Rats

They called us rats.
Not poets, not doctors, not dreamers.
Not the children of Abraham wandering deserts of time.
But vermin. Crawlers.
Infesting their Reich-built fantasies.
Their Rainbow utopia.
We were plague in their eyes—
Yet it was their hatred that spread like disease.

We sang in Hebrew, in Ladino, in Yiddish lullabies,
But they only heard scratching in the walls.
Not Torah, not Talmud, not tales of survival—
Just the rustle of their fears dressed up as fact.

"That Jew," they'd sneer, like rot had a name.
A curse spat on cobblestones,
As if bloodlines were betrayal.
And if you dared to speak our names with love—
They’d hiss "friend of the Jews,"
As if kindness were contagion.

Do you see it?
How a violin becomes a pest,
A menorah becomes a threat,
A people becomes a parasite
When power needs a scapegoat,
And cruelty needs a name.

Still—
We burrowed through their ghettos,
Not to hide, but to survive.
We lived where they buried us,
Dug tunnels of memory beneath their monuments to erasure.
We carried books in our coats and songs in our mouths
While they built myths from our ashes.

Yes, they called us rats.
But they feared us because we endure.
Because we multiply in story, in legacy, in light.
Because for every lie told about us,
We answer with a thousand truths—
Lived, spoken, written, never erased.

We are not rats.
We are resistance.
We are the memory.
We are the breath in the silence after the sirens.
And we are still here, holding the line for civilization.

—

The Jihadists have been busy colonizing the gays, and the Black people and the women. We’re identifying it piece by piece in all the movements as the walls of our ghetto are growing closer with each passing claustrophobic summer. Here A’Ja Lyons, a Black Jew, reveals that she’s been blacklisted by social justice warriors for her work exposing the harm of transitioning young children.

It is a plague. The warriors of progress are taking us all off the book shelves so they can fill them instead with their own work; work that has no competition left.

I can attest to the above infographic from Creative Community For Peace. I am on the no-fly lists. Last week I wrote that I have nowhere else to go. I focus on my work here. If you haven’t read The Art Of The Con yet, go for it. It’s about the catatonic success that Jihad has had in a “social justice” world that elevates covert narcissists.

Those that preach “inclusivity” actually operate exclusivity, rooted in vengeance. Reparations for someone else’s suffering a long time ago in the backwaters of history, now reclaimed as their own egotistical suffering, They identify their perpetrators with precision to maximize the social benefit to themselves. If the Jew is your perpetrator, you’ve won the jackpot. Who doesn’t have a grievance with the Jew? Come. Let’s all join hands.

They seek to dominate others by controlling who is socially acceptable for their own power and control. Why else would they so often lie and deceive to callously exclude those they deem a threat without basis, clutching to one another like life rafts to keep their tall tales alive. Without this cult of deceit, what do they have? Any faith? Any hope? Any source of income? Any true friend or foe? It’s mind manipulation. It’s group coercive control. Here is who you can and cannot hang out with, according to their levels of comfort, based in some made-up story you cannot ask them to explain because it’s so triggering. To that I say: grow up, cowards. Whose victims are you exactly? The world is full of people who disagree. That’s part of the human experience. It’s a social experiment. Develop a thick skin. Locate some more robust defences for your ideas. Learn how to debate.

Cry bullies are terrified of strong Jews.

Reminder: a Jew can’t force or control you to do anything. We certainly haven’t been able to convince you to publicly make statements supporting us. We have not been able to encourage the feminists to recognize that our sisters were brutally raped on October 7. We have not been able to stop you from banning us from Pride events or from preventing us from being published authors, from trolling, harassing and physically attacking us for years. We are not capable. You’re not our victims.

In fact, this is today’s Telegraph front page. Quite the headline (not Kate).

Anti-semitism ‘rife among middle class’. “Racism against Jewish people in normalised across NHS, education and the arts, official report finds.”

Explains a lot of my internal dialogue. I keep asking myself why I’m so easy to walk away from or to disappear? And then I look at this headline and it’s not that hard to figure it out.

The villain. The scapegoat. The hunters gather in packs and decide that we’re the ones to be off’d, to be ousted, to be the prey of gangs. To be the carcasses they chew on. It simply gives them power. Because, in fact, in their antisemitic heads we are the powerful ones. We are the threat. We are the mirror. We are the thorn. We are the noise that lives in their brains rent free.

Really: we are the truth. That is all.

The worst of my trauma came from the intimacy of betrayal. It came from people I once knew taking the dedication, pure love and success I had in my work and turning it into something I should be ashamed of – turning into a crime I committed somehow against them – for their own need for power and control over a narrative; to usurp and insert themselves in a role. They’ll tell you that you’re crazy. You’re not. You became their target because you’re the truth they cannot face.

They will say you were too much — too open, too raw, too wild with belief.

Here’s what they’re not saying.

They won’t say how you listened when no one else stayed long enough to hear the silence behind their words.

They won’t say how your hands never closed, how you left space for their soul to bloom, even when it meant your heart had to break quietly in the corner of a room they left.

The real deal isn’t made of social media posts or presence or applause. It’s the ache that doesn’t demand. It’s the watchful patience of someone who saw everything clearly even when it was all a blur.

You were not the noise. You were the knowing. You were the thread they kept tugging even when they tried to say you were unraveling them. Maybe you were. Maybe that’s what love does — pulls apart what was never true so something honest can begin. So if they forget, if they rewrite the script, if you’re cast as a shadow in the part you helped build — remember this: The ones who stay to love without being seen, the ones who keep positive despite the damning efforts of their enemies, the ones who maintain that there is a peace beyond this chaos are the bravest of all.

One day, even the blindfolded heart remembers the light that never left.