Scene: The WorkshopMagdalen College JCR, late evening. Fairy lights flicker over armchairs and tea stains. Four students in ill-fitting keffiyehs huddle around a low table littered with gin glasses and scribbled notepads. SAMUEL WILLIAMS, floppy-haired and commanding, leads the circle. OLIVIA lounges elegantly, THEO sprawls like a lacrosse jock, ELIZA fidgets with her pen.SAMUEL: (adjusting his keffiyeh) Right, comrades. Rally tomorrow. We need a chant that rhymes with
"proud" but stings like settler-colonial guilt. Punchy. Political. Not another bloody "river to the sea"
—that's so last term.OLIVIA: (sipping gin, iPad glowing) Edge, Sam. Something that calls out the oppressors without
triggering the dean's wine hour. "Zionists" is too wordy. "Zios"? Short, snappy. Like a slur with a syllabus.THEO: (scrolling TikTok, spilling IPA) Zios works, dudes. "Jews" is too grandma's attic—ADL nightmare.
"Israelis"? Nah, sounds like a travel agency. Zios it is. Now the kill shot: "Kill the Zios"? Straight fire.ELIZA: (shivering theatrically) Kill? Too American Psycho. We're poets of resistance, not slashers.
"Burn the Zios"? Evocative, but climate vibes are off—think wildfires in the West Bank.SAMUEL: (nodding, scribbling) Implication over incrimination, Eliza. Met's watching.
"Genocide the Zios"? Fanon would approve—violence as history's midwife.OLIVIA: (rolling eyes) Heavy, Sam. Alienates the normies. Remember "Exterminate the Settlers"?
Vice-chancellor called it a "lapse." I Ubered home from cocktails in tears.THEO: (snorting) Tears? Bro, go big or go home to Daddy's estate. "Bury the Zios"? Nah. Wait—
"put the Zios in the ground." Earthy. Final. And it half-rhymes with proud if you slur like we're pissed
at evensong.ELIZA: (clapping, giggling) Yes! Gaza Gaza, make us proud, put the Zios in the ground.
Nursery rhyme for the apocalypse. Try it—rhythm's got that gritty incompleteness. Real resistance aesthetic.SAMUEL: (standing, keffiyeh fluttering) Brilliant. All in? Gaza! Gaza!ALL: (chanting, voices rising) Make us proud! Put the Zios in the ground! (Repeat twice, echoing off portraits.)THEO: (frowning mid-chant) Half-rhyme though. Ground-proud? Like a haiku on bath salts.OLIVIA: (snapping selfie) Perfection's propaganda poison, Theo. It's raw—like Rafah rubble.
Post-rally, we're viral. Noble work.SAMUEL: (smirking at window reflection) Steadfast. To the spires—and the streets.Lights dim as they disperse into fog. Chant fades like a flawed echo.