How My Sister Aligned with Pure Evil
I take refuge in God the High, the Mighty, from the accursed Satan!
For twenty-five years I have watched my sister drift into the orbit of institutions that trade in moral inversion and evil. These organizations wrap themselves in legality and respectability while defending cruelty, occupation, state violence and genocide. One such group based in the UK—an association of lawyers that styles itself as defenders of Israel’s reputation—has gained notoriety for using the courts and bureaucracy to silence dissent, threaten universities, and chill free expression. Its campaigns against artists and academics have been condemned across the political spectrum as examples of how “lawfare” can be turned into a weapon against conscience. This organization was also at the forefront of sabotaging Jeremy Corbyn and the Corbyn Left in British Labor during the last decade. Among other things, my sister in the UK has been affiliated with this organization.
To see a relation absorbed into that machinery feels like witnessing a slow corrosion of the soul—an erosion not sudden or spectacular, but incremental and insidious. The heart that once quickened at another’s suffering becomes cold, analytical, and transactional. Compassion gives way to calculation; indignation at injustice mutates into clever justifications for it. What once was a search for truth becomes a performance of respectability, and what once was justice itself is rebranded as advocacy for impunity. The organization’s public record tells the same story: polished legal arguments marshalled to defend state violence and the machinery of dispossession and genocide; press releases that blur atrocity into “security operations”; letters and petitions that seek to silence those who bear witness. Its campaigns against human-rights groups and humanitarian workers are not mere differences of opinion—they are deliberate efforts to invert moral order, to make the persecutor seem the persecuted. And so, evil dons a lawyer’s robe, speaks in the idiom of ethics, and calls its harm “defence.”
Over time, this alignment has not remained professional. Bureaucracies of religion and politics, eager for loyal functionaries, often find in such individuals a willing instrument. Whether under the banner of religious administration or state power, the result is the same: personal relationships are sacrificed to ideology, and persecution masquerades as piety. For a quarter century I have felt that weight—the sense that an unseen hand, dressed in legality and sanctity alike, has worked to erase my place in the family of both blood and spirit.
Yet I have fought back, and in writing this, I reclaim that place which was almost erased by years of silence and distortion. Evil depends upon secrecy and complicity; it feeds on the fear that its victims will remain mute or self-doubting. To speak, even in symbols, is to break that enchantment. Each word becomes an act of exorcism, a reclaiming of moral ground that manipulation once occupied. Naming the alignment is not vengeance—it is purification, a way of returning the soul to its own clear resonance. For conscience, once awakened, is a fire that cannot be extinguished by decree or stigma. No law can bind it, no creed can contain it, no kinship can corrupt it. The very act of articulation becomes defiance: a declaration that truth still breathes, even after decades of suppression, and that what was meant to destroy has instead refined the will to resist.
Truth is rarely polite when it finally speaks. It arrives like thunder in the sanctuaries of the self-satisfied. The power that has hidden behind institutions, titles, and creeds quivers before a single unflinching sentence. There is a moment when fear turns to clarity, when you realize that what you thought was exile was actually initiation: that to be cast out of evil and corruption is to step into freedom. In that realization, the long years of isolation reveal themselves not as punishment but as preparation.
Every age invents its priests of legality—the ones who justify what should never be justified, who translate injustice into the language of policy and precedent. But history remembers them not as defenders of order but as collaborators in cruelty. What redeems an age is never its institutions; it is the lonely voice that says “no” when everyone else is nodding. To stand apart from the chorus of approval is to feel, for a time, unbearable solitude—but that solitude is the birthplace of integrity. And so the struggle becomes inward. Evil is not defeated in tribunals or through slogans; it is undone each time an individual refuses to let their soul be drafted into its service. I have learned that resistance begins with refusing to mirror the malice directed at you. To endure without surrendering compassion—that is the quiet victory that tyrannies of every scale fear most.
I write, therefore, not merely to accuse but to affirm: that decency, conscience, and truth remain possible even in a world bent toward their negation. The machinery of deceit may persist, but its fuel is human obedience, and obedience can end in a heartbeat—the moment one heart remembers what freedom feels like. In the end, all struggle with evil is a struggle over attention: what we choose to see, what we choose to call by its name. When one has been hunted by falsehood for so long, there is a temptation to become its mirror—to answer venom with venom, cunning with cunning. But every time I pause, breathe, and refuse that reflex, I feel something ancient stir within me: the quiet certainty that truth needs no weapon other than its own light. The cosmos itself bends toward the unveiled. Every lie, no matter how gilded or institutional, carries within it the seed of its own destruction.
And so, I write not from bitterness but from a fierce clarity. The same power that exposed the hypocrisy of empires moves through the smallest conscience that dares to remain uncorrupted. I have learned that survival is not merely endurance; it is the art of turning injury into illumination. To live truthfully after long persecution is to become a living argument against despair. Let those who mistake complicity for wisdom continue their pageantry of virtue. I choose the harder road—the one that leads back to conscience, to the sacred solitude where integrity is its own reward. The machinery of deceit will grind on for a time, but the soul that refuses to be part of it already stands outside its reach. And that, at last, is freedom: to have no master but Truth itself, and no allegiance but to the Light that still burns within.
Nika sold out; I did not. She aligned with the devil; I aligned with God. Final message to my Zionist sister:
