Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

Ariel Sharon's Brain

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by Diana J. Wynne    The Anniversary Dinner  >

 

Just because I'm in a coma, people think I don't know what's going on in the world. Au contraire! All this bedrest finally gave me time to think.

During my murderous general phase, and as a settler champion, I was an insomniac. They never mention that. It's more fun to talk about my waistline, or how I inflamed the intifada at the Wailing Wall. Some people count sheep. I counted Palestinians.

I know, you thought I was dead, like the warriors of my generation. Or that I'd gone to hell, with Saddam, and Arafat. That's the thing: Jews don't believe in the afterlife. That resurrection BS in Jerusalem? A way to keep Easter tourists doing stations of the cross.

Seize the day! And if no one remembers, or can't get past Christian militias in Shatila and Sabra, you have no one to blame but yourself... Funny,"sabra." Hebrew and Arabic, so close yet so far.

When we started kibbutzes on the banks of the Jordan, Arabs stole across in the middle of the night. Sometimes they'd attack or steal something: guns, goats. We built shelters until women said they wanted to fight too.

Tourists asked "why live on the border?" But someone has to live on the edge. There's never a safe zone, despite how people live in Tel Aviv, dancing all night like they're in Ibiza. You defend your country with your body. I make a pretty good barricade, right?

Okay, not this body. Before.

 

That's why I admire those Egyptian twitterers, manning the barricades, shouting and texting about liberation. Such chutzpah standing up to a brutal dictator who won’t tolerate dissent! When the army declared they wouldn’t fire, I was proud, like it was my tank protesters were climbing on top of. Look at them now, bringing out tear gas.

I never trusted Mubarak, even when that slippery Clinton said we had to. Who knew Hosni was pocketing aid? Of course we were buying helicopters. Of course! Tanks and grenades to shell at Hamas. But I never had a mansion in Beverly Hills. Khakis were good enough.

Which brings us to Mohamar. A tyrant with his own brand of style. Couldn't tell when it was time to go until too late. Holding out for a legacy. Yeah, I see the irony. No matter what crimes you've committed, your final act comes down to timing. And here I am, my own little soliloquy, no one left to hear my contrition.

 

You never thought I'd have a change of heart, did you? Today I'd be kicking out settlers and planting olive trees, playing backgammon, and arguing with Bibi, Shimon, and the rest of the old men about the future. Damn, I miss those days.

To the royal despots: tear down that wall. The one barely holding back the future. Do it while you can still escape to exile in Argentina, before they parade you through the street bloodied, proclaiming themselves the good guys.

Maybe then you'll get a good night's sleep. 

 

published 7 December 2011