An excerpt from the new book, "A Country Called Amreeka"
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Amreeka: U.S. History Retold Through Arab-American Lives
by ALIA MALEK on OCTOBER 29, 2010 · 4 COMMENTS
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We are excited to share the following excerpt from A Country Called
Amreeka: U.S. History Retold Through Arab-American Lives by Alia
Malek. The book provides a necessary, and long overdue, service by
inserting the Arab-American experience into the American narrative of
the last 50 years. This passage tells the story of Omar Dajani's
arrival at Northwestern University after growing up in Tyler, TX, his
introduction to campus, and identity, politics during the outbreak of
the first intifada, and his process of coming to understand his own
history and culture .
Omar arrived at Northwestern University in the fall of 1987 with three
major goals: 1) becoming a confident, cool, urban intellectual—a
person with culture, wit, and interesting liberal friends from places
like New York; 2) falling deeply in love with a beautiful and
sophisticated girl; and 3) becoming a liberal political advocate.
Nearing the end of the fall quarter, he hadn’t had so much luck yet on
the girlfriend, nor with becoming a liberal political advocate, mostly
because he still wasn’t really sure what that meant, though over the
summer he had attended a demonstration in Washington, D.C., against
nuclear weapons and actor Martin Sheen had been there too!
But on the friends front, he couldn’t have been happier. At the center
of his new group were Jen and Lissy. They were from Philadelphia and
Cleveland, respectively, which for Omar were closer to New York than
Tyler was ever going to be, and he was completely charmed by them.
Jen told hysterical stories about her grandparents Rudy and Adele that
made Omar cry from laughing while Lissy told them about her warring
parents and how her sarcastic mother needled her father. At the core
of their stories, of who they were, was a self--deprecating yet whole-
hearted embrace of their being Jewish—idiosyncrasies and all. The
girls talked about what being Jewish meant, and subsequently the group
would discuss ethnicity. They were curious and asked people, “Where is
your family from?”
Omar had never had such conversations back in East Texas; in Tyler,
there was “black,” “white,” and “Mexican.” There was no category for
him. At Robert E. Lee High School, the black kids were bused in and
were never in the gifted classes to which Omar was assigned, and there
were barely any Hispanic kids in his school. Everyone around Omar was
white, so he just tried to fit in with them. But the whites in Tyler
were blond and had straight hair, unless it was permed, and they had
names like Tiffany, Mandy, and Jason unless they were Oh-mar or the
Indian girl in his grade, Indu. In Tyler, Omar had no notion that
there were different ways to be white.
The world of curly--haired Jen and Lissy, on the other hand, could
accommodate other categories. To see white people possessing the
warmth he associated with Arabs, behaving with foibles, having
grandparents who also bought smelly foods, did crazy things, and
seemed “not so American” in the Tyler sense of the word, was really
familiar to Omar. And yet, they were so exotic.
There was something a bit thrilling in being around the people—Jews—
whom modern history had made Arabs’ “Other” and whom Omar vaguely
understood to have been part of his family’s own tragic history. He
had some understanding that Palestinians had been displaced by Jews.
He knew that his father’s family—who had centuries--old roots in Jaffa—
had been forced to flee by fishing boat to Syria in April 1948,
subsequently losing their lands and home with the founding of Israel.
So meeting Jewish Americans was charged for Omar. It was electric in
part because there was a taboo in it, but mostly because Omar didn’t
expect the connection to feel so powerful, to feel bonded to these
friends on so many levels.
For Omar, it didn’t seem that his being Arab was an issue or
constrained their friendships. While everyone in the group identified
as Democrats, the group was not particularly political. The fact that
they were each connected to peoples who had been locked in conflict
for the last century was just fodder for jokes, like when Omar first
met his roommate. Kent, who was also Jewish, had been raised in
Indiana and knew much more about basketball than about Judaism or
Israel. Together, they decided to decorate their door in the colors of
the Arab--Israeli conflict and jokingly named parts of their dorm room
the Gaza Towel Rack and the West Closet. It was their shtick, and they
used it when they introduced themselves to everyone the first few
weeks of school.
So Omar was caught off guard when, in December after returning home to
Tyler for winter break, Palestine intruded on his life, and he found
himself actually paying attention. On December 8, 1987, an Israeli
army tank transporter ran into a group of Palestinians in the Gaza
Strip, killing four and injuring seven.
The thirty--mile--long, six--mile--wide strip where 650,000
Palestinians were packed, many in impoverished refugee camps where
sewage passed through open troughs in the street, was a powder keg
ready to be lit. Since the initial four deaths, the Palestinians had
been demonstrating against the Israeli Occupation daily, and each day
a few more were being killed.
At home, Omar watched the daily violence with his father. The last
time Omar had seen his father this engrossed by the events over there
had been when he had sat tensely in front of the TV watching coverage
of Israel’s invasion of Lebanon.
Omar now was taken by the images that he saw. Young kids were throwing
rocks at armed Israeli soldiers—with only the strength of an arm or
aided by a slingshot—taunting the soldiers to “Kill us all! Come and
kill us all or get out!”
The soldiers often answered with real or rubber bullets, and Omar was
struck by the sound of gunfire ricocheting off the stone edifices that
were Palestinian homes, schools, churches, mosques, and offices.
When he returned to campus for the winter quarter, he continued to
follow the events, most closely in the Daily Northwestern, the school
paper. He found himself getting more and more angry. The paper ran AP
wire stories from the region on a daily basis, and in addition, staff
reporters covered a protest of Palestinians at the Israeli consulate
in Chicago. A staff photo showed the image of a little boy on the
shoulders of a teenager, flashing a peace or victory sign and
brandishing a toy gun. Four days later, the Daily published a letter
from a fellow student, the president of the Northwestern Israel Public
Affairs Committee (NIPAC). In it, Jonathan Barrish wrote:
The picture that you published in the Daily on Friday, Jan. 8, is an
excellent illustration of the problem Israel faces in solving the
Palestinian issue. The picture showed a child attending a rally who
was making the victory sign with one hand, and holding a toy gun in
the other. Until the attitude of violence on the part of the
Palestinians (as exemplified by the toy gun) is replaced by one of
peace, there will never be a solution to this vexing problem.
Omar read the letter and thought, how manipulative! To seize on a
little kid and his toy gun when it was Palestinian kids being shot at!
He sat down and immediately penned a letter, hoping it would at least
get published.
The letter ran the following day.
Omar had directed his letter toward both the staff of the Daily and
the NIPAC president. In it he wrote:
As an American of Palestinian origin, I am both appalled and offended
by the bias with which your newspaper has dealt with the Palestinian
issue.
Throughout this last week, items have appeared highlighting Arab
rioting and stone--throwing. However, only once, and then in passing,
did you mention the reason for this rioting. Is it not significant
that Israel is actively and forcibly deporting a great number of
Palestinian people from the only home they have ever known? How many
Americans, faced with a similar situation, would not react in much the
same manner? This issue surpasses, or should surpass, national or
ethnic loyalties; this is a matter of human rights.
Next I would like to address Mr. Barrish’s contention of a Palestinian
“attitude of violence.” His ludicrous basis for this assertion is a
toy gun in the hand of a young boy. How many men on this campus or,
for that matter, in this country can honestly say that they never
possessed or played with a toy gun in their youth? Conversely, the
headline “Violence no route to peace” should be a message to the
Israeli army, which has just recently murdered more than 25
Palestinians. I have a difficult time believing that an 8-year--old
boy or a 65-year--old man poses any sort of threat to one of the most
powerful militaries in the world.
The United States government, as part of the United Nations, for the
first time has condemned Israel for this inexcusable violence. It is
beyond my comprehension how both the Daily and Mr. Barrish can so
easily overlook it.
In January 1988, Omar finally lost his virginity to the prettiest girl
in his dorm, realizing his goal of having sex before his eighteenth
birthday.
Then shortly after his letter was published, Jonathan Barrish called
Omar.
The fighting between Palestinians and Israelis had made its way
further onto the Letters pages of the Daily. Some of the letters were
addressed specifically to Omar, and during a service at the Hillel
Center, a rabbi expressed concern about anti--Semitism on campus,
naming Omar Dajani as an example.
Omar had been unprepared for the reaction.
Barrish had written an entire editorial in the Daily asserting that,
being familiar with the Israeli political and social system, he knew
that Israel had the resolve to put an end to the pointless bloodshed
and hatred for peace. What was needed, he had written, was an Arab
leader willing to follow Sadat’s example. According to Barrish,
“History has shown us that when an Arab leader makes peace with
Israel, she is more than willing to meet them halfway. The way I see
it, the ball is now squarely in the Arab and Palestinian court, but
unfortunately for humanity, the score has been deuce for a long, long
time.” And then ten days later, the Daily had published another one of
his letters to the editor about the situation.
Over the phone, Barrish told Omar he had read his letter and wanted to
challenge him to a debate on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
One on one. No press.
Omar thought the bit about “no press” was funny—who would want to
cover a debate between two college students?—but agreed to the duel.
As soon as he hung up the phone, he freaked out; he had basically
exhausted his full knowledge of the situation in his letter and had
not really relied on any scholarship but rather on emotion and the
sort of rhetorical tactics he had learned in debate club. If he were
to actually face this guy and not look or sound like an idiot, he
needed to know way more about the story of Palestine.
Unlike other Arab--American or Arab families that Omar had
encountered, his was not particularly obsessed with politics nor were
they always talking about how much better “over there” was than “over
here.”
His father had dreamed of coming to America even before being forced
to leave Palestine. His desire grew stronger while he was in Syria,
where he had landed after Palestine. There he had been denied access
to the best opportunities because he was Palestinian and not Syrian.
In America, he had been able to put himself through college working at
a hospital in Chicago and had always believed that anything was
possible in this country if one worked hard. Omar’s father once told
him he had walked by a jazz club while visiting New York City, just
after he had arrived in the States, and he had stopped and listened
from outside. In that music, modern and exciting to his ears, he felt
all the potential of this new country. And peering in at the elegant
people—Americans—seated around tables covered with white tablecloths,
he looked forward to being one of them.
When Omar’s mother arrived and joined her husband, she came to love
the country immediately. In Chicago, they had a diverse group of
friends, Americans and newly arrived immigrants. She always laughed
telling her children that she had crossed the Atlantic in first class
aboard an Italian ocean liner with forty pairs of shoes to come live
in a tiny basement apartment for two years that were the best years of
her life.
In addition, Omar’s mother was utterly distrustful of the Arab world
after having gotten stuck for two years in Syria when she visited with
her mother in Latakya with two of her American--born children. The
Syrians had confiscated their passports and insisted they were
“Palestinians.” Omar’s mother had left the States pregnant with twins,
and when the stress had caused her to go into labor early, both babies
had died as a result of the lack of optimal medical care in the small
Syrian coastal town.
Yes, Omar’s parents loved America and believed their children’s future
was here. They worried about Omar compromising himself by getting too
wrapped up in the Palestinian cause. His father had explicitly told
him, “If you want to contribute, become successful in America as an
American, then you can try to make a difference in Palestine.”
Notwithstanding his parents’ concerns, Omar did not want to make an
ass of himself at the debate. He reached out to his father’s old
schoolmate from Jaffa, Professor Ibrahim Abu Lughod, chair of the
political science department at Northwestern. The professor lent him a
few books and explained to Omar the difference between cities and
lands lost in 1948—like Jaffa, where his father came from—and lands
occupied in 1967 after the June War.
Omar read and read and read. He became increasingly incensed,
thinking to himself, this can’t be real. Why hadn’t he known all this
before?
His father had told him only the smallest part of the story—his
family’s part—of leaving Jaffa in 1948 on a fishing boat, thinking
they would ride out the fighting in safety. They had thought they were
coming back; they had no idea they would be forced to leave it all
behind. His family had set out for Lebanon but landed in Syria because
her shores were sandier, settling on the coast in Latakya. There he
had met and fallen in love with his wife. Now Omar understood the
greater course of events to which his father’s history belonged.
Finally, Omar felt prepared to do battle. Then, the debate was
canceled. The NIPAC president had contracted mononucleosis.
But Omar’s interest had already been piqued, and he continued to read
about the past and follow the present on TV, in Newsweek, and in the
Daily.
He found the Palestinian protesters to be brave and decent. These were
not the gunmen and hijackers who had for so long personified the
Palestinian cause. They were teenage boys and girls, professors and
students, strong men and women. Omar felt thrilled and proud to be
connected to them and felt a sense of movement; after years when it
seemed that Palestine was a lost cause, suddenly there was something
imperative about it. Something had to be done to stop the Israelis,
now that the reality of their occupation had been revealed.
During his spring quarter, Omar watched a special episode of ABC’s
Nightline, broadcast from the Holy Land and featuring four Israelis
and four Palestinians. Like many Americans, Omar was introduced for
the first time to Hanan Ashrawi, a Palestinian woman and professor
from Bir Zeit University in the West Bank. He thought she was amazing,
and he was thrilled that she—and not some “terrorist”—was being
presented as the face and voice of Palestine. He thought that this was
someone with whom he would be thrilled to be associated. Omar felt so
hopeful—the story was getting out!
At the dining hall with his friends, Omar chatted excitedly about what
he was learning. They had never talked about it all—being Arab, being
Jewish, both implicated in events half a globe away—in a serious
fashion, and Omar sensed some discomfort. The conversations once
prompted Jen, who had family in Israel, to comment, “Oh, but that’s
political, let’s not talk about that,” as if Omar had broken an
unspoken rule that they wouldn’t invite topics that would divide them
as friends. Since they had different views, it was better just not to
talk about them.
Toward the end of spring quarter, at the age of eighteen, Omar decided
to travel to the Middle East for the summer. He had not been since he
was eight years old, and he hadn’t been particularly interested until
now. His friends were super excited for him, and his parents were
happy that he would be connecting with his family overseas.
He was also looking forward to having an adventure and expected he
would have to rough it; he remembered being a kid in Syria and grossed
out by not being able to flush toilet paper down the drain and having
to put it in the wastebasket instead. But that would be more than made
up for with seeing the pyramids and other remnants of the ancient
world that existed across the Middle East.
To prepare for the trip, Omar bought several books and practiced his
father’s elaborate system for avoiding pickpockets. It involved
putting his money in a handkerchief and safety pinning it to the
inside of his front pocket. He also went shopping with his girlfriend
Mary to buy clothes for his trip. They decided to hit Banana Republic
because, as Omar and Mary reasoned, the store would have appropriate
attire for a safari, or a trek through the bush, or his trip to Egypt
and Jordan.
They combed the racks and pulled aside khaki pants to buy. And they
found the exact kind of shirts that they had come to the store
seeking. One was the color of rust and another of a blue breathable
material—perfect for an Arab summer—each with the -label’s
characteristic gentlemanly adventurer epaulets buttoned at the slope
of the shoulders.
From the plane circling above Cairo, Egypt looked to be color of
pulverized red bricks. As soon as Omar walked off the plane, he
smelled burning wood. Waiting for him in the airport was his cousin
Basma, Tayeb’s sister. Their father, Omar’s uncle Ahmad Sidqi, had
sent his car and driver to bring Omar back to the apartment building
where -Omar’s uncle and grandmother lived.
Omar was amazed when he noticed that the car had diplomatic plates. He
knew his uncle was a member of the executive committee of the PLO, but
he hadn’t thought of him as a diplomat, though now it made sense. Omar
realized that, here, the PLO was regarded differently than in America,
where the umbrella organization of all the different Palestinian
political parties was associated only with Arafat, who was utterly
despised. Here, as the representatives of a people, of a nation, the
PLO deserved and had legitimacy, and someone was a diplomat, not a
terrorist, for being affiliated with its leadership.
The driver, Abdelrahman, a Saidi from the south of Egypt, was
positively horrified that Omar—the nephew of Ahmad Sidqi!—spoke no
Arabic.
But no one spoke Arabic in Tyler, Texas. Omar’s parents only
occasionally spoke it to each other, a decision they had made after
his mother—newly arrived from Syria speaking Arabic and French, but
not English—bought fifteen cans of tuna fish on sale at the grocery
store. When she proudly showed them to her husband, he asked when they
had acquired a cat, looking over the tuna--flavored cat food. They had
agreed from then on to speak only English so she could learn the
language. So Omar knew very little Arabic.
Abdelrahman drove the way Tayeb did, speeding through the crowded
streets of Cairo to Heliopolis or Masr il-Gidida, New Egypt, a well--
to--do neighborhood in the Egyptian capital.
Omar had last seen his grandparents in 1983, when they had come to
visit; since then, his grandfather had died, during Omar’s senior
year. When the news of his death had arrived in Tyler, Omar had
petulantly demanded to be able to play tennis and not have to stay
inside—he didn’t really know these people living across the world
anyway. His mother had chastised him then, “Be considerate of your
father’s feelings.”
Now when his grandmother saw him, she hugged and kissed him and
immediately pulled him to the dining table to eat the meal she had
prepared. She was a tough woman who ran a strict household. She had
been illiterate into her forties, when she had her husband teach her
how to read so she could read the Koran; through the force of her will
all her children today had graduate degrees. But she spoke no English,
so she and Omar used food as their dialogue. She would say, “Ahlan!
Ahlan--wa--sahlan,” welcome, welcome, and Omar would respond with what
he had learned was the correct response, “Ahlan fiki.” Then they would
stare at each other and she would say again, “Ahlan! Ahlan!” and Omar
would again repeat his line. Then she would ask him in Arabic if he
were hungry. He would nod, and then with relief she would start laying
out food and smile, beaming, as he ate.
She spent the next four weeks feeding him.
His cousin Mehdi took charge of his social program—he taught Omar how
to ride horses, and they galloped around the pyramids at Giza at
sunset. Mehdi introduced him to friends who had houses on the Nile,
and all together they spent afternoons on the riverbank for long
picnics. Behind their grandmother’s back, Mehdi would take him to KFC
and -Chili’s for a break from her labored dishes like sayyadiyyah and
ma’lubeh. He was surprised how cool his cousins were; both Mehdi and
Basma had been student body president at the American University of
Cairo. They took road trips outside of Cairo together, made jokes, and
teased one another; Omar loved shocking them with alternative songs
like Berlin’s “Sex.”
On his own, Omar spent hours wandering in Cairo with his guidebook. He
was fascinated by the loud, crowded, layered city. He meandered
through the labyrinthine alleys and bazaars of the Hussein district,
the medieval city, learning its Fatimid and Mamluk history and
comparing their architecture. He loved the ornamentation of the
buildings of the Mamluks, the slave soldiers who had come to rule
Egypt and Syria. The craftsmen of that era had chiseled the stone with
unimaginable skill, rendering it to look as delicate as lace. He
particularly adored the Sultan Hassan Mosque, which had been built in
the fourteenth century. The massive walls that surrounded the sahn, a
mosque’s courtyard, hid modern Cairo from sight, and for a moment it
felt like being in another time. He could see how the mosque’s
beautiful, silent simplicity underneath the open sky could move a
heart toward the heavens.
He loved the shopping and bought the girls back at school silver
necklaces and bracelets. He even began to hear beauty in the ever-
present music that he had hated before. He began to appreciate Um
Kalthoum—the original Arabic diva who always sang in her oversized
dark glasses, waving her handkerchief as she sang to the entire Arab
world for over fifty years. When he was younger and drove on family
vacations to Florida, he would protest so when his father wanted to
play her tapes in the car—Omar wanted Duran Duran. As a compromise,
his father would play one of Omar’s songs and then one of his. The
problem was, a Duran Duran song was four minutes long, while Um
Kalthoum would go easily for an hour singing the same song.
Abdelrahman would drop Omar off and pick him up, shouting as he drove
the Arabic names for things and pointing to them. Omar learned to
answer with a smile Abdelrahman’s daily “Izzayyak?”—How are you?—with
a very practiced and very Egyptian “Miya Miya!”—100 percent!
Egypt was nothing like the desert fantasy he had expected when he
bought his safari gear from Banana Republic. But it was nonetheless
seductive, with its crowds awake and out late at night; Omar found a
whole region of late night people like himself. He loved the sweetness
of the people—the way men touched each other unself--consciously, the
endless little endearments like “ya habibi,” “ya hilu,” and “inta
bitnawwirna”—oh my love, oh handsome, you light us up—that peppered
the most casual of speech, and the hospitality, particularly among the
poorest of the poor, who spared nothing to make him feel welcome.
What he loved best were the long walks he took with his uncle, arm--
in--arm around the Merryland park beneath the apartment building where
they lived. Unlike the conventional wisdom he had learned in Tyler,
where one never talked about religion, politics, or sex, his uncle
spoke as if they were all wrapped up in one. He was handsome—tall and
slender with brilliant white hair. He was also a scholar and gentle,
thoughtful, and interesting. He knew all the heads of the Arab states
intimately and was much more involved in the Palestinian struggle than
-Omar’s father had been. He also had met with many European leaders,
including Pope John Paul, and -Omar’s mother kept a picture of their
meeting on her vanity in Tyler.
With Arabic speakers, his uncle spoke only in Fusha, the classical
Arabic of the Koran, and he spoke it to everyone from heads of states
to shopkeepers to drivers. His Arabic was famous, and Omar finally
understood who Tayeb had been trying to emulate.
Omar learned from his uncle about his family’s history—they had been
judges, landowners, officials, and qadis in the religious courts in
Jaffa. He had known that his father’s family, his family, had gone
back centuries to Jaffa—he had looked through the book Before Their
Diaspora, and had found the old pictures to be beautiful—but now his
curiosity was aroused. His father had always lamented that when they
left in the fishing boat they hadn’t even brought the photographs, and
now Omar found himself grieving for them as well.
Omar’s uncle had broken with Arafat in 1984 and had never been a
member of Fatah, Arafat’s party. Speaking to him completely shifted
Omar’s understanding of the Palestinian movement, and the people
involved in it. Instead of associating it with Arafat—who seemed to
Omar as thoroughly unwholesome a face for the Palestinians as a person
could imagine—he now thought of his uncle and his humanism.
From Egypt, Mehdi and Omar traveled to Jordan and stayed with
relatives there. They were joined by family that came from the West
Bank. Omar found it amazing to meet someone from his own family still
living in Palestine! Even as he began to follow the events in the
Occupied Territories, in his imagination Palestine had been almost
fictional, with no form. He felt an incredible sense of family—they
had come from all over the Diaspora, but they were all Palestinians,
they all still knew who they were. He listened with anger as his
cousin from the West Bank told him about life under the Occupation and
how the Israeli soldiers—just kids themselves—treated Palestinians in
their interactions.
Together they traveled to Petra—the ancient rose--red capital of the
Nabataeans–and the Dead Sea. As they approached the lowest point on
Earth, Omar noticed all the signs about security zones, and then
before he knew it, he saw Jerusalem’s twinkling lights in the
distance. Oh my God, he thought, there it is. There is the land of
Palestine.
Northwestern seemed so far away, and Tyler even farther. But he
couldn’t wait to tell Jen and Lissy and the others about it all. He
had sent postcards to all of them and had bought gifts for each one.
But most of all, he could barely wait to share with them when they all
returned to Northwestern for the new fall quarter how great and
idiosyncratic his world and his culture were as well.
Excerpted from Copyright A COUNTRY CALLED AMREEKA: Arab Roots,
American Stories by Alia Malek © 2010 by Alia Malek Excerpted with
permission by Free Press, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Tagged as: A Country Called Amreeka, Alia Malek, intifada, Omar Dajani
Jacob Plugh Bosun's Mate 1832 - 1858
coaste...@yahoo.com
Now that we've established that you're a Green Bay fan, let's work on
the substance.
dsharavi
<parkstreetboo...@gmail.com> wrote:
> On Oct 30, 9:46 pm, "pwdapain...@yahoo.com" <coaster132...@yahoo.com>
> wrote:
>
> > Exclusive excerpt from the important new book A Country Called
> > Amreeka: U.S. History Retold Through Arab-American Lives
> > by ALIA MALEK on OCTOBER 29, 2010 · 4 COMMENTS
> > Like 19 3 Retweet
>
> > We are excited to share the following excerpt from A Country Called
> > Amreeka: U.S. History Retold Through Arab-American Lives by Alia
> > Malek. The book provides a necessary, and long overdue, service by
> > inserting the Arab-American experience into the American narrative of
> > the last 50 years.
"Inserting" is right, whether the narrative is right or wrong.
Probably it's wrong.
> > There was something a bit thrilling in being around the people—Jews—
> > whom modern history had made Arabs’ “Other”
Bollocks.
> >and whom Omar vaguely
> > understood to have been part of his family’s own tragic history. He
> > had some understanding that Palestinians had been displaced by Jews.
MOTSS
> > He knew that his father’s family—who had centuries--old roots in Jaffa—
> > had been forced to flee by fishing boat to Syria in April 1948,
If he fled in 1948, he wasn't calling himself "Palestinian".
> > On December 8, 1987, an Israeli
> > army tank transporter ran into a group of Palestinians in the Gaza
> > Strip, killing four and injuring seven.
MOTSS. December 8, 1987 was the start of the Al-Aqsa intifadeh.
PalArabs initiated campaigns of violence, riots, general strikes, and
civil disobedience across the so-called West Bank and Gaza Strip. The
four PalArabs were killed in a traffic accident outside Jabalya, which
sparked heavier rioting.
>>Jonathan Barrish wrote:
> > The picture that you published in the Daily on Friday, Jan. 8, is an
> > excellent illustration of the problem Israel faces in solving the
> > Palestinian issue. The picture showed a child attending a rally who
> > was making the victory sign with one hand, and holding a toy gun in
> > the other. Until the attitude of violence on the part of the
> > Palestinians (as exemplified by the toy gun) is replaced by one of
> > peace, there will never be a solution to this vexing problem.
Yup. And after all these decades, the thick PalArabs still haven't
gotten it.
> > As an American of Palestinian origin, I am both appalled and offended
> > by the bias with which your newspaper has dealt with the Palestinian
> > issue.
"Bias" = the newspaper failed put haloes on PalArabs and horns and
snarls on Jews.
> > Is it not significant
> > that Israel is actively and forcibly deporting a great number of
> > Palestinian people
Obviously, unlike the Jordanians and Kuwaitis, who expelled PalArabs
en masse, they failed to deport enough of them.
> > Next I would like to address Mr. Barrish’s contention of a Palestinian
> > “attitude of violence.” His ludicrous basis for this assertion is a
> > toy gun in the hand of a young boy.
No, his "contention of a Palestinian 'attitude of violence'" is based
on their history of violence.
> > As soon as he hung up the phone, he freaked out; he had basically
> > exhausted his full knowledge of the situation in his letter and had
> > not really relied on any scholarship but rather on emotion and the
> > sort of rhetorical tactics he had learned in debate club.
How typical.
> > During his spring quarter, Omar watched a special episode of ABC’s
> > Nightline, broadcast from the Holy Land and featuring four Israelis
> > and four Palestinians. Like many Americans, Omar was introduced for
> > the first time to Hanan Ashrawi, a Palestinian woman and professor
> > from Bir Zeit University in the West Bank.
Also a professional liar, and thus Arafat's chief spokessow.
>He thought she was amazin
That she was. She was one of a very few people who have managed to
piss off the normally unflappable Ted Koppel, by refusing to answer
his questions with anything other than parroted, rehearsed lines.
> > Omar’s uncle had broken with Arafat in 1984 and had never been a
> > member of Fatah, Arafat’s party.
If the uncle had been a member of Arafat's party prior to the break in
1984, he damned well was a member of the Fatah.
> > Together they traveled to Petra—the ancient rose--red capital of the
> > Nabataeans–and the Dead Sea. As they approached the lowest point on
> > Earth, Omar noticed all the signs about security zones, and then
> > before he knew it, he saw Jerusalem’s twinkling lights in the
> > distance. Oh my God, he thought, there it is. There is the land of
> > Palestine.
If he was in Petra, he was already in the "land of 'Palestine'".
Typical overly emotional bollocks.
> > Tagged as: A Country Called Amreeka, Alia Malek, intifada, Omar Dajani
>
> booooohhhhhhhh!!!!!
<g>
Deborah
mirjam
> > > Together they traveled to Petra—the ancient rose--red capital of the
> > > Nabataeans–and the Dead Sea. As they approached the lowest point on
> > > Earth, Omar noticed all the signs about security zones, and then
> > > before he knew it, he saw Jerusalem’s twinkling lights in the
> > > distance. Oh my God, he thought, there it is. There is the land of
> > > Palestine.
must be a HUGE person !
Did he see the Lights of Jerusalem while standing near the Dead Sea ?
mirjam
NEMO
> > Nightline, broadcast from the Holy Land and featuring four Israelis
> > and four Palestinians. Like many Americans, Omar was introduced for
> > the first time to Hanan Ashrawi, a Palestinian woman and professor
> > from Bir Zeit University in the West Bank.
Also a professional liar, and thus Arafat's chief spokessow.
>He thought she was amazin
That she was. She was one of a very few people who have managed to
piss off the normally unflappable Ted Koppel, by refusing to answer
his questions with anything other than parroted, rehearsed lines.
...........................dsharavi, you're correct, i remember very
distinctly that programme & it was a farce on the part of Hanan
Ashrawi, she came across as a P.L.O.parrot, much like how the
Palestinian school children chant their P.L.O. death chants that
they've had drilled into them.
..........................the whole article is hogwash!
dsharavi
> > > > Together they traveled to Petra—the ancient rose--red capital of the
> > > > Nabataeans–and the Dead Sea. As they approached the lowest point on
> > > > Earth, Omar noticed all the signs about security zones, and then
> > > > before he knew it, he saw Jerusalem’s twinkling lights in the
> > > > distance. Oh my God, he thought, there it is. There is the land of
> > > > Palestine.
>
> He stood in Petra and besides the Dead Sea , at the same time ? he
> must be a HUGE person !
What's to be said? PalArabs are congenital bee-essers.
> Did he see the Lights of Jerusalem while standing near the Dead Sea ?
> mirjam
I'll bet that, according to his account, he saw them from Petra, lol.
Deborah
dsharavi
> > > During his spring quarter, Omar watched a special episode of ABC’s
> > > Nightline, broadcast from the Holy Land and featuring four Israelis
> > > and four Palestinians. Like many Americans, Omar was introduced for
> > > the first time to Hanan Ashrawi, a Palestinian woman and professor
> > > from Bir Zeit University in the West Bank.
>
> Also a professional liar, and thus Arafat's chief spokessow.
>
> >He thought she was amazin
>
> That she was. She was one of a very few people who have managed to
> piss off the normally unflappable Ted Koppel, by refusing to answer
> his questions with anything other than parroted, rehearsed lines.
>
> ...........................dsharavi, you're correct, i remember very
> distinctly that programme & it was a farce on the part of Hanan
> Ashrawi, she came across as a P.L.O.parrot, much like how the
> Palestinian school children chant their P.L.O. death chants that
> they've had drilled into them.
I remember that episode of Nightline, and how astonishing it was that
Asswari persisted in deliberately pissing off Ted Koppel boring
repetitious propaganda.
> ..........................the whole article is hogwash!
What else is to be expected from PalArabs? Facts? Honesty? Truth?
That'll be the day.
Deborah
mirjam
> > Did he see the Lights of Jerusalem while standing near the Dead Sea ?
> > mirjam
>
> I'll bet that, according to his account, he saw them from Petra, lol.
He saw Jerusalem`s lights from Petra ????? Call the Guinness World
Records
immediately This must be a Global record !!!!
mirjam
dsharavi
Nah, just your TPAB (Typical PalArab Behaviour).
Deborah