When hate hits home
In the past couple weeks, there’s been a glut of footage across the cities of the West showing waves of “solidarity” with the enemies of Israel. We’ve seen crowds of people marching through streets and university campuses and even high schools, waving Palestinian flags, chanting violent propaganda slogans, all under the pretense of standing with the “oppressed.” Some of them are “homegrown” American academics or young people whose brains have been rotted by leftism. But by and large, they’re immigrants.
This has revived an ongoing debate over how the West should handle its Muslim immigrant population. For years, various conservative voices have taken flak for arguing that Islam, with all its persistent pathologies, should be “disinvited.” Many are now saying “I told you so.” In England, Douglas Murray has been proposing that anyone waving a Palestinian flag be arrested and deported—perhaps to Gaza, to try their luck there.
I share his anger, particularly when I watch clips of London women in hijabs viciously tearing down “missing person” posters for Israeli children. This appears to be a growing trend. (The pink-haired, nose-ringed brigade is hopping on the bandwagon here in the states too.) It’s the pure malice of the gesture that leaves me gaping. These children have done nothing except be kidnapped by terrorists while Jewish. And, well, that’s the point, isn’t it?
But mixed with my anger, I also feel a deep sadness. Because for a significant period of my life, a lot of my friendly peers were Muslim women.
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