It is May 2025, it is 4am, and I am sitting up in bed, sleepless, looking out at a huge moon illuminating the still world. Eighty-five years ago, in 1940, a silently weeping seven-year-old lay on a cracked leatherette sofa in urine-soaked pyjamas, looking through an alien window, praying that that same moon would protect my mum and dad from the killer bombs falling in London. That morning, my dad had tied a label to my gas mask strap with my name and address written on it, and waved me off from the platform barrier after making me recite, yet...
Monitoring Antisemitism Intel
