By Khalid Amayreh in Jerusalem

http://www.xpis. ps/

When future Historians look into the factors that ultimately brought down the American empire, one of the main factors they will feature prominently is the “Israeli factor.”

It is well known that Israel, through the numerous Zionist lobbies and pressure groups, more or less controls America’s politics, media and financial institutions.

I am not going to provide statistical data showing the extent to which nearly every aspect of American life is infiltrated and penetrated by Zionism. Such data are readily available for those seeking the truth about Zionist dominance in America.

Instead, I suggest that skeptics speak to some of those senators or congressmen and women who dare to “tell it like it is,” or privately ask some people in the media and show-business about their respective experiences with regard to the “Lobby.”

Undoubtedly they will hear hair-raising stories they have never thought they will ever hear.

In the late 1970s, the American Jewish intellectual Alfred Lilienthal wrote an extremely important book on the Jewish lobby that controls contemporary America. The book is titled “The Zionist Connection: What Price Peace,” and is in my opinion one of the greatest books written in the twentieth century.

The reason I mentioned Lilienthal’s book is because the Zionist control of American political life and institutions is today deeper, tighter and more encompassing than ever before. And there is no doubt under the sun that America’s steady downfall is imputed first and foremost to this impenetrable Israel-worshiping lobby which utilizes America’s power and resources for the sake of serving and promoting Zionist goals both in the Middle East and at the global level.

Didn’t Israeli emissaries in the 1990s, following the collapse of the former Soviet Union, tell the rulers of Central Asia and Eastern Europe that “we control the US government, and the way to America’s mind and heart goes through Jerusalem?”!!!

Sounds anti-Semitic? Well, don’t be too sure, just listen to what Zionist leaders and rabbis in Israel are saying! Maybe you will change your views.

Some of the most strident and audacious acts Israel and her agents in America have taken to destroy America from within has been the American invasion and occupation of Iraq. That unnecessary and manifestly disastrous war was conceived in and planned by Israel through the mostly Jewish neocons in Washington, D.C.

Interestingly, not only has this criminal war killed more than a million Iraqis and several thousand American soldiers, but it has also ruined the United States financially and dealt the American currency, the US dollar, what seems to be an irreversible crushing blow.

Needless to say, the current mega crisis in America, on the one hand, and the ongoing Israeli-conceived wars America is fighting in many parts of the world, on the other, are inextricably entwined. American leaders and politicians won’t say that openly. But America doesn’t lack the brain power to know the facts and find out the truth about the umbilical connection between the Israeli factor and the ravaging financial crisis now facing the US.

Again, if you are in doubt, ask those who dare to speak in Washington and they will tell you what you can’t count on the Zionist-controlled media to tell. After all, Fox News, CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC, New York Times, Washington Post, LA Times, Wall Street Journal, Time and Newsweek, to mention a few of the so-called “agenda setters,” are not really answerable to the American people. They are answerable to the lobby, because if and when officials at these outlets don’t go with the flow, they get fired immediately. Have you ever thought why it is easier to criticize Israel in Tel Aviv than in New York? Have you every figured out why it is easier for an Israeli politician to lambaste his own government for its misdeeds than it is for an American official to do so? There are Israeli academics and intellectuals who have called Israel “a Nazi state.” Can an American professor or intellectual call Israel a Nazi state and retain his job?

Now Israel has got America deeply sinking in the futile war on terror, which is actually another meaningless war on Israel’s enemies, namely the Muslims, for supporting the just Palestinian cause and demanding Israeli withdrawal from occupied Arab land.

Like the Iraq war and the Afghan war, the apparently nihilistic war on terror is being waged on Israel’s behalf because, in the final analysis, there is really no conflict between Muslims and America.

Yes, “9/11”, we are told, was carried out by a few terrorists who held Muslim names and who wrongly thought that they were serving the Palestinian cause and the cause of Islam by killing innocent people.

But these misguided individuals, if indeed they were the real villains (because there is a growing mass of evidence prompting honest people to doubt and question the authenticity of the official American narrative in this regard) only represent a tiny part of the Muslim world. Muslims generally don’t hate America and the American people. Most people don’t hate other people, regardless of religion and culture. It is only due to deep and grievances that oppressed people harbor ill feelings toward their oppressors.

Otherwise, I am sure a hundred percent that Palestinians and Muslims in general have no inherent ill-feelings toward the American people.

Of course, Zionist Jews, some of who are now distributing anti-Islamic DVDs in America to instill hatred and fear of Islam and Muslims in the hearts of Americans in order to serve Israeli interests, dread the day Americans will know the truth about Israel, e.g. that Israel is nothing less than a crime against humanity and that it represents the ultimate antithesis of everything the American people hold dear and stand for.

Yesterday, America had to allocate 700 billion dollars to bail out another ramshackle American financial institution.

I am afraid there will be more bad news in this regard if America doesn’t reclaim its liberty from the Zionist Rober Barons who have come to tightly control the American financial establishment.

Moreover, should the US decide to act on Israel’s instructions (or orders) and go to war against another Muslim country, this time Iran, one could imagine the magnitude of the financial and therefore economic disaster that would befall America and the world.

A few years ago, it was rumored that former Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, that certified war criminal, told Shimon Peres, then Israel’s foreign minister, during an acrimonious cabinet meeting “that we control America from California to New York and the stupid Americans know it.”

And while I am not completely sure about the authenticity of the statement, it is amply clear that the disgraceful pandering to Zionism by American politicians, including Presidential hopefuls Barack Obama and John McCain and their running mates, vindicates the veracity of that statement, uttered or unuttered.

Today, Israel is trying to consummate its hateful enterprise of ethnic cleansing in the Middle East, using American money and American power. Israel will fight the Muslim world to the last American dollar and the last American soldier.

Hence, it is time ordinary Americans wake up from their slumber to reclaim their country from rapacious Zionism. Because their very future is at stake.



From BBC news 10/2/2000

“Don’t shoot” screams the boy’s father Just moments after this picture was taken, Muhammad al-Durrah was shot dead.

And now the 12-year-old has become a new martyr for the Palestinian cause.

For 45 minutes, Muhammad’s father tried in vain to shield him from gunfire as they crouched against a concrete wall near Netzarim in the Gaza Strip. The whole scene was caught on camera by a France 2 cameraman, and has been played repeatedly on Palestinian television.

The footage shows the boy’s father, Jamal al-Durrah, waving desperately to Israeli troops, shouting: “Don’t shoot”. But the terrified boy is hit by four bullets, and collapses in his father’s arms.

An ambulance driver who tried to rescue the boy and his father was also killed, and a second ambulance driver was wounded.

Mr al-Durrah, who was also badly wounded, said his son died for “the sake of al-Aqsa mosque”, the holy site in Jerusalem seen by the Palestinians as both sacred and sovereign territory.

“My son didn’t die in vain,” said his mother, Amal.

“This was his sacrifice for our homeland, for Palestine.”

Caught in the fire Israeli officials have questioned whether the boy was killed by Israeli bullets, and said he could have been hit by stray Palestinian gunfire.

But witnesses say the Palestinian youths were armed only with stones, not guns, and the shooting was all from the Israeli side.

The video footage clearly shows that not only were the boy and his father completely unarmed, but they were not even part of the rioting.

Relatives say the pair were returning from Gaza’s popular used-car market, and were trying to get home to the Buriej refugee camp where they live along with many thousands of Palestinians.

Image shocks world The disturbing footage has been played throughout the Middle East, and on all major US television networks over the weekend.

A photo still from the video ran on the front page of the New York Times.

The newspaper quoted an Israeli journalist as saying he saw the footage for the first time as he was delivering the news on Saturday night.

“I lost my voice. I’ve been doing this for many years… But my brain went dead, and my tongue went limp. To see a little boy killed before your eyes,” he said.

The British newspaper, The Independent, described it as “an image that will haunt the world as painfully and powerfully” as any of those from the Palestinian uprising or Intifada.



By Helen Schary Motro, an American lawyer and writer living in Israel, is a columnist for the Jerusalem Post

Oct. 7, 2000 | KFAR SHMARIAHU, Israel

This week’s photo has been burned into the world’s consciousness beside the Vietnamese girl aflame with napalm, the Oklahoma City firefighter carrying the dead baby after the federal building explosion, the boy with raised hands in the Warsaw ghetto. Little did I think when I saw the picture that this anonymous man was far from anonymous to me.

Jamal al-Dirrah and 12-year-old Mohammed were cowering against a wall in Gaza, seeking shelter from the rain of gunshots between Palestinian police and Israeli soldiers, the terrified boy screaming in the crook of his father’s arm. Moments later, the boy slumped dead and his father lay wounded with eight bullets in his body.

I knew a Palestinian named Jamal. I sat in my garden looking at the wall he’d built for me when a team of Palestinians had helped build my Israeli house at the height of the intifada. His first son, I recalled, was born 12 years ago, shortly after my daughter. I thought how easily the anonymous victim might have been the Jamal I knew, with whom I’d had an uneasy relationship that tentatively grew into something else.

Then I read in the newspaper that the dead boy’s father, 37 years old, was a house painter from Gaza who worked for Israelis in the suburbs north of Tel Aviv. The same first name, the same job in the same area, the same general age. Too many coincidences.

I studied the photo more closely. What if? It was too blurry to see, the man’s head turned away. To put my suspicions to rest I telephoned Moshe Tamam, the Israeli contractor for whom Jamal works. “Tell me, Moshe, the man in the hospital, that’s not our Jamal?”

But the contractor told me the news I didn’t want to hear. I telephoned the hospital in Amman, Jordan, where Jamal had gone for surgery, and I was able to reach him.

“A crime!” said Jamal. “Forty-five minutes firing without stop.

And I cried, ‘My son! My son! My son!’ but nobody listened. Now he is dead and I am half finished. To shoot at a boy; it’s a crime.” Jamal began to cry. There was commotion in the background, people talking in Arabic, and somebody hung up the telephone. In the Middle East, I have often observed, people live their lives maneuvering between the headlines. This week our Jamal became a headline.

It was the height of the grass-roots Palestinian uprising, the intifada, when I first met Jamal. In 1988 my husband and I hired a contractor to renovate an old house we had just bought in Tel Aviv’s suburbs. Jamal stood apart from the other Palestinian workers. In his 20s, he was angrier, prouder, with a resentment more palpable. We were never really introduced. I just learned his first name over time, and he learned mine. Tall, thin and glowering, Jamal spat out his words in low monosyllables. He accepted begrudgingly, without a smile, the cold drinks in paper cups I brought out to the team of workers. But he would never drink my coffee. Shaking his head dismissively and clicking his tongue, he would pad silently to the periphery of my unfinished patio, crouch down on his heels, extract a crumpled nylon bag from his jacket pocket and shake some dark granules into a glass cup to brew his own strong coffee over a little portable gas heater.

The other workers in the crew — Nasser, Abed and Yusuf — were unobtrusive. They bent down in my garden to pray, facing east. I wondered whether they knew about the old mosque atop a seaside cliff at the beach nearby, the mosque where a muezzin no longer calls. As the workers arrived each morning, the radio reported the injured of the day before — Israeli soldiers wounded by hurled rocks, Palestinians shot, the tear gas fired, the order from army headquarters to break protesters’ limbs, the latest death toll. It was a dark and hateful time. Still the workers came to my house day in and day out, plastering, setting tiles, installing plumbing.

They arrived at dawn, worked quietly, kept their heads down. They considered themselves the lucky ones, the ones with steady work. But when terrorist bombings heated up inside the country, Israel retaliated by sealing off the borders, allowing nobody from the territories occupied by Israel to work inside Israel proper. Sometimes weeks would go by while the men sat in enforced idleness inside Gaza. Then suddenly the order would be rescinded, and construction on my home would start anew. Part of Jamal’s job involved putting up a garden wall. I was walking next to the newly finished wall when something close to the base caught my eye. I bent down to look closer. “Jamal – 1988” I saw, inscribed in looping English script letters, the handwriting of a foreign schoolboy. The cement was already dry. Indignant, I went straight to the contractor and insisted a new layer be spread over the offensive signature. It was my house after all, not a public sidewalk. If anybody had a right to make graffiti, it was me.

The next morning the signature had been obliterated, large circles of new gray cement in benign swirls over the words. The new spot dried a different shade of gray than the surrounding wall, and for a few years it was visible if you knew what you were looking for. But with time that difference has faded, and it became hard to discern the place where Jamal had tried to leave his mark.

During the period we were building, my third baby was born. Jamal’s wife was expecting their first child. When I offered my no longer needed maternity clothes, he nodded his head ever so slightly. I packed up a big bundle. I especially liked my navy wool jumper with red piping. The next day I looked until I found Jamal, and happily presented him with the bag. He took it with averted eyes. Months later I found the bag, still full, stuffed into a crevice in an old repainted cupboard, my navy dress in a wrinkled ball. Then my house was finished and the workers went away.

The years went by, tumultuous ones in Israel. The 1991 Gulf War brought acute fear, then two years later the Oslo accords afforded the first ray of hope for coexistence.

When Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated in 1995 by a Jewish extremist, things seemed to go back to square one. There was a series of terrorist bombings inside Israel in which hundreds of civilians were killed. In their wake hard-line Benjamin Netanyahu was swept into office. But in the meantime, people living in the Middle East continued to lead their private lives, maneuvering between the headlines. A couple of years ago, I hired the same contractor to repaint my house. I saw there was a new foreman. He came up my steps limping slightly, thin and wiry, reminding me of the physique of Ahknaton, the elongated Egyptian emperor. When he got close, I saw it was someone I knew. Through the graying hair and bony cheeks I recognized Jamal. He smiled, and I did too. There was something of old friends in our greeting.

I could read in his eyes that I’d gotten older too. I supposed Jamal’s traumas had been much worse than mine, and yet here he was again, after all those years. Years of arising from bed at 3:30 a.m., to take the bus at 4 to the border crossing, and then board a second bus an hour later out of Gaza to start work at 6 a.m. Was it this backbreaking cycle of physical labor that made the 35-year-old man look like he was 50? Yet he was smiling.

I say we greeted as friends, but I know this is not the deep truth. Even beyond the economic inequality, I could never look at him without “the conflict” on my mind. His Arabness and my Jewishness hung in the air. I wondered what I could represent for Jamal, in my big house, transplanted to this soil of my own will from another place. I still brought coffee out to the workers in the morning. This time Jamal looked happy to get it. “But I hope this is real coffee — not Jewish Nescafé!” he would laugh. In his surrender to reality Jamal had kept both his spunk and his dignity.

Jamal and I conversed in Hebrew, neither his native tongue nor mine. On Fridays when he went home to catch the earlier weekend transport bus, Jamal would call out over his shoulder, “A peaceful Sabbath!” Although I couldn’t see it, I could feel him grinning.

After the first coat of paint went on, and the workers needed to let it dry, there was still time before the bus came to pick them up. So the boss suggested I ask Jamal to do small jobs around the house. I ran to get out my university diplomas from a drawer. Jamal studied the gothic lettering on one for a long time.

“It says New York University, right?” he asked finally, his voice serious and hushed. I nodded yes, flinching a little at the memory of his proud, painstaking English graffiti, which I had ordered covered up.

Jamal hung the diplomas in my study with exquisite care. There was still time before the bus.

I remembered an old reproduction of Renoir’s “Girl With a Watering Can” hanging in my youngest daughter’s room. It had been my own as a child and was passed on like a talisman to each of my three daughters. By now the wooden frame had fallen apart at the hinges. I asked Jamal if he could patch it up somehow. He nodded.

“Do you have any masking tape?” I foraged in the storage room and came back with a jumbo roll. “Here take this — it’s left over from the Gulf War! Remember when we had to tape up our windows and doors against gas?”

“Allah protect us!” Jamal called with a laugh, holding up the roll. “Imagine how silly we were to think this sticky paper could save our lives. Believe me,” he went on, “in my house we never taped the windows or the doors. I told my wife, ‘If God wants to kill us, he will, and if he wants to save us, he will.’ I never put on any gas mask in the war. Never again! Let that be Allah’s will,” said Jamal.

An hour later he appeared at my study door. In his hands he held Renoir’s “Girl With a Watering Can” — in a new frame, I thought. Looking closer I saw I was mistaken – it was the original frame bought halfway across the world at the Metropolitan Museum decades before. He hadn’t used any of the tape at all. Jamal had repaired it by knocking in dozens of tiny nails perfectly lined up all around the edge. Then, somehow, he had polished the wood to make the black lacquer shine like new.

I asked Jamal how many children he has now. “Six,” he told me proudly. “Four sons, two girls.”

This time he didn’t hesitate to accept my old clothes and toys, though I hesitated to offer them. I had learned enough not to hand them to him anymore. Now I left the bags in the garden, next to the lamppost where he left his rolled-up jacket when he came to work.

I wished I could help Jamal. I wanted his kids to get enough schooling to read the lettering on their own diplomas. But he was a victim of circumstances larger than both of us, I rationalized weakly. So I didn’t do much of anything. I just stuffed shopping bags full of old sweaters with fuzz balls, men’s jackets that had gone out of style, toys my children had gotten tired of and scuffed boots they had outgrown.

Jamal took them all. I watched his thin frame receding and saw his limp as he walked down the garden steps. The sinews in his long arms moved as he carried the bulging nylon shopping bags with Hebrew writing down toward the boss’s pickup, in a rush to make the afternoon ride back to Gaza. The fresh white paint covering Jamal’s wall gleamed in the sun.

From the western horizon over the beach the afternoon rays shone on the bronze crescent atop the seaside mosque before reflecting in the glass of my windowpanes. Was Jamal watching the fading sunlight too, through the dusty window of his bus?

I wondered whether Jamal would be back when it came time to paint again. Would his hair be all gray then? Would his four sons be old enough to throw stones, or will the time of stone-throwing have passed? My daughter is 12, like Jamal’s boy was. Mohammed loved to swim in the sea; my daughter is on a swim team. Mohammed was good in English — I know he took after his father. My daughter walks to school beside cypress trees, amid bougainvillea. Her pet dog waits impatiently for her to come home. Mohammed had pet birds. But had he lived to be a grandfather, it’s unlikely he and my daughter ever would have met.

Right after Jamal was wounded, Moshe Tamam, the contractor who employed him, said he had tried to get Jamal transferred from Gaza into a big Israeli hospital. He offered to pay for all the expenses, Moshe said, but the Palestinian Authority hadn’t allowed it. Jamal had worked for him for 20 years, since he was 14 years old.

“These people are born in hatred, raised in hatred, ” Moshe told me. “They return home from working in big houses to their shacks without even sewage. Jamal is a terrific man.

He slept in my own home many times. He is a wonderful worker, and I know that I can leave him alone in any customer’s house and there will be no theft, no vandalism, no breakage.”

Israel radio reported that Jamal also said that Moshe had offered to send him to an Israeli hospital and pay for it, but that he preferred to be treated in the Arab world. Everything in the Middle East has two stories. When I reached him by telephone, in Amman, Jamal called his boss, Moshe, a “brother.”

“I hope to be healthy again, but back to work I don’t think I will ever be able to go,” he told me. I asked Jamal what does he wish for his remaining children. “My children? To grow as all the children in the world.” I heard his voice break. “That they will be surrounded by all good things and nothing bad, nothing bad.”

Not a week had passed since his boy was killed. And yet when the reporter from Israel radio asked him if his attitude toward Israelis changed forever in those terrible moments beside the wall in Gaza, Jamal said, “I am a man of peace. We two peoples must live together. There is no other possibility. There is no other possibility.”



Jews, 5:69, 22:17

and Christians, 2:120, 2:139, 3:75, 5:68

messenger comes to them, 5:32

enmity and hatred among them, 5:64

fights between, 2:113

food restrictions, 6:146

have no rights to claim Allah’s bounty exclusively, 57:29

heaven not only for them, 2:111

say they are “Allah’s Children”, 5:18

believe in but few things, 4:155

claim that they alone are close to Allah, 2:94, 62:6

denied good things of life, 4:160

reasons for, 4:161

foods which are forbidden for, 6:146

good deeds of ancestors don’t count, 2:136

hurting themselves by their misinterpretations, 5:64

mistaken to believe in their own revelations only, 2:91

most have forgotten what they’ve been told to bear in mind, 5:13

most hostile to Muslims, 5:82

ransoming each other during the Prophet’s life, 2:85

religious commandments, 2:43, 2:84-85, 5:32

retribution given in the Torah, 5:45

righteous will be rewarded, 2:62, 5:65, 5:69

say “Ezra is Allah’s Son”, 9:30

say “Our hearts are full of knowledge.”, 2:88, 4:155

slaying prophets, 2:61, 3:21, 3:112, 3:181, 3:183, 4:155, 4:157, 5:70

some distort meanings of all revelations, 4:46, 5:13, 5:41

forgive them, 5:13

warning to, 4:47





Judith Stone

Deborah Ducrocq was managing editor of the Kansas City Jewish Chronicle. She received and published the article by Judith Stone shown below. The article appeared November 10, 2000 and Debbie was promptly fired by her superiors. Both ladies are Jewish.

I am a Jew. I was a participant in the Rally for the Right of Return to Palestine. It was the right thing to do.

I’ve heard about the European holocaust against the Jews since I was a small child. I’ve visited the memorials in Washington, DC and Jerusalem dedicated to Jewish lives lost and I’ve cried at the recognition to what level of atrocity mankind is capable of sinking. Where are the Jews of conscience? No righteous malice can be held against the survivors of Hitler’s holocaust. These fragments of humanity were in no position to make choices beyond that of personal survival. We must not forget that being a survivor or a co-religionist of the victims of the European Holocaust does not grant dispensation from abiding by the rules of humanity. “Never again” as a motto, rings hollow when it means “never again to us alone.” My generation was raised being led to believe that the biblical land was a vast desert inhabited by a handful of impoverished Palestinians living with their camels and eking out a living in the sand. The arrival of the Jews was touted as a tremendous benefit to these desert dwellers. Golda Mier even assured us that there “is no Palestinian problem.”

We know now this picture wasn’t as it was painted. Palestine was a land filled with people who called it home. There were thriving towns and villages, schools and hospitals. There were Jews, Christians and Muslims. In fact, prior to the occupation, Jews represented a mere 7 percent of the population and owned 3 percent of the land.

Taking the blinders off for a moment, I see a second atrocity perpetuated by the very people who should be exquisitely sensitive to the suffering of others. These people knew what it felt like to be ordered out of your home at gun point and forced to march into the night to unknown destinations or face execution on the spot. The people who displaced the Palestinians knew first hand what it means to watch your home in flames, to surrender everything dear to your heart at a moment’s notice. Bulldozers leveled hundreds of villages, along with the remains of the village inhabitants, the old and the young. This was nothing new to the world.

Poland is a vast graveyard of the Jews of Europe. Israel is the final resting place of the massacred Palestinian people. A short distance from the memorial to the Jewish children lost to the holocaust in Europe there is a leveled parking lot. Under this parking lot is what’s left of a once flourishing village and the bodies of men, women and children whose only crime was taking up needed space and not leaving graciously. This particular burial marker reads: “Public Parking”. I’ve talked with Palestinians. I have yet to meet a Palestinian who hasn’t lost a member of their family to the Israeli Shoah, nor a Palestinian who cannot name a relative or friend languishing under inhumane conditions in an Israeli prison. Time and time again, Israel is cited for human rights violations to no avail. On a recent trip to Israel, I visited the refugee camps inhabited by a people who have waited 52 years in these ‘temporary’ camps to go home. Every Palestinian grandparent can tell you the name of their village, their street, and where the olive trees were planted. Their grandchildren may never have been home, but they can tell you where their great-grandfather lies buried and where the village well stood. The press has fostered the portrait of the Palestinian terrorist. But, the victims who rose up against human indignity in the Warsaw Ghetto are called heroes. Those who lost their lives are called martyrs. The Palestinian who tosses a rock in desperation is a terrorist. Two years ago I drove through Palestine and watched intricate sprinkler systems watering lush green lawns of Zionist settlers in their new condominium complexes, surrounded by armed guards and barbed wire in the midst of a Palestinian community where there was not adequate water to drink and the surrounding fields were sandy and dry. University professor Moshe Zimmerman reported in the Jerusalem Post (April 30, 1995), “The [Jewish] children of Hebron are just like Hitler’s youth.”

We Jews are suing for restitution, lost wages, compensation for homes, land, slave labor and back wages in Europe. Am I a traitor of a Jew for supporting the right of return of the Palestinian refugees to their birthplace and compensation for what was taken that cannot be returned? The Jewish dead cannot be brought back to life and neither can the Palestinian massacred be resurrected. David Ben Gurion said, “Let us not ignore the truth among ourselves…politically, we are the aggressors and they defend themselves…The country is theirs, because they inhabit it, whereas we want to come here and settle down, and in their view we want to take away from them their country…” Palestine is a land that has been occupied and emptied of its people. It’s cultural and physical landmarks have been obliterated and replaced by tidy Hebrew signs. The history of a people was the first thing eradicated by the occupiers. The history of the indigenous people has been all but eradicated as though they never existed. And all this has been hailed by the world as a miraculous act of G-d. We must recognize that Israel’s existence is not even a question of legality so much as it is an illegal fait accompli realized through the use of force while supported by the Western powers. The UN missions directed at Israel in attempting to correct its violations of have thus far been futile.

In Hertzl’s “The Jewish State,” the father of Zionism said, “…We must investigate and -take possession of the new Jewish country by means of every modern expedient.” I guess I agree with Ehud Barak (3 June 1998) when he said, “If I were a Palestinian, I’d also join a terror group.” I’d go a step further perhaps. Rather than throwing little stones in desperation, I’d hurtle a boulder. Hopefully, somewhere deep inside, every Jew of conscience knows that this was no war; that this was not G-d’s restitution of the holy land to it’s rightful owners. We know that a human atrocity was and continues to be perpetuated against an innocent people who couldn’t come up with the arms and money to defend themselves against the western powers bent upon their demise as a people. We cannot continue to say, “But what were we to do?” Zionism is not synonymous with Judaism. I wholly support the rally of the right of return of the Palestinian people.



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