Peres Feasting on the Peace Process
Peres would be quite happy to carry out a thousand Amona-style operations in his quest to show the world (especially the US State Department and the Saudi/Jordanian Royals) that he is not in any shape, form, or fashion a Jew and that he cares not one iota for what he has sometimes described as outmoded backward notions of Jewish Identity.
Peres doesn't have such contempt for Arab/Muslim identity. Indeed, he wants more than anything to be remembered in history as someone who worked for the realization of Laurentian Pan-Arabism, with Jews accepting dhimmitude. To this British-Arabian-US State Department phantasy he has devoted the bulk of his twisted and deceitful life. And yet he is often praised for his efforts in building the country. Such is the power of mythomania that it totally obliterates the facts and swallows up the truth.
Peres represents the aspirations of a small but powerful political clique left over from the British Mandate period. They are determined to give our land to those whose 1,427-year old desire is to obliterate us from the universe. They say this will bring peace. But all the evidence of history demonstrates that this simply is not true. Whatever peace Jews will realize from releasing murderers and giving away land will be the "peace" of the graveyard.
The malicious and hateful desire to constrict or completely dismantle the Jewish State is bad enough, but the Laurentian-Saudi/Jordanian Royal-State Department clique goes much further by harassing and intimidating any individual or group who still has a Jewish identity. Such individuals and groups are prevented (illegally) from coming to political power. Their leaders are murdered or marginalized, and the remaining communities reduced to subsistence and fighting amongst themselves.
I can think of no better metaphor for what's happening in Israel than Graham Greene's short story The Destructors. I leave it to you to determine which of the characters represents specific Israeli politicians and the so-called religious leaders without whose help the Islamophiles would be powerless. Only part of the story is given below. For the complete short story, go to http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dcgkj86p_55gfx7mz
The Destructors by Graham Greene
[from, Graham Greene: Twenty-One Stories, Penguin Books, 1973 reprint, pp.181-197.]
It was on the eve of August Bank holiday that the latest recruit became the leader of the Wormsley Common Gang. No one was surprised except Mike, but Mike at the age of nine was surprised by everything. ‘If you don’t shut your mouth,’ somebody once said to him, ‘you’ll get a frog down it.’ After that Mike had kept his teeth clamped except when the surprise was too great.
The new recruit had been with the gang since the beginning of the summer holidays, and there were possibilities about his brooding silence that all recognized. He never wasted a word even to tell his name until that was required of him by the rules. When he said ‘Trevor’ it was a statement of fact, not as it would have been with the others a statement of shame or defiance. The gang met every morning in an impromptu car park, the site of the last bomb of the first blitz. The leader, who was known as Blackie, claimed to have heard it fall, and no one was precise enough in his dates to point out he would have been one year old and fast asleep on the down platform of Wormsley Common Underground station. On one side of the car park leant the first occupied house, No.3. T, whose words were almost confined to voting ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to the plan of operations proposed each day by Blackie, once startled the whole gang by saying broodingly,
‘Wren built that house, father says.’
‘The man who built St.Paul’s.’
‘Who cares?’ Blackie said. ‘It’s only Old Misery’s.’
Old Misery – whose real name was Thomas – had once been a builder and decorator. He lived alone in the crippled house, doing for himself.
‘Been to the loo’, one of the boys said, for it was common knowledge that since the bombs fell something had gone wrong with the pipes of the house and Old Misery was too mean to spend money on the property. The loo was a wooden shed at the bottom of the narrow garden with a star-shaped hole in the door: it had escaped the blast which had smashed the house next door and sucked out the window-frames of No.3.