“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

The Tempest (Act 1, Scene 2). May we never forgot the Bibas babies and the jackals that stalked them even past their death.

There are moments in history—rare, scalding—when the veil is pulled back and the abyss grins. When the old evasions shrivel, when politics and policy become impotent gestures. The murder of the Bibas babies is such a moment. Here, evil does not wear a mask or whisper behind closed doors. It screams. It parades. It dances in the street.

To say “there is no excuse” is to insult language. That’s a reprimand for a forgotten chore, not the ritualised murder of infants. We are not dealing with tragedy. We are dealing with the deliberate throttling of innocence, the desecration of childhood with a boot and a scream.

“There are no words”? No. There must be words, or there is nothing. But let us not abuse them. This is not “inhuman.” That flatters the beast. Animals kill to eat. This was joy, a ritual of communion through slaughter. It demands not dialogue, but a reckoning.

Violence—terrible, cleansing, and surgical—is the only moral response. Not blind vengeance, but a fist—veins taut, bones jag…