Even when our homeland has been in an active state of war for more than a decade, we take for granted that we're safe in most of the Anglosphere, even if we're not always warmly embraced, if you know what I mean.

But the speed at which our notional allies in our wider Anglophone society - especially academia - have not just turned on us, but rejoiced in news of our slaughter, has kinda... rattled that sleepy contentment.

We are very few in number, so even as minorities go, teensy-weensy! And we know how well minorities have been treated, historically, in the countries to which we've been exiled. So the lull in the worry about being slaughtered wholesale, to say nothing of the lull in slaughtering, has certainly been welcome, but it's clearly the exception to the rule. And learning that many folks' commitment to both understanding and preventing genocide is no deeper than their commitment to their favorite dessert coffee has been... instructive.

That's why our national plant, in the modern era, has been not the date palm or fig tree, but a small cactus. The thing about a cactus, you see, is while it is small and eminently crushable, it has the ability to ensure you won't get away with it unscathed.

And, of course, if you can approach it peacefully, the fruit is delicious.