Adam_Denton // SW1n-HUNTER

@theserfstv Flooded the zone

Steve Bannon has pissed himself at the World Economic Forum

Taking the Infoshop archive for a walk today teaching 'Critical Urbanism' through playful story fashioning from historical materials! Students super embodied and imaginative. 👌🏽👌🏽🎇🔥

A few days ago, I began setting up a small medical clinic in the central refugee camps of Gaza. Today, though the shelves are still empty and the walls unfinished, we opened our doors, and the place became more than a clinic. It became a witness. This morning, a fourteen-year-old girl crossed the threshold of my clinic, her mother walking behind her like a shadow. Her dress was simple and dignified, a reminder that even here, among the dust and ruin, there are still mothers who insist their children remain human, remain whole. But as soon as the girl entered, the world broke. She muttered a curse, a word too sharp for her young mouth, and then at once, in the same breath, begged forgiveness: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She struck the table with her small hands as if to punish herself for existing, pressed her finger to her lips as if to seal her own voice, and then suddenly and violently slammed the table again, crying out the same curse as though it had forced its way out of her soul. I looked at her mother. Her face bore the weariness of exile, the quiet despair of someone who has walked too far and too long. They had fled their home two days ago, she told me, walking under the merciless sun. The girl’s nose was burned, its redness a small, almost trivial wound compared to the greater injury that had seized her spirit. When I asked more, the mother lowered her gaze and confessed what I already sensed: the child was not merely sunburned. She had been diagnosed with severe autism in childhood, once improving, once reaching toward the light, until the war dragged her back into a darkness deeper than any prison cell. She had not taken medication for nearly nine years. Now, in the tent that serves as her only refuge, she is unraveling, piece by fragile piece. I am a doctor, trained to see symptoms, to trace patterns, to write diagnoses in neat letters. But what diagnosis do I write here? Echolalia? Behavioral regression? Or something older and darker, the soul itself crying out under the weight of a world too brutal to be borne? Those who live with autism are not built for sudden uprooting. They need silence, order, the same doorframe to touch every morning, the same light falling through the same window. But now there is no window, no doorframe, no silence. There is only the screaming of the sky, the roar of artillery, the stench of strangers’ fear pressed close together in tents. And I am supposed to treat her nose. This child does not know what war is. She does not know why she suffers. She only knows that her world, the small, ordered, sacred world she needed to survive, has been destroyed. And she must now apologize to everyone, to me, to her mother, to God Himself, as if her existence were an offense that brought the bombs down. I, who have seen death by the thousands, find myself trembling before this girl. Not because of her outburst, for that is merely her humanity breaking through, but because I see in her the whole tragedy of this land. A land where children must beg forgiveness for the noise of their own voices, where innocence itself is crushed until it can only whisper: “I’m sorry.” What will become of her? What will become of all of them, the unseen ones, the ones whose suffering will never make the news? And who will atone, if not us? Who will carry this record to the tribunal of eternity? I left my pen hovering over the page, unable to write a diagnosis. Instead I wrote: The patient trembles in a tent. She whispers apologies to a world that should fall on its knees before her and weep. #GazaGenocide

@LovejoyActual Some did end up needing hospital treatment, so I hear

I must write this down before the night devours me. My father’s friend, a poet and a guardian of words, the son of a family that owns the oldest library in Gaza, that sacred house where history and imagination slept together like weary brothers… he is leaving. Yes. Leaving. He is fleeing Gaza City. He wrote yesterday, with the voice of a man who has reached the last edge of human despair: “I cannot take the books with me. If there is anyone who can save them, let him come. It would break my heart to see them burn, for I have placed my heart within them, and my heart will burn with them.” This is not metaphor. This is not the polished language of salons. He says plainly: my heart will burn. And I believe him. Dozens upon dozens of volumes, centuries of memory, law, history, economics, literature, the wisdom of the dead, now lie waiting to be carried away like children from a burning house. Not sold. Not bartered. Not traded. Offered. Offered as one offers a soul to anyone willing to save it from hell. This is Gaza. Where we are made to abandon, again and again, the last sacred pieces of our existence. Not ornaments. Not luxuries. But the very marrow of our being. Here survival is surgery without anaesthetic: we cut away memory to keep the breath. We cut away words to keep the body. We cut away the past to stumble, blind, into a future that does not want us. And so we go on, less and less human, until what is left is no man at all but a wound that breathes. Here in Gaza, books are exiled with their writers. Letters are orphaned like children crying in the streets. Libraries, temples of memory, are scattered like bones, like families fleeing in the night. And I ask: what remains? What is left of us? A people stripped bare, stripped of houses, of books, of the very act of remembering. A people ordered to forget. To forget! But no. No! Every page that burns becomes a prophet. Every letter that turns to ash becomes a witness against heaven and earth. If the houses fall, if the books burn, let it be known: this too is part of the crime. Not merely the killing of the body, but the attempted erasure of memory itself, the murder of the soul. And yet, even as the pages blacken, they do not die. They rise. Yes, they rise. As smoke into the night sky, into the face of God Himself, whispering: We were here. We wrote. We dreamed. We loved. And I swear to you, if the world has any conscience left, one day it will hear them. And it will tremble. And it will kneel. #GazaGenocide

The crucial Peckham fundraiser is live and it's building up! Massive love being shown 💚 Aylesham Community Action are pulling out all the stops against Berkeley Homes gentrification plans for Rye Lane⚡ Can you donate or repost the crowdfunding link: 👍🏾 bit.ly/ACAFundraise

@PhilipProudfoot Not many correct answers there but the most important one of course is: Hague

Spectacular

'Fragments On Revenge: On Caldew St vs Addington Square in Camberwell, South London' Class histories, property relations, smug possessiveness and the bilious feeling of gentrification. Some 'wry fucking shit' indeed! weirdeconomies.com/contributions/…

The next stage of the legal case to deproscribe Palestine Action, will be on July 21st at the Royal Courts of Justice. At the hearing, we will apply for permission to judicial review the Home Secretary's decision to ban the direct action group.

Very exciting! 56@ Infoshop Mini SMALL PRESS FAIR Sunday 20th July (Midday - 5pm) Readings from: LOTTE L.S. / DOT SPENCER / RON SEAL / A- DUDLEY - E

While @Pal_action is fighting for its life against proscription, @PSCupdates threatens its branches with consequences if they support them. I’ve obtained an internal PSC email which shows @BenJamalpsc has ordered his branches: “We will not allow any branch to jeopardise the organisation … Please DO NOT share your own statements or comment on this issue… Branches SHOULD NOT be signing public statements or open letters on this or any other issue… Putting out content framed such as ‘we are all Palestine Action’ which may be legal to say now but could be illegal by next week, puts your members and followers at risk”

rarely seen a Met police statement more clearly intended to pre-emptively justify the violence it plans to carry out against a planned demo. it is v simple. @Pal_action is the most effective group here trying to stop Israel & UK's genocide of Palestinians. We must defend them.

This is a well-researched thread on Tommy Robinson from @LouiseRawAuthor earlier this year, which debunks the 'Tommy stood up for trafficked girls' myth & identifies him & his team as abusers & misogynists as well as racists. Yet the lie is still repeated. Smells like gaslighting

But you employ someone directly responsible for undermining fire safety. This is utterly performative. theguardian.com/uk-news/2025/j…

"Khalil’s dean, Dr. Keren Yarhi-Milo, head of Columbia's School of International and Public Affairs, is a former Israeli military intelligence officer and official at Israel’s Mission to the UN...Before entering academia, she was an officer and intelligence analyst in the IDF."

People are always saying "we need to organise!" but what do they mean? Here's a good example, locals formed a coalition of groups & campaigns to resist social cleansing. The street stall spreads the word, engages people in conversations about their needs and builds for action:

Better humanitarian situation in Gaza as more goods and aid are getting in. Gaza's markets have reopened. People are clearing up the rubble from their destroyed houses and the streets. However, there's massive devastation, with more bodies being recovered from under the debris. The death toll is expected to rise sharply in the next days. Rebuilding Gaza needs strenuous efforts and a very considerable time. The carnage is unfathomable.

You can imagine them now, Israelis I mean, standing at the edge of Gaza’s trembling horizon, peering into a sea of life that refuses to drown, to Gaza that refuses to be swallowed by the sea. They see the faces of those who have returned—bodies caked with dust but washed clean in the waters of its shores. They see smiles that defy the weight of endless funerals, tears of joy that flow alongside rivers of blood. In the rubble of what was once a home, a garden, a memory, they see hands raised not in surrender, but in the sign of victory, as if to say: even here, even now, we remain. And perhaps, as they gaze upon Gaza—a city of infinite pain that still conjures laughter, a land where every loss plants a seed—they will begin to understand what no weapon can destroy. They may see, in the midst of their calculations and monstrosities, that their power, no matter how methodical, no matter how overwhelming, is finite. For there is a limit to what violence can achieve, a horizon it cannot cross. And beyond that horizon stands Gaza, heavily bruised but unbroken, a testament that the spirit of a people cannot be razed, no matter how many times you reduce their world to ash. But I suspect they will only be jealous, for jealousy corrodes and drives cruelty. They will watch, unable to fathom ties to a land that need no recognition from Trump, baffled by smiles that persist even after they unleashed all their fury, and in their confusion they will prepare to strike again.

THIS VIDEO IS HISTORY, FAITH AND RESILIENCE! #GAZA