perceived immigrants — but rather, opposition to them is what no longer passes that test. If we call people racists or fascists, we are accused of having contempt for what the ordinary person thinks or feels, and of putting politicians’ lives in danger even as actual racist thugs terrorise refugees and asylum seekers housed in hotels and two Asian women have been raped in the last month or so by white men who made their racist intentions clear to them. Even Keir Starmer could not call the goons rampaging around English towns after the Southport murders last year racists; he settled for calling them “far-right thugs” as they attacked people for their skin colour. As both Tory and Reform politicians and media demand the right to offend, the right to “criticise Islam” and to ridicule others’ beliefs (as per a bill currently going through Parliament, presented by Tory MP Nick Timothy), we must also be free to call out and condemn racism and to call racists what they are. They are the ones threatening everyone with violence, not us.

L. Brent Bozell III spread beheaded babies lie.

I wanted to die instead of admitting I couldn't help my cousins.

International silence during continued bombing of Gaza an “unforgivable moral and humanitarian failure,” civil defense says.

Akeela Ahmed, of British Muslim Trust, says experience is part of a wider rise in anti-Muslim hatred

The chief executive of the government’s new official partner in tackling Islamophobia has spoken about being refused service in a shop for being Muslim, amid concerns about a rise in insidious anti-Muslim “microaggressions”.

The British Muslim Trust (BMT) is launching a government-backed telephone and online reporting service for hate crimes. In July, the trust was selected as a recipient of the government’s “combating hate against Muslims fund”, and in the months since its chief executive, Akeela Ahmed, has been meeting members of Muslim communities, including in Bradford in West Yorkshire, East Sussex, Greater London and Greater Manchester.

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Thousands of Palestinian remain displaced after Israel decimated entire neighborhoods.

Settlers emboldened by government with ambitions for annexation.

Baby Razan was named after her grandmother, who died of starvation.

Deek builds his new financial team, explores a riverfront property, and shares a moment of brotherhood with Imam Saleh. But is it enough?

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26

* * *

Abu Huraira reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “The world is a prison for the believer and a paradise for the unbeliever.”
– Sahih Muslim 2956

Everything You Love Will Be There

Lying in bed that night, trying to calm himself enough to sleep as a thousand thoughts whirled through his mind, Deek could still see it as if it were yesterday. The prayer rugs rolled out across the living room floor, the faint scent of oud lingering from his father’s sabha beads. Deek – eight or nine years old at the time – sat cross-legged beside little Lubna, the cool tile pressing through his thin cotton pants. Mama leaned against the sofa and smiled, while their father sat with his back straight, palms on his knees, eyes bright with knowledge and love.

“Children,” his father said, “in Jannah, there is no pain, no sadness, no hunger. There is no death. Everything you love will be there, but better.”

The words no pain, no sadness had washed over him like a lullaby, but the rest of it—everything you love will be there—that was what set his imagination alight.

In his mind, Jannah was him and Marco with every game they ever wanted to play. A perfect baseball diamond that stretched to the horizon, gloves that never tore, bats that never cracked. Two gleaming BMX bikes waiting by the fence line. Skateboards with the latest urethane wheels and endless smooth pavement to ride. No homework, no chores, no one calling them in before sunset. Just open sky, the smell of grass, and all the time in the world.

 

He could still hear his father’s voice that evening, low and certain: “And the greatest joy is that Allah will be pleased with you. You will never fear again.”

Years later, when Deek had his own family, Jannah meant something else. It was a place where Rania would be free of pain. Where he and Lubna could talk without pride rising like a wall between them. A place where Iraqis of all faiths and colors lived together in peace, where the Palestinians were victorious and free, and where no child ever cried from hunger.

And Marco—always Marco—would finally find himself there. He would know what he was meant to do, and he would live without the gnawing anxiety that had shadowed him all his life. There would be music and laughter, not in smoky bars but in the gardens of Paradise, where the rivers flowed not with liquor but with mercy.

Now, older and slower, Deek no longer pictured Jannah as a guarantee. He knew better than to assume his own worthiness, or to imagine who might be kept out. Faith had softened into humility. But maybe—just maybe—he and Marco would enter through the same gate, side by side, into that lush, forgiving world. A world free of poverty and loss.
A world where the joy of youth never ended.

The Offer

The next morning he logged onto the dashboard Zakariyya Abdul Ghani had given him, and was stunned to see that the job was done. All the outstanding medical bills had been paid. Deek hadn’t expected that. He’d imagined a few of the bills would be caught in bureaucratic limbo — an unreturned call, a missing invoice — but when he logged in to check the account, every item was reconciled, paid, and neatly logged in an online ledger.

He called Zakariyya to confirm, and the young man’s soft voice came through, calm and assured. “Yes, sir. I pulled a few all-nighters. I sensed your urgency in wanting it done quickly.”

That was enough for Deek. He drove straight to the office under the flight path. The same faint scent of cardamom greeted him when he walked in, the same rattle of glass from the window as a plane passed overhead.

Zakariyya stood from behind the desk, surprised. “Mr. Saghir. I didn’t expect you—”

Deek waved him down. “Relax. I’m not here to check your math.” He pulled a chair closer, sat, and leaned forward. “I’m here because I need someone like you. I’m setting up a family financial office. You’ve shown me you can handle pressure, and you don’t miss details. I want you to run it.”

The young man blinked. “Me? I’ve never done anything like that. I’m barely out of college.”

“You’re young, but that’s fine.”

He remembered a time years ago, when they’d done a remodel on the house and Deek had hired a twenty-three-year-old Iraqi immigrant named Fadil to run the job. The boy could barely speak English. Rania had thought Deek was crazy. But Fadil had a degree in civil engineering, experience as a tradesman, and had to start somewhere. He’d done the job well, and within a few years was running his own small construction firm. Fadil still called every Eid to say thank you.

Deek smiled faintly at the memory and added, “Sometimes taking a chance on a young person pays off.”

Zakariyya adjusted his glasses, clearly thrown off balance. “How much money do you need to manage?”

When Deek shared the figure, Zakariyya sat up very straight and whistled, then added, “MashaAllah, I mean. But sir, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Deek replied. “How much are you making now?”

The young man hesitated. “Fifty thousand per year.”

“That’s respectable. But I’ll triple it. One hundred and fifty, plus benefits, plus performance bonuses. You will search out and recruit the team.”

Zakariyya stared at him, speechless. “I… I don’t know what to say,” he repeated softly.

“Say bismillah,” Deek said. “And get started. Find an office space — one without planes overhead, please. Then let’s start with an accountant, an investment analyst, and an office manager. A legal advisor, but not full-time. Also, a Shariah compliance officer, but again, a consultant, not full-time. That last could be a remote position if we don’t have anyone local. I might have a few people in mind for other positions. I’ll keep you posted.”

A plane roared overhead, and the windows rattled again. But this time, Deek didn’t even flinch.

As he stepped out into the parking lot, the late afternoon light turned the pavement gold. He felt steady, almost serene. For once, he wasn’t patching holes or running from fires; he was building something that might last. Not just wealth, but order. Not chaos, but continuity. The only other thing he needed was his family. He had to find a way to cross this barrier, which was feeling more insurmountable every day.

The River House

Standing outside Zakariyya’s office, Deek’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw a message from Marcela Gómez.

I have a property for you. When are you available?

He typed a single word: Now.

A moment later, her reply appeared.

Meet me in half an hour. I’ll send the address.

The address dropped into his messages: a location he didn’t recognize, somewhere on the edge of the city, close to the river.

The road wound through farmland and low bluffs before ending at a half-finished driveway that curved uphill toward a skeleton of steel and concrete. The structure sprawled across the ridge — modernist lines, concrete, and pillars — but most of it was bare framing beneath a vast unfinished roof. Tall grass and weeds grew where floors should have been. A blue porta-potty leaned on its side, sun-bleached and cracked.

Marcela was already there, her SUV parked near a temporary construction trailer. She waved as he pulled up.

“Mister Saghir,” she called, “what do you think?”

He climbed out and took it in. The roofline was elegant, almost soaring, but the space beneath it looked more like a ruin than a home. “What am I supposed to do with this? Sleep under the stars?”

She laughed softly. “It’s true that it’s only ten percent finished. The builder ran out of money and walked away. But look at what you get — fifty acres of riverfront land.”

She pointed east. Through the tall grass, Deek could see the San Joaquin River glinting like hammered silver. Cottonwoods and valley oaks lined the banks, their leaves flickering in the breeze. Sprays of orange and red poppies illustrated the hillsides, making the scene look like a painting. The air was crisp and clean, though as he inhaled deeply, he caught the faintest whiff of skunk, which made his nose wrinkle.

“Down there,” she said, “are old trails that lead straight to the water. You could hike, fish, build anything you want. To find riverfront land in Fresno is almost impossible. This is a miracle waiting for money.”

Deek raised an eyebrow. “A miracle that needs plumbing and walls.”

Marcela gestured toward a small stucco cottage tucked near the tree line. “There’s a caretaker’s house. One bedroom, kitchen, bath. All finished. You could live there while the main house is built.”

He stood in silence for a long moment, surveying the land. The wind carried the scent of dry grass and river water. Somewhere below, a hawk cried.

Marcela folded her arms. “Don’t look at what it is,” she said. “Look at what it could be.”

Just Like That

“Alright.” Deek turned to her. “How much?”

“Six million dollars. I bargained them down from seven, and it wasn’t easy. You said not to bother negotiating, but I am Colombian; it’s in my blood. I would have felt like an idiot taking their asking price. I could maybe – maybe – get them down to five five, but it wouldn’t be easy.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

Marcela’s face went hard. “It’s a good price for this property. The question is, are you serious or not serious?”

Deek raised one arm in the air, fist pointing to the sky. “Six million it is. I’ll take it.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Just like that? You’re not kidding?”

“Just like that.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “You don’t hesitate, do you?”

“It’s worked for me so far.”

“The sale still has to go through escrow,” she said, handing him a small key ring. “But that’s a formality. These are for the caretaker’s house. You can check the place up -”

“Check it out.”

“That’s what I said. Check it out, hang out, even sleep there if you like. Might be best not to move your stuff in until escrow goes through, though.”

He took the keys. The metal was warm from her hand.

He hesitated, then added, “Marcela, I want to talk to you about something. I’m building a family financial office — investments, property, all of it. I want you to run real estate acquisitions. Homes, apartment complexes, whatever makes sense.”

She considered. “Actually, Mister Saghir, commercial real estate is where the profit is right now. Fresno is full of empty buildings — offices, strip malls. Oversupply means we can buy low. If you want income, that’s where it is.”

Deek smiled. “Then you’re the one I need. Come on board.”

Marcela tilted her head, half-amused, half-intrigued. “You don’t waste time.”

Deek held his palms up to say, “What’s the word?”

Imitating Deek’s decisive gesture, Marcela Gómez shot an arm into the air and declared, “I will think about it!”

Deek laughed. “Fair enough.”

The Caretaker’s House

After she drove away, Deek wandered down the slope, the tall grass brushing against his jeans. He reached the edge of the ridge where the land fell away to the river. The sun was high now, painting the world in gold and shadow. It reminded him of his childhood vision of Jannah: grass, a river, and time to play. Though he and Marco were not children anymore, they hadn’t played any sports together in a long time.

Below him, the water moved slow and heavy, glittering with light. Cottonwoods swayed, and red-winged blackbirds flashed through the reeds. A blue heron stood motionless in the shallows. The air was warm and thick with the smell of river mud and wild fennel.

Deek sat on the grass, watching the heron lift off in a single, slow beat of its wings. He took out his phone, snapped a photo of the river stretching wide and calm, and sent it to Rania.

He waited. The screen stayed dark. No reply.

He pocketed the phone and kept watching the water. The wind came down from the hills, rippling the grass around him like the surface of the river itself.

The caretaker’s house was smaller than he expected — smaller, in fact, than his hotel room. One narrow bedroom, a kitchenette, and a bathroom with a stand-up shower. No bathtub. The place smelled faintly of pine cleaner. Someone had left a few personal items behind: a chipped coffee mug, a paperback novel with a cracked spine, and a faded baseball cap hanging on a nail by the door.

The walls were rough plaster, the furniture plain but solid — a table, two chairs, a firm sofa. It was clean, though. That counted for something. He could live here. He’d lived in worse.

He opened the windows. Warm air drifted in, thick with the scent of wild grass. There was no AC unit, only a ceiling fan that ticked as it spun.

He wandered through the back door and discovered a small patio he hadn’t noticed before — a slab of concrete shaded by a vine-covered trellis, with a built-in barbecue facing the river. From here, he could see the water shimmering between the trees, slow and drowsy under the midday sun.

He pulled out his phone again. Still no reply from Rania.

He stood there for a while, listening to the wind and the distant call of a jay, then slipped the phone back into his pocket.

The Hoops at Masjid Madinah

He couldn’t bring himself to go back to the hotel. Instead, he drove to Masjid Madinah.

The air inside the masjid was cool and smelled faintly of carpet and rose water. After the prayer, Imam Saleh clasped Deek’s shoulder and said, “You look tired, brother. Come outside for a bit.”

They stepped into the parking lot, where a cheap basketball hoop and backboard were bolted to a rusted light pole. The asphalt was cracked, the rim slightly bent.

“Come on,” the Imam said, tossing Deek a ball. “Let’s play a few rounds. It’ll clear your head.”

Deek chuckled. “I’m not very good.”

“Neither am I,” the Imam said, already dribbling. “Bismillah.”

Twenty minutes later, Deek was bent over, panting, sweat running down his temples, while the Imam sank another shot with effortless grace.

“I thought you said you weren’t good,” Deek said, hands on his knees.

“I said neither of us was good. But you’re worse.”

They laughed. The sound echoed across the empty lot.

Still catching his breath, Deek nodded toward the hoop. “You ever think about putting in a proper court?”

The Imam shrugged. “There are a lot of things we’d like to do. But this isn’t Masjid Umar. This community isn’t wealthy.”

Deek wiped sweat from his forehead. “How much would it cost? Not just for a basketball court but everything on your wish list — masjid expansion, classrooms, basketball court, whatever you need.”

The Imam stopped bouncing the ball and tucked it into his side. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the traffic on the main road nearby.

“Brother Deek,” he said finally, “you’re not the community piggy bank. I don’t want you to start seeing me that way — or for me to see you that way. I value you as a friend, and as a member of the community. That’s all.”

The words struck Deek harder than the Imam’s best shot. He nodded slowly, touched in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Understood,” he said. For the first time in a long while, he felt something like belonging. It occurred to him that this feeling of brotherhood and companionship was a tiny glimpse of Jannah, where such feelings would be universal, and loneliness would be a thing of the past.

“You and your family,” the Imam added. “You’re all welcome here.”

At that, Deek’s momentary feeling of contentment collapsed in on itself. Did the Imam know of his family situation? Was he giving him a message?

Deek suddenly felt very tired. He shook the Imam’s hand and trudged to his car. Loneliness might not exist in Jannah. But Deek lived on earth.

***

Come back next week for Part 28 inshaAllah

 

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

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The post Moonshot [Part 27] – Everything You Love appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Gaza City is determined to rebuild, but promises of aid and equipment are already being broken, says Asem Alnabih.

The poll is seen as a litmus test for the Netherlands and its democratic ideals, as activists decry a hardening of political discourse driven by Geert Wilders

The drawing depicted two women; a young blonde with a friendly expression and a scowling older woman wearing a headscarf. On top of the image was a nod to this month’s general election in the Netherlands, along with the phrase “The choice is yours.”

The social media post, made by the far-right, anti-Muslim politician Geert Wilders, prompted a record 14,000 complaints to the country’s anti-discrimination hotline. “Many of those who called to report the image compared it to Nazi propaganda from the second world war,” the hotline said in a statement, adding that the 19 anti-discrimination agencies associated with the hotline had flagged the post to police, amid concerns that it could be an incitement to hatred.

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Trump ally Laura Loomer took credit for Sami Hamdi’s detainment in move denounced as ‘affront to free speech’

The British journalist Sami Hamdi was reportedly detained on Sunday morning by federal immigration authorities at San Francisco international airport, and the Council on American-Islamic Relations (Cair) says that action is apparent retaliation for the Muslim political commentator’s criticism of Israel while touring the US.

A statement from Cair said it was “a blatant affront to free speech” to detain Hamdi for criticizing Israel’s ongoing military campaign in Gaza while he engaged on a speaking tour in the US. A Trump administration official added in a separate statement that Hamdi was facing deportation.

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Maccabi Tel Aviv fans singing one of their favourite chants (source: 5Pillars).

The saga over the Aston Villa versus Maccabi Tel Aviv football (soccer) fixture next month revealed a lot about how far our political establishment will go to defend Israel and to spare the feelings of its supporters. There has been a campaign to get the match called off, on the grounds that Israel is a genocidal state which should be treated as a pariah, as is Russia currently, for the past few weeks but last week the local Safety Advisory Group (SAG) recommended that MTA’s fans should not be allowed to travel to the game on the grounds that there was a strong likelihood of violence if the fans’ past record is anything to go by: picking fights with local Muslim minorities and singing offensive and racist songs (albeit in Hebrew, but they are not the only ones who understand Hebrew). They have, in short, a major hooligan problem and there was no guarantee that they would not get into, or start, a fight with Birmingham’s large Muslim community. The advice attracted scorn from the entire political class; it was accused of at best caving into antisemitism and at worst actual antisemitism; my former MP Ed Davey, leader of the Liberal Democrats, opined that the way to oppose antisemitism was not by banning its victims. Meanwhile, the reaction from many of the Tories and parties further Right was to accuse the SAG of being afraid to offend Muslims, and accused local Muslims of being a threat to the visiting fans rather than the other way round.

Over the course of last weekend, events took several turns until the Israeli club announced that it would not sell tickets for the match to their own fans, which would mean there would be no MTA fans at the match. A man claiming to be the leader of Aston Villa’s own “Jewish supporters’ club” turned out not to be Jewish at all and the fan club turned out not to exist. Stephen Yaxley-Lennon then announced that he (and a bunch of his supporters) would turn out in support of the tourists; a derby match between MTA and another Tel Aviv side, Hapoel, had to be cancelled on advice from local police after riots inside and outside the stadium. The latter left a lot of politicians with egg on their faces; the former prompted the fake Jewish fan to change his position, calling for the match to be held behind closed doors with no fans, as had an earlier MTA fixture with a Turkish side (held behind closed doors in Hungary). Still, politicians continued to link the decision to bar the MTA fans to antisemitism, alleging that they never just banned away fans for this reason (not true), only when the away fans are Israeli, and brushed aside concerns about hooliganism, repeating claims that the violence in Amsterdam last year was a pogrom against them by local Muslims, ignoring reports from local police that the fans were violent and racist as well. Others were wringing their hands over our supposed admission that “Jews aren’t safe in Britain’s second city”, despite the fact that Jews live in Birmingham and travel there every day, and other teams with associations with the Jewish community (e.g. Tottenham Hotspur) have played there many times with no trouble, nor any reason perceived to ban them. The fact that they are Jewish, or that Israel is a Jewish state, has nothing to do with why locals do not want this group of fans in their city.

My solution would have been, instead of a game behind closed doors with no fans at all, to hold the match in a stadium away from Birmingham, fairly close to an airport if possible, where the fans could be bussed from the airport to the match, and then bussed back and flown out as soon as possible after it ends. This way, both sets of fans get to see their team play and antagonism to the local community is kept to a minimum. Two possibilities that spring to mind are the stadiums in Reading and Milton Keynes — both large, both within easy reach of Birmingham for Villa’s fans and within easy reach of Heathrow airport (and in MK’s case also Luton airport) for the Israeli fans, and crucially neither in residential areas where locals could be subjected to major inconvenience or antagonism.

However, I must stand in defence of the Muslim community who objected to holding the match in their area. Who can blame them for feeling uncomfortable with large numbers of Israeli football supporters with a record of violence coming into their area? The political space and media the last few months has been full of talk of the country being ‘invaded’ by asylum seekers described as “fighting-age males”, and any misdeed of one of them is held up as proof that they are all a menace; yet, we expect Birmingham’s Muslim community to tolerate this large group of actual fighters, people (men and women) who six months or a year or two ago were in an army whose main function was terrorising unarmed people, mostly Muslims, in their villages and orchards on the West Bank, protecting lawless,  racist settlers who destroy their homes, crops and livestock, enforcing an occupation that has persisted for more than 50 years, with its regime of arbitrary detention, oppressive checkpoints, and a pseudo-justice system consisting of military tribunals, and who the past two years have been waging a genocidal war against the civilians of Gaza? When people said they didn’t want “Israeli hooligans” around, they were accused of antisemitism for suggesting that Israeli hooligans were worse than other football hooligans, but the fact is that other football hooligans are not war criminals.

According to police intelligence as reported in the Guardian last Tuesday, the fears were precisely about extremists linked to the club and not about danger to the Israeli supporters from locals: that Dutch police had told British police that the MTA fans instigated violence in Amsterdam and that scores of extremist fans with a history of racism and violence were expected to travel. The fans would have had to travel through London as there are no direct flights from Israel to Birmingham, which would have raised the possibility of further violence while they travelled to and from the game, and that specialist riot police would have had to be drafted in from across the country (this could, again, have been solved with charter flights and direct buses to a nearby stadium). The assessments were not made with any consideration of whether they could be interpreted as antisemitic or as ‘pandering’ or a surrender to antisemitism; they did understand that if you had not seen the intelligence, you could conclude that it was because the fans were Jewish; in my opinion, only bigoted Zionists — the sort that would not accept that the deliberate slaughter of tens or hundreds of thousands of Palestinian civilians after referencing an actual incident of genocide in the Bible was genocide, or that travelling Israeli fans could not possibly have started previous violence, even if local police had said so — would have concluded this.

Our political and media class are so devoted to Israel right now that they are willing to ride roughshod over local people’s feelings to allow some of the worst of them to come to the UK and roam around for several days, something which would not be allowed for a team from anywhere in Europe with such a record (and was not allowed for our fans when British hooligans were a major problem in the late 1980s and their behaviour contributed to a fatal disaster). With all the talk about whether the MTA fans were safe, and whether the police could police the match and the journey to and from it effectively, nobody seemed to be asking whether it was justified to impose any level of inconvenience on local people just so that a group of fans with a history of racist violence, from a country still engaged in an orgy of war crimes, could go to a football match. This would have affected everyone, but it was Muslims and Arabs (or anyone perceived as such) who were at particular risk from their behaviour, and this did not matter to politicians and the media, but all the while we see hand-wringing about how “Jews are not safe” because Israeli thugs are told they are not welcome, and indeed any time a strident criticism of Israel is made in a public forum. Sod everyone else’s feelings, but watch you mind theirs.

Critics of the Democratic nominee for NYC mayor have called him everything from ‘jihadist candidate’ to ‘terrorist sympathizer’

On Thursday morning, hours after a combative final New York mayoral debate that failed to move the needle in his favor, Andrew Cuomo’s attacks on his progressive Democratic rival Zohran Mamdani resumed a familiar, racially charged theme.

“God forbid, another 9/11, can you imagine Mamdani in the seat?” the independent candidate and former governor told the conservative radio talkshow host Sid Rosenberg, referring to the 2001 terrorist attacks on New York City by Islamic extremists.

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New US rhetoric, but same Israel.

My uncles and cousin were killed by an Israeli drone strike while they prepared a meal on their rooftop in Gaza.

Israel has committed at least 80 violations of the ceasefire since it came into effect.