On Israeli national TV: "I don't feel sorry for starving Gazans. Not for adults, not for the elderly, and not for children." "We are the real victims. You should feel sorry for us." "The Gazans? Let them starve to death. Why should I care about them?"

Israel bombs a hospital to kill journalists, then bombs the rescue team retrieving their bodies. How many war crimes is that?

Live on air… Israel bombs civil defense teams as they try to retrieve the body of journalist Hossam Al-Masri, killed in an Israeli strike on Nasser Hospital. Ongoing crimes before the eyes of the entire world.

For an Israeli, the idea that our country could be committing genocide is almost impossible to accept. This isn’t about good or bad people—it’s about how we see the world, the story we've been raised to believe, the story that shapes our identity. From childhood, we learn that Israel is a nation that wants peace. The IDF is taught to us as the most moral army in the world, a force of defense and protection. We serve alongside our friends and neighbors, and later, our sons and grandsons take our place. The IDF’s role, we are told, is to protect us from another Holocaust—that horror that shadows every Jewish story. This narrative is everywhere: in schools, in homes, in the media, in the army, at work. It’s not manipulation, at least not consciously. We genuinely believe it. For Israelis, genocide is something that happens to Jews, something the world wants to unleash on us, and the IDF is the shield standing between us and that fate. So, how could we possibly be the ones committing genocide? The idea doesn’t just challenge a policy or a military action; it challenges the very core of our identity. It clashes with the image of Jews as a force for good, a people who have been thrust into a dangerous neighborhood and forced to defend themselves from slaughter while yearning for peace. To wrestle with the possibility that the army you served in, the policies you supported, the collective you belong to might be intentionally slaughtering civilians—this is a crisis of identity. It’s the kind of moral reckoning humans instinctively avoid, because once you start asking these questions, you can’t go back. The sense of purpose and pride you had before is shattered. After admitting this possibility, you may become wiser and more honest, but you also become vulnerable, uncertain, and most terrifyingly, homeless. Homeless not in the physical sense, but in the sense that your old story—the one that gave your life meaning—lies in ruins. You no longer want to live on the graveyard of another people.

BREAKING: Police are assessing videos of comments made by acts Bob Vylan and Kneecap at Glastonbury. Sky's @emmabirchley has the full story. trib.al/R3Ify1s 📺 Sky 501, Virgin 602, Freeview 233

His best moment and Rogan's too.