You sure give credence to his claim by the way you reacted here and by the way a lot of Israelis, including some in positions of power, reacted.

e/ typo

This post was edited by Chainsaw47 on Mar 20 2025 12:56pm

When the blood is hot people say a lot of stupid things.
This was wrong, but I really dont care what happened to nuhba rapists.

Read what you wrote above.

<<-- They are prisoners, and you are implying here that what was done to them, while held prisoner, is a consequence. implying that you do not condemn the action.
followed by



I am just grouping this together in order to properly acknowledge what i just read.


This post was edited by ferdia on Mar 21 2025 07:33am

I thought a bit of creative writing would...lighten...the mood.

The last thing Amara’s mother said was, “Don’t cry. Tears salt the soil for sorrows to grow.”

Then the soldiers came. Amara hid in the hollow of the Great Tree, its bark carved with Kaeli prayers, as smoke choked the air. Through a crack, she watched her brother’s small body crumple, his fingers still clutching the wooden flute he’d whittled that morning. A soldier paused at her hiding place—his eyes lingered on the pendant around her neck, twin serpents swallowing their tails—and walked on. “Run,” he muttered. “And don’t look back.” She ran until her feet bled, until the ashes of her village stained the sea. The new land was called Varys, “sanctuary” in the old tongue—but the Tovan called it Innis, “the mother’s bones.” Amara built her house atop the ruins of a Tovan fishing village, its charred posts still jutting from the soil like broken teeth. The Kaeli elders declared, “By right of conquest, this land is ours. Their weakness forfeits their claim.”

Liora, her daughter, found a Tovan doll in the mud—a woven figure with seashell eyes. “Who made this?” she asked. Amara tossed it into the hearth. “No one who matters.” The Tovan attacked at dawn. They took Jarek first, leaving his body strung between two pines, his hands still gripping the Kaeli flag he’d planted in their sacred grove. “They want their land back,” a neighbor spat. “Conquest doesn’t work both ways.” Amara joined the militia. The captain handed her a rifle. “They had their chance to fight. Conquest is the only law here.” In the woods, she cornered a Tovan woman clutching her child. She shouted a word she’d heard before—Innis—and ran. Amara fired twice. “This is ours now,” she told the corpses, kicking dirt over their faces.

They called her Varek’sira: “She Who Walks in Flame.” “Conquest requires conviction,” Amara told her troops before burning the last Tovan stronghold. She banned their language, erased their maps, and when dissenters pleaded, “This wasn’t a conquest, it’s a slaughter,” she snapped, “Conquest is slaughter. Or have you forgotten our history?”. One night, Liora brought her a Tovan child’s journal, salvaged from the ashes. Inside was a drawing of the Great Tree, its branches labeled Innis. “They had stories too,” Liora said. Amara burned the journal. “Stories don’t win wars.” The war ended. The Tovan were gone—or so the histories would say. But the rivers ran thick with rot, and Kaeli children sang slurs Amara didn’t teach them. Liora, now gaunt and gray, joined the protesters. “Conquest isn’t a right. It’s a crime.”

Amara sat on her porch, fingering her pendant. A figure emerged from the mist—a Tovan girl, no older than nine, her face smudged with ash. She raised empty hands and spoke in broken Kaeli: “Please. They’ll kill me.”. Amara’s rifle leaned against the door. The girl’s eyes were her brother’s. Her mother’s. Her own. “Run,” Amara whispered. “And don’t look back.”

This post was edited by ferdia on Mar 21 2025 10:37am

I clearly stated I was refering to the last part of your post.
And no one forced himself on a nuhba fighter.

If you have any complaints send it to Hamas that no one knows what is going on with out hostages.

its hard to watch this and then look at how Palestinian prisoners are brutalized, with certain unhinged people saying that its OK to brutalize palestinian prisoners.

This post was edited by ferdia on Mar 21 2025 12:28pm

I have zero empathy to those who entered and butchered raped and mutilated people in cold blood
I am not saying it okay, I simply dont care

all these quotes to me. dear oh dear, its only polite to reply i guess.

The city of Eldermere was a place of clean streets and cleaner consciences. Its people slept soundly, comforted by the knowledge that the “Unruly” were locked away in the Black Citadel—a prison reserved not for thieves or murderers, but for them: the olive-skinned men and women from the Eastern Territories who’d crossed the mountains seeking work. They spoke in a lilting foreign tongue, wore headscarves dyed with desert flowers, and prayed to gods with too many names. Dangerous, the guards insisted. Savages. Invaders. The Citadel’s guards were celebrated as patriots, their brutality excused as necessity. “They’re not like us,” the baker would say, handing a guard free bread. “You can’t reason with animals.” For years, no one questioned it. Not when entire families vanished into the Citadel for “unlicensed gatherings.” Not when a farmer was jailed for singing an Eastern lullaby to his child. The prisoners’ screams that sometimes seeped through the prison walls? Deserved. Their broken bodies dragged into alleys after “interrogations”? A warning. The people of Eldermere turned away, their silence a pact.

Then, disaster struck. A guard captain, his conscience frayed, leaked ledgers to the Council. The pages detailed horrors—electric prods used on kneeling women, children forced to watch their parents beaten, a priest’s throat slit for chanting prayers in his own language. “They’re targeting us for existing,” read a prisoner’s scrawled note, smuggled out in a guard’s pocket. The Council, trembling under the weight of proof, arrested five guards. Eldermere exploded. “Loyalty to Eldermere!” chanted mobs, their fists painted in the national colors of crimson and gold. Dockworkers and midwives alike denounced the Council as traitors. A grocer smashed his own shop window to display a sign: OUR GUARDS PROTECT OUR WAY OF LIFE. “They’re protecting us from infestation!” he screamed, pointing at the Eastern slums beyond the city walls, where families huddled in crumbling tenements.

The Council backtracked within days. The guards were released with medals pinned to their chests, the ledgers dismissed as “fake news.” No one listened to the Eastern doctor who testified about treating Citadel survivors—boys with kidneys ruptured by kicks, girls bearing burns shaped like Eldermere’s crest. No one cared that the jailed priest’s daughter now begged in rags, her father’s prayer beads clutched in her skeletal fist. “Sympathy for them is treason,” hissed the mayor, as new laws banned Eastern festivals and erased their language from public signs. The guards tripled their arrests, hauling in shopkeepers for “suspicious bartering” and mothers for “harboring unpatriotic thoughts.” Eldermere’s children learned the truth early: Some people aren’t people. They’re stains to scrub away. They’re the reason your father drinks, your sister can’t find work, your country feels unclean.

And the Citadel’s ovens, burning night and day, made sure everyone could smell the proof.

finally If roles were reversed, would you accept the same logic being used against your people?

also i asked ChatGPT to write me a story to try to get through to you, but ChatGPT kinda went too dark. thankfully i have empathy for everyone so i wont post it. not sure how ChatGPT didnt block that story but anyways...

This post was edited by ferdia on Mar 21 2025 01:02pm