I first read Harry Potter in Leh, in the Himalayas. Impossible beauty. A sky so clear it felt like a conversation with God. Colors that don't exist on Earth. Eyes so dark and smiles so wide you could fall in love just from standing still. I was there for a month, trekking through Nubra Valley, from the sand dunes to the wild white rapids, to the warmth of nights under the stars in a place that felt like the beginning of creation. And at the end of every road: Tibetans. People expelled from their homeland by colonial China, carrying their culture in their bodies because there was nowhere else left to carry it. I wish the world cared about them the way it “cares” about Palestinians. In the middle of all that beauty and all that unspoken grief, another traveler handed me Harry Potter.

There is a lot to say about that handmade magic called Harry Potter. But I want to talk about one of them: Mudblood — the most vicious slur in the wizarding world, reserved for witches and wizards born to non-magical parents. No matter how powerful, how brilliant, how brave, their blood disqualifies them. Hermione Granger was a Mudblood. The most gifted witch of her generation, and to Voldemort's world, she would never belong.

If that sounds familiar, it should. It is Hitler’s racial purity doctrine in fictional form, the Aryan ideal, the untouchable hierarchy, and the logic that says your blood determines your worth. Rowling did not invent this archetype; she recognized it, named it, and put it on the page with the precision that only real artists can manage. Art is what survives the test of time and place. Hers does.

Many years later, I heard an interview with her. She said she created the Harry Potter world to give England something — culture, memory, history, roots. And she did so on a scale very few writers ever achieve. Her books are not fantasy dressed in English clothing. They are built from the actual bones of English and European history. Nicholas Flamel, the real 14th-century French alchemist who allegedly discovered the Philosopher’s Stone — appears in the first book. Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody carries the unmistakable shadow of Aleister Crowley, the real British occultist who called himself the Beast, founded secret societies, and was dubbed “the wickedest man in the world” by the British press.

This is a woman who loves her civilization, wants to preserve it, and understands, in her bones, what it means to lose a culture to something that hates it.

And then she looks up from her window and sees it. The Mudblood doctrine, the one she wrote, coming to life in the streets outside her home. The division of the world into the pure and the impure. The believers and the infadels. Be a part of Islam, or die, just like the force of evil, Voldemort suggests in her books - join me or die, and now it’s there all over Piccadilly Circus.

She sees Starmer at the podium. Corbyn with his wreath. Owen Jones with his Substack. Men who call themselves progressive while opening the doors to the oldest supremacist doctrine on earth. She sees the cathedrals standing quieter each year. The cobblestone streets of Camden Town — the color, the chaos, the music, the fish and chips — slowly and politely erased. She sees girls being raped and groomed in cities whose politicians, by choice, look the other way. She sees women with no faces. Not even eyes. Hidden behind a cage called the niqab — and she recognizes the Dementors, the soul hollowed, consumed. A human being reduced to a silhouette in service of a doctrine that owns them. She sees a civilization being swallowed from within. Quietly. Street by street. School by school. Her own culture disappears.

The totalitarian progressive left in England is trying so hard to cancel JK Rowling, because in progressive culture, you are either all-in or you are the enemy. Owen Jones, hard-left, hard-loud, and spectacularly wrong, published a piece on his Substack named: JK Rowling’s silence on Gaza’s murdered women

His piece pairs a photograph of a suffering Palestinian woman with a shot of J.K. Rowling with a drink by the sea. The visual argument is made before a single word is read: here is the woman who suffers, and here is the woman who does not care. It is a cynical construction, designed to render one woman’s pain invisible by placing it beside another woman’s comfort. That is not journalism; that is narcissistic emotional manipulation.

In this article, I want to show you that Owen Jones does not care about Palestinian women — or any women, for that matter. He does not even care about the LGBTQ community he claims to champion. His outrage is selective, chosen to serve his agenda and promote his narrative rather than the communities he claims to care about, and I will prove it to you. His sources are compromised, yet he presents their data to his captive audience as facts. I am going to show you, claim by claim, exactly where his numbers come from, who funded the institutions he cites, what those same institutions were doing to women when no one was watching — and why JK Rowling, of all the actual threats and real problems England is facing, is the one keeping him up at night.

Let’s start with his very first claim:

1.

“"JK Rowling, the self-professed champion of women's rights, has had more to say about me, more to say about my ADHD symptoms, more to say implying that I go on TV whilst high on drugs, than she has to say about the suffering of Palestinian women and girls."”