The 1999 movie The Matrix is based on the premise that everyday life is a dream and that the real world–one where comatose humans serve as energy sources for alien robots–is a closely guarded secret. Keanu Reeves’s character discovered the truth and was offered a choice: take a pill and forget everything, or see "just how far the rabbit hole goes."
This week I am offering readers a similar choice: skip over today’s column or venture with me down that rabbit hole. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
In light of current headlines, examination of 45 year-old Operation Northwoods is more pertinent now than ever. De-classified documents available at George Washington University Library reveal the CIA’s plot to justify Fidel Castro’s overthrow–regime change–and conduct military operations against Cuba.
One of the document’s headings "Incidents to establish a credible attack," describes how Cubans friendly to the United States would be planted inside the base at Guantanamo Bay posing as hostile saboteurs. Shelling the base, causing "some damage to installations" was also suggested. Undoubtedly the most telling scenario was: "Sink ship near harbor entrance. Conduct funerals for mock-victims."
Even more sinister, however, were the CIA’s plans to wage a terror campaign against Cuban refugees in the United States, pinning the blame on Castro and his sympathizers to further justify an invasion of Cuba.
"We could sink a boatload of Cubans en route to Florida (real or simulated)" the document reads. "We could foster attempts on lives of Cuban refugees in the United States even to the extent of wounding to be widely publicized." Exploding plastic bombs in "carefully chosen places" was another course of action.
Operation Northwoods included further provocative tactics, including the use of MiGs by U.S. pilots to drop "Cuban" leaflets bolstering the Communist underground in the Dominican Republic and other neighboring countries. Invasions of airspace by these fake MiGs would rally other Caribbean nations to support the U.S. against "Cuban" aggression.
Several pages were devoted to a plan "...to create an incident which will demonstrate convincingly that a Cuban aircraft has attacked and shot down a civil airliner en route from the United States to Jamaica, Guatemala, Panama or Venezuela." Hijacking was also suggested.
Any of this sound familiar?
Most of us have heard the conspiracy theories surrounding the 9/11 attacks: a missile hit the Pentagon and timed explosives brought down the Twin Towers. These "theories" – which in all likelihood originated in some government agency–were planted in order to distract the "fringe Left" and others from finding the truth.
After all, what better way to conceal the truth than to circulate not one, but two diametrically opposed and equally far-fetched scenarios to explain how over 3,000 Americans were murdered on September 11, 2001. The idea that Flight 93 was repainted and still in service somewhere is just as nutty as finding Mohammad Atta’s miracle passport lying on top of World Trade Center rubble. And both stories conveniently ignore Israel’s connection to the attacks.
Between August 26 and September 11, 2001, a group of speculators, identified by the American Securities and Exchange Commission as Israeli citizens, sold "short" a list of 38 stocks–including those of insurance companies and airlines–expected to fall in value as a result of the pending attacks.
On Sept. 6, 2,075 put options–a bet on a drop in the worth of stocks–were made on United Airlines. On Sept. 10, 2,282 put options were recorded for American Airlines, which could have yielded the speculators as much as $2 million to $4 million.
Recently, new security system developed by an Israeli company was tested at Knoxville’s airport, designed to measure travelers’ biometric responses–blood pressure, pulse and sweat levels. Each machine will run the U.S. a cool $200,000.
They’re still profiting from 9/11.
By November 2001, 60 Israelis who had been working at mall kiosks or posing as art students throughout the U.S. were detained for visa violations. This number is in addition to the 140 Israelis who were detained prior to 9/11 as part of a suspected espionage ring. Nearly all had served in the Israeli army with specialties in either explosives or intelligence, although Carl Cameron of Fox News quoted a senior investigator into the attacks as stating "Evidence linking these Israelis to 9/11 is classified."
These cases were separate from the arrests of five Israelis who were caught filming the World Trade Center attack as it happened while laughing, giving each other high-fives and dancing–a story verified by the Washington Post, The Palm Beach Post and by ABC News. Now safely back in Israel, four of the five have filed a multi-million dollar lawsuit against the United States for false arrest.
On October 12, 2001, Mexican authorities arrested two Israelis carrying weapons and explosives inside San Lazaro, Mexico’s congress. If the Israelis had succeeded in carrying out an attack, it would have presumably been blamed on Muslim terrorists in order to gain Mexico’s cooperation in the "war on terror."
Former Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu characterized the 9/11 attacks as "very good." Moments later he added, "Well, it's not good, but it will generate immediate sympathy."
Sympathy and justification for unprecedented U.S. aggression against countries that don’t recognize Israel.
So when another "Fort Dix Six" are nabbed for an alleged terror plot, or the next time a "pro-Western" official is assassinated in Lebanon, a church is bombed in Gaza or Iraq, or a "shoe bomber" is arrested on an airplane, remember the deception of our own government and whose interests it serves to keep fomenting the bogus "War on Terror." Ask yourselves if radical Islam is the real enemy. It is imperative that all of us ask these questions, no matter how far down that rabbit hole it takes us.
June 14, 2007
Liberty
June 8 marked the 40th anniversary of the heaviest attack on an American ship inflicting the highest number of casualties since World War II. The USS Liberty was an intelligence vessel, patrolling international waters in the Eastern Mediterranean Sea.
The day was clear and sunny; the ship flying the American flag, as was standard. Suddenly and simultaneously, out of that clear azure sky and sea came a two-pronged attack by Israeli air and naval forces. Napalm, gunfire and missiles rained hell on Liberty’s crew for two hours while Israeli torpedo boats closed in.
In that two hours, 34 American sailors died. Another 172 were injured
The Liberty crew managed to send an SOS, heard by nearby U.S. Sixth Fleet aircraft carriers. Fighter planes launched immediately, however turned back on orders from President Johnson. Naval personnel listening to radio relays heard Johnson say “I don’t care if the ship sinks, I’m not going to embarrass an ally.”
Israel claimed it was a case of “mistaken identity.” You know, friendly fire. Israel’s ludicrous explanation was that pilots thought the USS Liberty was El Quseir, an Egyptian vessel having 1/4 of Liberty’s displacement and half the beam. El Quseir was 180 feet shorter and very differently configured. The Liberty had her name clearly written in English, while the Egyptian ship would have displayed Arabic script.
There are several motives for Israel’s deliberate attack: to prevent the USS Liberty from transmitting intelligence pertaining to massacres by Israeli troops which were taking place in the Golan Heights and that the 1967 War did indeed result from a pre-emptive strike by Israel.
The attack could have been used to draw the U.S. into the 1967 War as well. Most of the Liberty’s survivors believe that Israel’s goal was to sink the ship and kill everyone aboard. Had there been no survivors, the attack could have been pinned on an Arab country.
Ward Boston, Jr. was the chief legal counsel to the Navy Court of Inquiry investigating the USS Liberty attack. He is also a U.S. Navy veteran, having served on the USS Yorktown.
In an editorial published by The San Diego Union Tribune, Boston stated then President Johnson and Secretary of Defense McNamara ordered the Navy Court of Inquiry to conclude the attack was accidental.
The late Admiral Isaac C. Kidd, the Court of Inquiry’s president, was given only one week to gather evidence for the investigation, although a proper inquiry would have taken six months, according to Boston.
“We boarded the crippled ship at sea and interviewed survivors. The evidence was clear. We both believed with certainty that this attack was a deliberate effort to sink an American ship and murder its entire crew,” Boston wrote. “I saw the bullet-riddled American flag that had been raised by the crew after their first flag had been shot down completely.”
For the official record, Admiral Kidd was ordered to rewrite part of the Court’s findings, including striking Lt. Lloyd Painter’s testimony in which he stated three life rafts filled with seriously wounded sailors were gunned down at close range by Israeli torpedo boats.
Crew members’ tombstones are engraved “...died in the Eastern Mediterranean,” rather than “killed in action.”
The USS Liberty’s Commander, William L. McGonagle was awarded the Medal of Honor in a quiet ceremony at the Washington Navy Yard, not in the customary White House setting. To this day, survivors have never been allowed to testify publicly. Nor have intelligence officers who received real-time Hebrew translations of Israeli commanders ordering pilots to sink “the American ship.”
Even now, the mere mention of the USS Liberty creates a furor. The town of Grafton, Wisconsin decided to name their new $1 million library–to be built with private donations and an $83,000 federal contribution–the USS Liberty Memorial Library.
Days later, Jewish community leaders cried anti-Semitism. An angry letter from one rabbi stated the name was “insulting to Jews.” Not surprisingly, the $83,000 federal money was put on hold. Even the priest at Grafton’s Catholic Church came out in opposition to the name, stating “The USS Liberty has become a symbol of hate.”
Ironically, the University of Wisconsin’s library was officially renamed the Golda Meir Library in 1979.
Survivors of the USS Liberty attack, their families and the families of those killed gathered in Washington, D.C. last week to demand a fair congressional inquiry, a plea which presumably fell on deaf ears.
While those family members seek justice, a small city in Wisconsin seeks to commemorate Liberty’s name and conscientious members of the American public seek the truth, their killers are still being called “God’s Chosen People.”
While I take time to honor those sailors who lost their lives over 40 years ago, some wannabe nationalist in New Madison claims I have “cheapened the sacrifice” of U.S. troops. While I speak out against an Israeli-driven U.S. policy and our appeasement of the Jewish State which has cost thousands of U.S. lives, I am being compared to Adolf Hitler and Osama Bin Laden. (Contrary to what some believe, I actually don’t mind the comparison. It merely reflects the intellect of the one doing the comparing.)
While I continue to speak out against the second-most powerful lobby in America–one that promotes the interests of a foreign government at the expense of U.S. resources, both material and human–the “real” patriots are pledging allegiance to Zionism. Indeed, Mr. Brown, you’re a regular Audie Murphy–although I doubt you know who he was.
Patriotism, for those who may be confusing the term with blind nationalism, means honoring your war dead and seeking justice for their families even if it means “embarrassing an ally.” It also means pursuing policies beneficial to one’s country, free from the yoke of foreign domination.
The day was clear and sunny; the ship flying the American flag, as was standard. Suddenly and simultaneously, out of that clear azure sky and sea came a two-pronged attack by Israeli air and naval forces. Napalm, gunfire and missiles rained hell on Liberty’s crew for two hours while Israeli torpedo boats closed in.
In that two hours, 34 American sailors died. Another 172 were injured
The Liberty crew managed to send an SOS, heard by nearby U.S. Sixth Fleet aircraft carriers. Fighter planes launched immediately, however turned back on orders from President Johnson. Naval personnel listening to radio relays heard Johnson say “I don’t care if the ship sinks, I’m not going to embarrass an ally.”
Israel claimed it was a case of “mistaken identity.” You know, friendly fire. Israel’s ludicrous explanation was that pilots thought the USS Liberty was El Quseir, an Egyptian vessel having 1/4 of Liberty’s displacement and half the beam. El Quseir was 180 feet shorter and very differently configured. The Liberty had her name clearly written in English, while the Egyptian ship would have displayed Arabic script.
There are several motives for Israel’s deliberate attack: to prevent the USS Liberty from transmitting intelligence pertaining to massacres by Israeli troops which were taking place in the Golan Heights and that the 1967 War did indeed result from a pre-emptive strike by Israel.
The attack could have been used to draw the U.S. into the 1967 War as well. Most of the Liberty’s survivors believe that Israel’s goal was to sink the ship and kill everyone aboard. Had there been no survivors, the attack could have been pinned on an Arab country.
Ward Boston, Jr. was the chief legal counsel to the Navy Court of Inquiry investigating the USS Liberty attack. He is also a U.S. Navy veteran, having served on the USS Yorktown.
In an editorial published by The San Diego Union Tribune, Boston stated then President Johnson and Secretary of Defense McNamara ordered the Navy Court of Inquiry to conclude the attack was accidental.
The late Admiral Isaac C. Kidd, the Court of Inquiry’s president, was given only one week to gather evidence for the investigation, although a proper inquiry would have taken six months, according to Boston.
“We boarded the crippled ship at sea and interviewed survivors. The evidence was clear. We both believed with certainty that this attack was a deliberate effort to sink an American ship and murder its entire crew,” Boston wrote. “I saw the bullet-riddled American flag that had been raised by the crew after their first flag had been shot down completely.”
For the official record, Admiral Kidd was ordered to rewrite part of the Court’s findings, including striking Lt. Lloyd Painter’s testimony in which he stated three life rafts filled with seriously wounded sailors were gunned down at close range by Israeli torpedo boats.
Crew members’ tombstones are engraved “...died in the Eastern Mediterranean,” rather than “killed in action.”
The USS Liberty’s Commander, William L. McGonagle was awarded the Medal of Honor in a quiet ceremony at the Washington Navy Yard, not in the customary White House setting. To this day, survivors have never been allowed to testify publicly. Nor have intelligence officers who received real-time Hebrew translations of Israeli commanders ordering pilots to sink “the American ship.”
Even now, the mere mention of the USS Liberty creates a furor. The town of Grafton, Wisconsin decided to name their new $1 million library–to be built with private donations and an $83,000 federal contribution–the USS Liberty Memorial Library.
Days later, Jewish community leaders cried anti-Semitism. An angry letter from one rabbi stated the name was “insulting to Jews.” Not surprisingly, the $83,000 federal money was put on hold. Even the priest at Grafton’s Catholic Church came out in opposition to the name, stating “The USS Liberty has become a symbol of hate.”
Ironically, the University of Wisconsin’s library was officially renamed the Golda Meir Library in 1979.
Survivors of the USS Liberty attack, their families and the families of those killed gathered in Washington, D.C. last week to demand a fair congressional inquiry, a plea which presumably fell on deaf ears.
While those family members seek justice, a small city in Wisconsin seeks to commemorate Liberty’s name and conscientious members of the American public seek the truth, their killers are still being called “God’s Chosen People.”
While I take time to honor those sailors who lost their lives over 40 years ago, some wannabe nationalist in New Madison claims I have “cheapened the sacrifice” of U.S. troops. While I speak out against an Israeli-driven U.S. policy and our appeasement of the Jewish State which has cost thousands of U.S. lives, I am being compared to Adolf Hitler and Osama Bin Laden. (Contrary to what some believe, I actually don’t mind the comparison. It merely reflects the intellect of the one doing the comparing.)
While I continue to speak out against the second-most powerful lobby in America–one that promotes the interests of a foreign government at the expense of U.S. resources, both material and human–the “real” patriots are pledging allegiance to Zionism. Indeed, Mr. Brown, you’re a regular Audie Murphy–although I doubt you know who he was.
Patriotism, for those who may be confusing the term with blind nationalism, means honoring your war dead and seeking justice for their families even if it means “embarrassing an ally.” It also means pursuing policies beneficial to one’s country, free from the yoke of foreign domination.
June 7, 2007
For Taha
Recent events have forced one particular travel memory to the forefront of my thoughts. I see his doomed eyes glaring at me, haunting me.
He was someone that no one should have to see, yet everyone should have to see him. Everyone who said to heck with a cease fire in the Middle East; Israel has to defend itself. Everyone who blindly supports our war on Iraq. Everyone who thinks they know the meaning of sacrifice.
Everyone who isn’t aware there are some things worse than death.
It was my second trip to the Middle East in less than five months. I went to Jordan Hospital to visit wounded Palestinians; victims in the latest round of Israeli attacks. The lucky ones had made it to Amman for more advanced treatment. The young men in the first floor room were recovering.
All were cheered by a visit from a foreigner and a few were even able to talk and joke a little. One of them, upon learning I was American, feigned shock and attempted to hide an 8X10 of Saddam Hussein on the wall. It was one of several photos of the since ousted Iraqi President. I discovered why he was so popular among the injured: he was paying for their medical treatment. I attempted to visit the Palestinian ward again after the fall of Baghdad in 2003, but everyone was gone. They had been sent packing, no matter what their condition. Just one of the little-known consequences of regime change.
After chatting with the patients several more minutes, they suggested I go see Taha Abu Snineneh. I felt a wave of dread and my hands were suddenly cold. I had heard about Taha, the mortally wounded man that was alive only because of the myriad machines he was hooked to. I stalled for awhile, then acquiesced. It was the least I could do for him, pay him a visit.
I am not a poet, but composed the following almost immediately after leaving Taha’s room. It was the only way I could process the trauma.
Breathe In
Barely hearing my own footsteps in the silent hall
Breathe Out
Barely smelling ruined flesh in the sterile pall
Breathe In
Barely seeing doctors pass in their endless rush
Breathe Out
Barely feeling my own body in this deathly hush
Breathe In
Just a few more steps my God, it seems so long
Breathe Out
Just a few more minutes pray God will keep me strong
Breathe In
You musn't see the tears of pity or anger in my eyes
Breathe Out
Though only the machines now express your silent cries
Breathe In
Your broken, crumpled body lies still as I draw near
Breathe Out
Just your eyes move slowly to see who has come here
Breathe In
Struggling to form a word the only sound is silence
Breathe Out
You bravely fought for life and land but only met with violence
Breathe In
And only man's machines and tubes now fill your lungs with air
Breathe Out
Powerless to offer comfort all I do is stare
Breathe In
I do not speak your language and I put you in this cell
Breathe Out
Bought the missles and the fire that made this living hell
Breathe In
I wonder if you hate me seeing torment in your eyes
Breathe Out
I wonder if you know I too am paralyzed
Breathe In
You know I am American but I am not to blame
Breathe Out
I tell you with my quiet eyes that we are just the same
Breathe In
And so I bend and gently kiss your pale and lifeless hand
Breathe Out
Then turn and curse the cowards who stole much more than your land.
Taha Abu Snineneh died three days later.
He was someone that no one should have to see, yet everyone should have to see him. Everyone who said to heck with a cease fire in the Middle East; Israel has to defend itself. Everyone who blindly supports our war on Iraq. Everyone who thinks they know the meaning of sacrifice.
Everyone who isn’t aware there are some things worse than death.
It was my second trip to the Middle East in less than five months. I went to Jordan Hospital to visit wounded Palestinians; victims in the latest round of Israeli attacks. The lucky ones had made it to Amman for more advanced treatment. The young men in the first floor room were recovering.
All were cheered by a visit from a foreigner and a few were even able to talk and joke a little. One of them, upon learning I was American, feigned shock and attempted to hide an 8X10 of Saddam Hussein on the wall. It was one of several photos of the since ousted Iraqi President. I discovered why he was so popular among the injured: he was paying for their medical treatment. I attempted to visit the Palestinian ward again after the fall of Baghdad in 2003, but everyone was gone. They had been sent packing, no matter what their condition. Just one of the little-known consequences of regime change.
After chatting with the patients several more minutes, they suggested I go see Taha Abu Snineneh. I felt a wave of dread and my hands were suddenly cold. I had heard about Taha, the mortally wounded man that was alive only because of the myriad machines he was hooked to. I stalled for awhile, then acquiesced. It was the least I could do for him, pay him a visit.
I am not a poet, but composed the following almost immediately after leaving Taha’s room. It was the only way I could process the trauma.
Breathe In
Barely hearing my own footsteps in the silent hall
Breathe Out
Barely smelling ruined flesh in the sterile pall
Breathe In
Barely seeing doctors pass in their endless rush
Breathe Out
Barely feeling my own body in this deathly hush
Breathe In
Just a few more steps my God, it seems so long
Breathe Out
Just a few more minutes pray God will keep me strong
Breathe In
You musn't see the tears of pity or anger in my eyes
Breathe Out
Though only the machines now express your silent cries
Breathe In
Your broken, crumpled body lies still as I draw near
Breathe Out
Just your eyes move slowly to see who has come here
Breathe In
Struggling to form a word the only sound is silence
Breathe Out
You bravely fought for life and land but only met with violence
Breathe In
And only man's machines and tubes now fill your lungs with air
Breathe Out
Powerless to offer comfort all I do is stare
Breathe In
I do not speak your language and I put you in this cell
Breathe Out
Bought the missles and the fire that made this living hell
Breathe In
I wonder if you hate me seeing torment in your eyes
Breathe Out
I wonder if you know I too am paralyzed
Breathe In
You know I am American but I am not to blame
Breathe Out
I tell you with my quiet eyes that we are just the same
Breathe In
And so I bend and gently kiss your pale and lifeless hand
Breathe Out
Then turn and curse the cowards who stole much more than your land.
Taha Abu Snineneh died three days later.
False Prophets and the Deception of Many
"Prophecy Conference Offered At Sugar Grove Bible Church," the headline jumped at me. Curiosity piqued, I drove to Tipp City just to see what all the fuss was about.
I walked in, was greeted with a handshake and handed a bulletin outlining the evening’s program. I looked at it and thought there must be some mistake. The graphic on the front depicted a large Star of David set against a scroll. I glanced around, thinking I had gone to a synagogue by mistake.
No, there was a large cross behind a pulpit and the altar in front bearing the words "This Do In Remembrance of Me." No wait. Upon the altar set a menorah complete with blue candles and an Israeli flag. The irony was astounding: an Israeli flag placed where the body and blood of Christ are offered at communion.
Before the presentation began, four ushers passed collection plates among the crowd of about 60 people. The congregation responded as if it was a traditional offering; digging in wallets, forking over money.
"None of this money will stay with Sugar Grove; all of it will go to the Friends of Israel Ministries," a man reassured the crowd.
Well, that was a relief. I wouldn’t want to see any of their money go to the sick and needy right here in our community.
Dr. David Levy was the guest speaker and his first topic was entitled "The Islamic Invasion of Israel." He started out by comparing the spread of Islam to a cancer, then outlined the Muslim "agenda."
"If Islam gets a foothold here in America, they will claim this land in the name of Allah and start killing non-believers," he stated.
As murmurs and whispers of fear rippled throughout the congregation, I had to wonder who really had the agenda. Someone daring to speak in the name of Christ about another people as a "cancer" is bad enough. Inducing panic by depicting Muslims as people who would kill Christians, Jews and other "infidels" at a moment’s notice is pure hate speech.
Of course the Zionist Christian agenda is no secret. A recent Zogby poll indicates 31% of registered voters adhere to the belief that all Jews must return to what is now called Israel before Jesus Christ can return. It was difficult to discern whether Dr. Levy actually believed this. Most likely, the lecture circuit guys are merely Israeli sympathizers utilizing scare tactics
to manipulate Christian beliefs. It was obviously working here.
Dr. Levy portrays the Palestinian-Israeli conflict as purely religious. Historical and political aspects, including the insertion of a foreign population on Arab land, are ignored. The plight of Palestinian Christians is never mentioned in his black-and-white, good-versus-evil fantasy where God is on Israel’s side and everyone else ends up as vulture feed.
To exacerbate this fallacy, Dr. Levy kept referring to "Allah" as if He were some sort of pagan moon god. The word "Allah" is simply Arabic for "God." Christian Arabs say "Allah." It is like saying Spanish-speakers do not worship the same God because they call him "Dios."
The presentation became more incoherent as it dragged on. I learned that Israel is at the crossroads of three continents. I guess Dr. Levy forgot about the large land mass comprising
Turkey and Syria between present-day Israel and Europe.
The implications of the statement, however, are sinister. Zionists not only desire all Jews go to Israel; they believe in a concept called "Greater Israel" (Eretz Yisrael) which ascribes Old Testament boundaries to modern-day nations. By this ancient biblical land grant, they believe that not only all of Palestine, but parts of Syria, Lebanon and Jordan belong to a Jewish state as well.
Dr. Levy continued, stating the Iraq War is a waste of time because Islam can never coexist with democracy. I suppose when the Palestinians went to the polls, their democratic process didn’t count. Electing Hamas candidates didn’t meet with Western approval. I just wonder how Dr. Levy would explain away Malaysia, a parliamentary democracy whose state religion is Islam?
Also fascinating is Zionist Christians’ contempt for the United Nations. They are irate that a U.N. peacekeeping force will be deployed in Southern Lebanon.
"U.N. stands for United Nothing," Levy quipped. Laughter erupted, ironic because without the so-called "United Nothing," their sacred cow wouldn’t exist.
The presentation was finally over. I stopped by the literature table on my way out, knowing I could not stomach another session before question-and-answer time began. I picked up a magazine entitled "Israel, My Glory." Its cover depicted a graphic photo of an Israeli soldier recovering the bloody corpse of an adult male, his eyes glazed over. "Restraint?" was the glaring headline.
Arabs and Muslims have long been accused of using images of bodies and mortally wounded children as "propaganda." Al-Jazeera, the 24-hour Arabic news channel is "inflammatory" when reporting civilian casualties in Palestine and Iraq.
Yet, littering a pseudo-Christian magazine with pictures of dead Israelis to justify a brutal attack on the Lebanese people, infrastructure, economic and educational institutions is somehow acceptable.
Zionist Christians play loosely with scripture, cherry-picking verses and applying them in a literal context to support their diabolical rhetoric against Arab and Muslim peoples. One biblical prophecy, however, is very clear: "And many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many." (Matthew 24:11)
That much was being fulfilled before my very eyes.
I walked in, was greeted with a handshake and handed a bulletin outlining the evening’s program. I looked at it and thought there must be some mistake. The graphic on the front depicted a large Star of David set against a scroll. I glanced around, thinking I had gone to a synagogue by mistake.
No, there was a large cross behind a pulpit and the altar in front bearing the words "This Do In Remembrance of Me." No wait. Upon the altar set a menorah complete with blue candles and an Israeli flag. The irony was astounding: an Israeli flag placed where the body and blood of Christ are offered at communion.
Before the presentation began, four ushers passed collection plates among the crowd of about 60 people. The congregation responded as if it was a traditional offering; digging in wallets, forking over money.
"None of this money will stay with Sugar Grove; all of it will go to the Friends of Israel Ministries," a man reassured the crowd.
Well, that was a relief. I wouldn’t want to see any of their money go to the sick and needy right here in our community.
Dr. David Levy was the guest speaker and his first topic was entitled "The Islamic Invasion of Israel." He started out by comparing the spread of Islam to a cancer, then outlined the Muslim "agenda."
"If Islam gets a foothold here in America, they will claim this land in the name of Allah and start killing non-believers," he stated.
As murmurs and whispers of fear rippled throughout the congregation, I had to wonder who really had the agenda. Someone daring to speak in the name of Christ about another people as a "cancer" is bad enough. Inducing panic by depicting Muslims as people who would kill Christians, Jews and other "infidels" at a moment’s notice is pure hate speech.
Of course the Zionist Christian agenda is no secret. A recent Zogby poll indicates 31% of registered voters adhere to the belief that all Jews must return to what is now called Israel before Jesus Christ can return. It was difficult to discern whether Dr. Levy actually believed this. Most likely, the lecture circuit guys are merely Israeli sympathizers utilizing scare tactics
to manipulate Christian beliefs. It was obviously working here.
Dr. Levy portrays the Palestinian-Israeli conflict as purely religious. Historical and political aspects, including the insertion of a foreign population on Arab land, are ignored. The plight of Palestinian Christians is never mentioned in his black-and-white, good-versus-evil fantasy where God is on Israel’s side and everyone else ends up as vulture feed.
To exacerbate this fallacy, Dr. Levy kept referring to "Allah" as if He were some sort of pagan moon god. The word "Allah" is simply Arabic for "God." Christian Arabs say "Allah." It is like saying Spanish-speakers do not worship the same God because they call him "Dios."
The presentation became more incoherent as it dragged on. I learned that Israel is at the crossroads of three continents. I guess Dr. Levy forgot about the large land mass comprising
Turkey and Syria between present-day Israel and Europe.
The implications of the statement, however, are sinister. Zionists not only desire all Jews go to Israel; they believe in a concept called "Greater Israel" (Eretz Yisrael) which ascribes Old Testament boundaries to modern-day nations. By this ancient biblical land grant, they believe that not only all of Palestine, but parts of Syria, Lebanon and Jordan belong to a Jewish state as well.
Dr. Levy continued, stating the Iraq War is a waste of time because Islam can never coexist with democracy. I suppose when the Palestinians went to the polls, their democratic process didn’t count. Electing Hamas candidates didn’t meet with Western approval. I just wonder how Dr. Levy would explain away Malaysia, a parliamentary democracy whose state religion is Islam?
Also fascinating is Zionist Christians’ contempt for the United Nations. They are irate that a U.N. peacekeeping force will be deployed in Southern Lebanon.
"U.N. stands for United Nothing," Levy quipped. Laughter erupted, ironic because without the so-called "United Nothing," their sacred cow wouldn’t exist.
The presentation was finally over. I stopped by the literature table on my way out, knowing I could not stomach another session before question-and-answer time began. I picked up a magazine entitled "Israel, My Glory." Its cover depicted a graphic photo of an Israeli soldier recovering the bloody corpse of an adult male, his eyes glazed over. "Restraint?" was the glaring headline.
Arabs and Muslims have long been accused of using images of bodies and mortally wounded children as "propaganda." Al-Jazeera, the 24-hour Arabic news channel is "inflammatory" when reporting civilian casualties in Palestine and Iraq.
Yet, littering a pseudo-Christian magazine with pictures of dead Israelis to justify a brutal attack on the Lebanese people, infrastructure, economic and educational institutions is somehow acceptable.
Zionist Christians play loosely with scripture, cherry-picking verses and applying them in a literal context to support their diabolical rhetoric against Arab and Muslim peoples. One biblical prophecy, however, is very clear: "And many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many." (Matthew 24:11)
That much was being fulfilled before my very eyes.
"Don't Shoot!"
"Don’t shoot! There’s an American in the back!"
The frantic cry of my taxi driver pierced the air. Our vehicle had come to an abrupt halt as an Israeli soldier jumped from behind a piece of corrugated metal. His M-16 was leveled at the rear window, a few feet from my head.
"There’s an American in the back!" He checked his weapon and demanded my passport. Aloof, I handed it to him without making eye contact. I was too angry to be scared. He thumbed through it and returned it, motioning us to continue.
I wondered what might have happened if there hadn’t been an American in the back. "It wasn’t even a checkpoint," I muttered as I looked over the brown rocky hills surrounding Bethlehem. We continued to the ruins of Herodium, a palace/fortress built in 24 B.C. by King Herod. Each bend in the road introduced sweeping vistas of fields and more rolling hills stretching in every direction. I imagined this landscape hadn’t changed much since Jesus walked here. Too bad I was out of the mood for sightseeing.
Earlier in the day I had seen the place that really mattered: The Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. The seven-mile trip from Jerusalem had taken the better part of an hour due to Israeli checkpoints. I had to take two different taxis because vehicles with West Bank license plates do not have access to all the roads those bearing Jerusalem identification enjoy.
Arriving at Manger Square, I tentatively stepped out of the taxi and glanced around. The place seemed deserted except for a few Asian tourists and some Palestinian Authority soldiers in blue and black camouflage.
October 2001 wasn’t a popular time to be visiting the Middle East. Three weeks after 9/11 and a year into the intifada, or uprising, sparked by Ariel Sharon’s unsolicited visit to Al-Aqsa Mosque with 1,000 armed men had scared off more sane travelers.
The soldiers stared curiously and smiled. I gave them thumbs up and entered the Church of the Nativity.
There was a service in progress, so I waited on the stone steps leading down to the small grotto where Christ was born. A few minutes later, a procession came down the stairs and I pressed myself against the wall as they passed; the priest led the way into another chamber, leaving behind a heavy aroma of incense.
I approached the silver star representing the spot where Baby Jesus’s manger once stood. Following the custom, I knelt to kiss it, pressing my lips against the cool metal. The moment was beyond comprehension; it would be fully appreciated only after some soul-searching and as a memory...if then.
More surprises were in store as I headed north to Ramallah later in the evening. There was another brutal checkpoint where I had to walk several hundred yards, joining the wave of humanity that was snaking around motionless vehicles. Horns were drowned out by sobbing babies, jostled along with bags of groceries that women were forced to balance as they made their way on foot to the other side of the checkpoint.
Arriving in Ramallah, I got off and joined the bustle of rush hour: people hurrying home from work or school; people buying fresh produce, meat and bread for dinner; people out window shopping.
I stopped at a large Internet Café, complete with a snack bar and a network of new computers. I approached the front desk and a young girl in Western attire greeted me in flawless English. I paid the minimal fee for an hour’s time after which she directed me to a computer and provided me with a city guide book at no extra charge.
I found the Hotel Wehdeh; there may have been two other guests in the whole building and the desk clerk (who doubled as bellman) still refused to take my tip.
A friend in the U.S. had given me a contact in Ramallah before leaving; I called her the following day and we set up a meeting.
I spent the morning walking around town, enjoying the open market, with its hawkers calling out prices of tomatoes, oranges, fresh baked flatbread and a variety of other produce.
I met my contact, a middle-aged lady named Maryam who took me to her apartment on the outskirts of town. She shared the place with her sister and elderly mother. They had prepared me a lavish dinner of whole roasted chicken, rice and abundant locally grown vegetables that are a staple of the Palestinian diet. Rana, a student at nearby Bir Zeit University had also been invited.
As we ate, Rana told of studying under Israeli occupation. Sometimes, there would be a "closure" or temporary sealing off of Ramallah so students could not get to class. Final exams were no excuse. In other universities, classes adhere to a syllabus and plan for each meeting.
"At Bir Zeit, we say ‘if’ we’re in class tomorrow,’" Rana sighed.
After dinner, we drank coffee out on the balcony. It was an upscale Christian neighborhood, so the bombed-out building less than a hundred yards away caught my attention. I commented that it was rather "close to home." Maryam rolled her eyes and threw her hands up. She told of frequent Israeli missile attacks in residential neighborhoods and lamented that she couldn’t even get to Jerusalem for Easter. The checkpoints were unbearable. The last time she had tried it was five years ago when she was detained. Protesting that she was a Christian, she showed the Israeli soldier her cross necklace.
"He spat on me," she whispered.
The frantic cry of my taxi driver pierced the air. Our vehicle had come to an abrupt halt as an Israeli soldier jumped from behind a piece of corrugated metal. His M-16 was leveled at the rear window, a few feet from my head.
"There’s an American in the back!" He checked his weapon and demanded my passport. Aloof, I handed it to him without making eye contact. I was too angry to be scared. He thumbed through it and returned it, motioning us to continue.
I wondered what might have happened if there hadn’t been an American in the back. "It wasn’t even a checkpoint," I muttered as I looked over the brown rocky hills surrounding Bethlehem. We continued to the ruins of Herodium, a palace/fortress built in 24 B.C. by King Herod. Each bend in the road introduced sweeping vistas of fields and more rolling hills stretching in every direction. I imagined this landscape hadn’t changed much since Jesus walked here. Too bad I was out of the mood for sightseeing.
Earlier in the day I had seen the place that really mattered: The Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. The seven-mile trip from Jerusalem had taken the better part of an hour due to Israeli checkpoints. I had to take two different taxis because vehicles with West Bank license plates do not have access to all the roads those bearing Jerusalem identification enjoy.
Arriving at Manger Square, I tentatively stepped out of the taxi and glanced around. The place seemed deserted except for a few Asian tourists and some Palestinian Authority soldiers in blue and black camouflage.
October 2001 wasn’t a popular time to be visiting the Middle East. Three weeks after 9/11 and a year into the intifada, or uprising, sparked by Ariel Sharon’s unsolicited visit to Al-Aqsa Mosque with 1,000 armed men had scared off more sane travelers.
The soldiers stared curiously and smiled. I gave them thumbs up and entered the Church of the Nativity.
There was a service in progress, so I waited on the stone steps leading down to the small grotto where Christ was born. A few minutes later, a procession came down the stairs and I pressed myself against the wall as they passed; the priest led the way into another chamber, leaving behind a heavy aroma of incense.
I approached the silver star representing the spot where Baby Jesus’s manger once stood. Following the custom, I knelt to kiss it, pressing my lips against the cool metal. The moment was beyond comprehension; it would be fully appreciated only after some soul-searching and as a memory...if then.
More surprises were in store as I headed north to Ramallah later in the evening. There was another brutal checkpoint where I had to walk several hundred yards, joining the wave of humanity that was snaking around motionless vehicles. Horns were drowned out by sobbing babies, jostled along with bags of groceries that women were forced to balance as they made their way on foot to the other side of the checkpoint.
Arriving in Ramallah, I got off and joined the bustle of rush hour: people hurrying home from work or school; people buying fresh produce, meat and bread for dinner; people out window shopping.
I stopped at a large Internet Café, complete with a snack bar and a network of new computers. I approached the front desk and a young girl in Western attire greeted me in flawless English. I paid the minimal fee for an hour’s time after which she directed me to a computer and provided me with a city guide book at no extra charge.
I found the Hotel Wehdeh; there may have been two other guests in the whole building and the desk clerk (who doubled as bellman) still refused to take my tip.
A friend in the U.S. had given me a contact in Ramallah before leaving; I called her the following day and we set up a meeting.
I spent the morning walking around town, enjoying the open market, with its hawkers calling out prices of tomatoes, oranges, fresh baked flatbread and a variety of other produce.
I met my contact, a middle-aged lady named Maryam who took me to her apartment on the outskirts of town. She shared the place with her sister and elderly mother. They had prepared me a lavish dinner of whole roasted chicken, rice and abundant locally grown vegetables that are a staple of the Palestinian diet. Rana, a student at nearby Bir Zeit University had also been invited.
As we ate, Rana told of studying under Israeli occupation. Sometimes, there would be a "closure" or temporary sealing off of Ramallah so students could not get to class. Final exams were no excuse. In other universities, classes adhere to a syllabus and plan for each meeting.
"At Bir Zeit, we say ‘if’ we’re in class tomorrow,’" Rana sighed.
After dinner, we drank coffee out on the balcony. It was an upscale Christian neighborhood, so the bombed-out building less than a hundred yards away caught my attention. I commented that it was rather "close to home." Maryam rolled her eyes and threw her hands up. She told of frequent Israeli missile attacks in residential neighborhoods and lamented that she couldn’t even get to Jerusalem for Easter. The checkpoints were unbearable. The last time she had tried it was five years ago when she was detained. Protesting that she was a Christian, she showed the Israeli soldier her cross necklace.
"He spat on me," she whispered.
The Middle East's "Only Democracy?"
"Kaman," several gentleman begged me to drink another cup of thick Arabic coffee, but I had to go. I left the makeshift sidewalk café on a Ramallah side street and started towards my hotel.
I had spent almost two hours in their company after walking by the little place, they had invited me to join them. Although they spoke only broken English, they made me feel as welcome as possible; in Palestinian culture it was their duty and heartfelt privilege to treat guests this way.
I started to cross the street when a car careened around the corner. I jumped back, only to be reassured by a sidewalk vendor, packing his cart of bananas up for the night. He made little calming gestures with his hands saying "No problem, no problem." I smiled and started across the street again. Gunfire. Heavy caliber, close by. I flinched and ducked involuntarily.
Again the vendor made motioned for me to be calm and repeated "No problem, no problem." He was obviously used to the nightly barrages, but for a small-town American, it was rather disconcerting.
The next morning I was on my way back to Jerusalem. Israeli soldiers stopped our minibus when we were halfway there and removed a passenger. He went quietly. I asked the others what had happened and they informed me the man held West Bank identification and was prohibited from entering Jerusalem.
We arrived eventually at the Damascus Gate, just outside the walled city. I wanted to see Al-Aqsa Mosque, but was barred from entering by Israeli soldiers. They told me it was closed to tourists. I wondered who it was open for? It is also closed for Friday prayer if you’re a male between the ages of 15 and 40. So much for religious freedom in the Middle East’s "only democracy."
I wound through the labyrinth of narrow stone streets, past clothing stores, restaurants and fresh baked flatbread piled high on tables. Ahead, a group of robed Arab women scattered suddenly to either side of the corridor. An orthodox Jew on a bicycle, legs outstretched, came coasting down the incline at a high rate of speed. Never having a large stick when I really need one, I moved to the side, too.
Even with my unwieldy fold-out map, it was next to impossible to find the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, built on the site where Christ was entombed for three days. I ducked into a coffee shop, overhung with a thick haze of argeela smoke. The Palestinian proprietor rushed from behind the counter and asked if he could help me. I pointed to the Church on the map, expecting him to draw a few lines and point me in the right direction. He beckoned me to follow him. We walked for about five minutes, making a series of twists and turns that led us deeper into the Old City.
When we came to the massive edifice, I thanked the shopkeeper-turned-tour guide, reaching in my pocket to give him something for his trouble. By the time I looked up, all I saw was his retreating back disappearing into a crowd.
The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was perhaps more soul-stirring than the Church of the Nativity; gigantic mosaic murals depicting scenes from the crucifixion adorned the main sanctuary. Further inside, there was an opening in the floor where I reached through and touched the base of what is reported to be the actual Cross.
There are many different chapels representing the various divisions in Christendom: Armenian, Greek and Syrian Orthodox, Roman Catholic, Egyptian Coptic and Ethiopian. Ironically, it is a Palestinian Muslim family who is entrusted with the keys to the Church due to in-fighting among these groups throughout the centuries.
The tomb of Joseph of Arimathea, who begged Pilate for Jesus’s body is also located inside the Church. Close to the small chapel built over the exact site where Christ’s body was interred, there is a stone on display, rent in two during the upheaval following His death. I knelt in that chapel for several moments, unable to pray, say or think anything.
Outside in the gathering dusk, I bought a few souvenirs. There were gorgeous Bibles with mother-of-pearl covers and elaborate Nativity scenes and crosses carved from local olive wood. I regretted neither my budget nor my small backpack afforded me the opportunity to help the beleaguered shopkeepers more.
Backtracking through the maze of streets, I felt a tug on my hair. I turned around and saw a wide-eyed baby reaching out for another pull, the mother apologizing profusely. I laughed and played with the baby for a moment before continuing to the Damascus Gate.
Taxis, minivans and buses were all gathered; drivers were shouting their respective destinations as people scurried to and fro. I searched for an indication that one might be going the same direction as me; no takers. A minivan pulled alongside me and the young driver leaned forward. "Ramallah?" he asked.
"Gaza," I responded.
He looked like he had seen a ghost and asked me if I was all right.
For the next several minutes, we argued about it. He questioned my sanity, offering one excuse after another why I should not go to the Gaza Strip. It’s too expensive, there’s nothing to do there, you’ll be killed, etc. I turned to walk away, telling him that I would find information elsewhere on how to get there.
He looked exasperated, then resigned. "I can take you to Gaza."
I had spent almost two hours in their company after walking by the little place, they had invited me to join them. Although they spoke only broken English, they made me feel as welcome as possible; in Palestinian culture it was their duty and heartfelt privilege to treat guests this way.
I started to cross the street when a car careened around the corner. I jumped back, only to be reassured by a sidewalk vendor, packing his cart of bananas up for the night. He made little calming gestures with his hands saying "No problem, no problem." I smiled and started across the street again. Gunfire. Heavy caliber, close by. I flinched and ducked involuntarily.
Again the vendor made motioned for me to be calm and repeated "No problem, no problem." He was obviously used to the nightly barrages, but for a small-town American, it was rather disconcerting.
The next morning I was on my way back to Jerusalem. Israeli soldiers stopped our minibus when we were halfway there and removed a passenger. He went quietly. I asked the others what had happened and they informed me the man held West Bank identification and was prohibited from entering Jerusalem.
We arrived eventually at the Damascus Gate, just outside the walled city. I wanted to see Al-Aqsa Mosque, but was barred from entering by Israeli soldiers. They told me it was closed to tourists. I wondered who it was open for? It is also closed for Friday prayer if you’re a male between the ages of 15 and 40. So much for religious freedom in the Middle East’s "only democracy."
I wound through the labyrinth of narrow stone streets, past clothing stores, restaurants and fresh baked flatbread piled high on tables. Ahead, a group of robed Arab women scattered suddenly to either side of the corridor. An orthodox Jew on a bicycle, legs outstretched, came coasting down the incline at a high rate of speed. Never having a large stick when I really need one, I moved to the side, too.
Even with my unwieldy fold-out map, it was next to impossible to find the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, built on the site where Christ was entombed for three days. I ducked into a coffee shop, overhung with a thick haze of argeela smoke. The Palestinian proprietor rushed from behind the counter and asked if he could help me. I pointed to the Church on the map, expecting him to draw a few lines and point me in the right direction. He beckoned me to follow him. We walked for about five minutes, making a series of twists and turns that led us deeper into the Old City.
When we came to the massive edifice, I thanked the shopkeeper-turned-tour guide, reaching in my pocket to give him something for his trouble. By the time I looked up, all I saw was his retreating back disappearing into a crowd.
The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was perhaps more soul-stirring than the Church of the Nativity; gigantic mosaic murals depicting scenes from the crucifixion adorned the main sanctuary. Further inside, there was an opening in the floor where I reached through and touched the base of what is reported to be the actual Cross.
There are many different chapels representing the various divisions in Christendom: Armenian, Greek and Syrian Orthodox, Roman Catholic, Egyptian Coptic and Ethiopian. Ironically, it is a Palestinian Muslim family who is entrusted with the keys to the Church due to in-fighting among these groups throughout the centuries.
The tomb of Joseph of Arimathea, who begged Pilate for Jesus’s body is also located inside the Church. Close to the small chapel built over the exact site where Christ’s body was interred, there is a stone on display, rent in two during the upheaval following His death. I knelt in that chapel for several moments, unable to pray, say or think anything.
Outside in the gathering dusk, I bought a few souvenirs. There were gorgeous Bibles with mother-of-pearl covers and elaborate Nativity scenes and crosses carved from local olive wood. I regretted neither my budget nor my small backpack afforded me the opportunity to help the beleaguered shopkeepers more.
Backtracking through the maze of streets, I felt a tug on my hair. I turned around and saw a wide-eyed baby reaching out for another pull, the mother apologizing profusely. I laughed and played with the baby for a moment before continuing to the Damascus Gate.
Taxis, minivans and buses were all gathered; drivers were shouting their respective destinations as people scurried to and fro. I searched for an indication that one might be going the same direction as me; no takers. A minivan pulled alongside me and the young driver leaned forward. "Ramallah?" he asked.
"Gaza," I responded.
He looked like he had seen a ghost and asked me if I was all right.
For the next several minutes, we argued about it. He questioned my sanity, offering one excuse after another why I should not go to the Gaza Strip. It’s too expensive, there’s nothing to do there, you’ll be killed, etc. I turned to walk away, telling him that I would find information elsewhere on how to get there.
He looked exasperated, then resigned. "I can take you to Gaza."
Welcome to Gaza
It was a two-hour journey from Jerusalem to the Gaza Strip.
My driver was an Arab-Israeli named Haithem. Because of this status, he was free to move about the West Bank and Israeli territory; however he would not be permitted to enter Gaza. He tried to deter me from my insane itinerary the whole way.
When we arrived at the border, the Israelis informed us that the computers were down and the border would be closed for an indefinite period. Haithem said if we had to wait more than an hour he was taking me back to Jerusalem. Forty-five minutes later, I was allowed to cross.
After Israeli passport control, I walked a gauntlet of bunkers and concrete barricades in the no-man’s land between Israel proper and the Gaza strip. It was pitch black and I was completely alone.
Momentarily, I saw headlights approaching. A dilapidated yellow taxi pulled up, the window lowered. An old Palestinian man stared at me in disbelief, then his chubby face broke into a broad grin.
"Welcome to Gaza," he beamed.
The conversation during the brief ride into Gaza City was jovial and he brought me to one of the many brand new beachfront hotels. They were built in anticipation of a tourist boom when peace between Israelis and Palestinians seemed eminent. Things were not so optimistic now, and the posh hotels stood empty.
The glossy wood furniture in my room smelled new; it was possible it had never been slept in. I dozed off despite excitement from the trip and the incessant crowing of a rooster.
The phone rang early.
"Miss, your breakfast is ready."
My breakfast? I went downstairs and stared in amazement. A table was set for me; a spread of eggs, sliced fruits, bread and jam arranged expertly. The hotel had pulled out all the stops for its lone guest.
Walking around Gaza City, I found I had attained a sort of celebrity status. Many locals invited me to join them as I walked by outdoor cafes, vying for who would buy me tea or a sandwich. Two men asked where I wanted to go and offered me a ride. One wore an olive drab uniform and cap bearing the Fateh insignia. I went with them to use the Internet and then down to a shelter on the beach where we drank coffee.
The fleeting worry they might be kidnappers was dismissed during the ride; an AK-47 was lying across the backseat at my disposal. I posed for a picture with their sidearms and went to wade in the Mediterranean. It is a crime that this stretch of powdered sandy beach cannot be enjoyed by more tourists. It is one of the softest, whitest and most pristine I have visited.
That evening I found a small pizza parlor, much like those in the U.S., except for everyone was carrying a weapon. I was enjoying my snack when an Israeli F-16 flew over. The locals warned me to leave the area because "you never know when they’re going to bomb." I returned to my hotel and heard the F-16 flying back and forth all night, sometimes lower and louder, other times more distant. Luckily, it never dropped anything; just gave a lot of children a fearful and sleepless night.
The next day I met Hiba and two of her young children. They were on the beach eating baked flatbread with zattar, a common regional spice. They invited me to join them. Although they spoke as much English as I did Arabic, we shared the meal, laughing and talking somehow. She implored me to come home with her to meet the rest of her large family. Her brother-in-law, Mohammad, spoke fluent English, breaking the language barrier. I accompanied them to an ice cream stand; judging from the children’s reactions it was a rare treat.
Mohammad picked me up at my hotel the following day for lunch with his friends in Beit Hanoon, a village around five miles from Gaza City. I was shocked when we arrived; the roads were unpaved, pock-marked from gunfire and heavier weapons. The buildings were hollow shells, uninhabitable as a result of almost daily Israeli missile attacks.
A group of men met us and led us through an enormous orange grove. A scene from 1001 Arabian Nights materialized among the trees: cushions were laid out on the perimeter of a feast including rabbit, doves stuffed with rice; vegetables, fruits and nuts were piled high on shiny metal trays.
I wondered how they had the money for all this, then remembered everything before me was harvested from the land. Elsewhere, succulent oranges lay rotting on the ground. The men explained they were required to export them to Israel exclusively, for a fraction of their actual value.
It was the same principle with the fished-out port. Israel prohibits fisherman from sailing beyond two kilometers from shore. Not a good selection of fish in Gaza seafood markets.
I was completely relaxed as I indulged in the elaborate feast even though most of the men wore pistols. Frequently, they would break from their conversation to offer me more food and ask how I was doing.
This peaceful interlude in the middle of a war-torn land ended all too soon. We bid farewell with warm handshakes and promises to return.
I left Gaza City that evening for Khan Younis Refugee Camp. From there it would be on to Egypt, then back to the States with my world view irrevocably altered.
My driver was an Arab-Israeli named Haithem. Because of this status, he was free to move about the West Bank and Israeli territory; however he would not be permitted to enter Gaza. He tried to deter me from my insane itinerary the whole way.
When we arrived at the border, the Israelis informed us that the computers were down and the border would be closed for an indefinite period. Haithem said if we had to wait more than an hour he was taking me back to Jerusalem. Forty-five minutes later, I was allowed to cross.
After Israeli passport control, I walked a gauntlet of bunkers and concrete barricades in the no-man’s land between Israel proper and the Gaza strip. It was pitch black and I was completely alone.
Momentarily, I saw headlights approaching. A dilapidated yellow taxi pulled up, the window lowered. An old Palestinian man stared at me in disbelief, then his chubby face broke into a broad grin.
"Welcome to Gaza," he beamed.
The conversation during the brief ride into Gaza City was jovial and he brought me to one of the many brand new beachfront hotels. They were built in anticipation of a tourist boom when peace between Israelis and Palestinians seemed eminent. Things were not so optimistic now, and the posh hotels stood empty.
The glossy wood furniture in my room smelled new; it was possible it had never been slept in. I dozed off despite excitement from the trip and the incessant crowing of a rooster.
The phone rang early.
"Miss, your breakfast is ready."
My breakfast? I went downstairs and stared in amazement. A table was set for me; a spread of eggs, sliced fruits, bread and jam arranged expertly. The hotel had pulled out all the stops for its lone guest.
Walking around Gaza City, I found I had attained a sort of celebrity status. Many locals invited me to join them as I walked by outdoor cafes, vying for who would buy me tea or a sandwich. Two men asked where I wanted to go and offered me a ride. One wore an olive drab uniform and cap bearing the Fateh insignia. I went with them to use the Internet and then down to a shelter on the beach where we drank coffee.
The fleeting worry they might be kidnappers was dismissed during the ride; an AK-47 was lying across the backseat at my disposal. I posed for a picture with their sidearms and went to wade in the Mediterranean. It is a crime that this stretch of powdered sandy beach cannot be enjoyed by more tourists. It is one of the softest, whitest and most pristine I have visited.
That evening I found a small pizza parlor, much like those in the U.S., except for everyone was carrying a weapon. I was enjoying my snack when an Israeli F-16 flew over. The locals warned me to leave the area because "you never know when they’re going to bomb." I returned to my hotel and heard the F-16 flying back and forth all night, sometimes lower and louder, other times more distant. Luckily, it never dropped anything; just gave a lot of children a fearful and sleepless night.
The next day I met Hiba and two of her young children. They were on the beach eating baked flatbread with zattar, a common regional spice. They invited me to join them. Although they spoke as much English as I did Arabic, we shared the meal, laughing and talking somehow. She implored me to come home with her to meet the rest of her large family. Her brother-in-law, Mohammad, spoke fluent English, breaking the language barrier. I accompanied them to an ice cream stand; judging from the children’s reactions it was a rare treat.
Mohammad picked me up at my hotel the following day for lunch with his friends in Beit Hanoon, a village around five miles from Gaza City. I was shocked when we arrived; the roads were unpaved, pock-marked from gunfire and heavier weapons. The buildings were hollow shells, uninhabitable as a result of almost daily Israeli missile attacks.
A group of men met us and led us through an enormous orange grove. A scene from 1001 Arabian Nights materialized among the trees: cushions were laid out on the perimeter of a feast including rabbit, doves stuffed with rice; vegetables, fruits and nuts were piled high on shiny metal trays.
I wondered how they had the money for all this, then remembered everything before me was harvested from the land. Elsewhere, succulent oranges lay rotting on the ground. The men explained they were required to export them to Israel exclusively, for a fraction of their actual value.
It was the same principle with the fished-out port. Israel prohibits fisherman from sailing beyond two kilometers from shore. Not a good selection of fish in Gaza seafood markets.
I was completely relaxed as I indulged in the elaborate feast even though most of the men wore pistols. Frequently, they would break from their conversation to offer me more food and ask how I was doing.
This peaceful interlude in the middle of a war-torn land ended all too soon. We bid farewell with warm handshakes and promises to return.
I left Gaza City that evening for Khan Younis Refugee Camp. From there it would be on to Egypt, then back to the States with my world view irrevocably altered.
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