[AGL] Final Solution for Germany and Israel

[Michele Mason]

I find no offense.  Just deeply want to leave the blood.  Rise up and 
be clean,  mm	

On Oct 31, 2006, at 1:31 PM, blacky at cbn.net.id wrote:

>> Michele and Frances,
>>
>> Your ignorance about Israel is quite understandable
>> as you were not born into this mess.
>>
>> It is NOT about religion, it is about territory. Zionism
>> went to Palestine as a colonial enterprise to give the jooz
>> their own country and remove them from Europe where
>> it was evident in the late 19th century that they would
>> never be accepted or assimilated.
>>
>> Wrong part of the world to go. They didnt know what
>> a hornet's nest they would stir up. Tought titty on them.
>> But there they are and there they will stay unles they are
>> overwhelmed by the rising tide of militant Islam. In
>> the long term, they may be doomed. In the short
>> term, they are a VERY prosperous economy from
>> manufacturing and high tech. They will fight hard for
>> their survival. Territory is the issue, not religion.
>>
>> For Frances to wish all the Palestinians and
>> Israelis dead because they're bothering her peaceful
>> life is disgusting (pardon my French). Likewise Michele
>> wanting them all dead is disgusting. Where is your
>> Christian love?
>>
>> Mike
>>
>>
>
> Our late colleague E. A. Lacey (UT early 1960s, Grad School in 
> Linguistics
> - I have mentioned him on this site previously) had an interesting
> suggestion.
>
> He thought that at the end of hostilities in Europe, the Allied Powers
> should have awarded the southern third of Germany to the Jews to set up
> their own state. The notion of Catholic Bavaria as a modern Israel is a
> somewhat intriguing, if unlikely, one.
>
> Had this happened they would have undoubtedly turned it down, alas. 
> Seems
> they had to get back to the Promised Land -- but to whom had God 
> promised
> it indeed?
>
> I paste for you here below a poem from THIRD WORLD, which Edward wrote
> after visiting Jerusalem:
>
>
> 	Dome of the Rock
>
> 				God was not love or law,
> 				God was the blood I saw,
> 				the ever-flowing blood
> 				staining water and sod.
> Irving Layton, "Orpheus"
>
> Below, the Jews rock at their Wailing Wall:
> the dark, stiff-bearded, proud Hassidic Jews;
> tourist Jews in hot shirts and paper beanies;
> survivors, both? Perhaps. They nod and pray
> while an old Pole rains down death on Arab towns
> in their name, death on Arab cities like the one
> that spreads its tentacles of shop, dark alley
> and hate around them here, through which they wend
> to prayer, uncomprehending, as before.
> Pauvre peuple maudit. From having been
> prisoners of mellah and ghetto, to become
> colons in their own country, which they know
> will vanish like the others - Maccabees,
> Hasmoneans, Herodians, Crusaders.
> The Chosen People - of what mocking God?
> Here above, on this mound they cannot enter,
> where Solomon and Herod built their temples,
> which foreigners destroyed, where the Holy of Holies
> lies forever hidden, inexcavable,
> rude Arab guards shout at Gentile sightseers
> strolling among stiff cypresses and cedars:
> No entrance here! No shoes! No immodest dress
> Religion's endless litany of "no's."
> There is the Golden Gate, where Jesus entered
> the city on his donkey, Eternal Ass,
> but you cannot approach, follow his steps;
> the Arabs have blocked it up, for Jewish legend
> says the Messiah will enter here, and they
> want nothing of Him: they await the Mahdi.
> (Although these walls are not Herodian, anyhow;
> they were built by Suleiman the Magnificent,
> a Turk, in the sixteenth century). That dome
> of silver is El Aqsa, the Western Mosque,
> westernmost point of all Muhammad's wanderings
> (physical and mental ones, for he flew here).
> Built by Ommayyads, made a church by Crusaders,
> restored by Saladin (a Kurd),
> set on fire by an Australian (or was he Jordanian?
> - identities soon blur in the Middle East)
> twelve years ago. A guide will show the spot
> where a Palestinian gunned down King Abdallah
> as he left his Friday prayers, thirty years ago.
> Thirty years? Thirty centuries of hate! Below,
> the Jews stick messages to God in crannies
> of their Wall (all they have left), mumble and nod.
> Black suits, white shawls, skull-caps. The Arab merchants,
> defying Shabbat, wearing other kinds
> of skull-caps, or keffiyehs, work the tourists
> from those dark shops where they sprawl and smile and bargain
> and hate all day, moving like snakes, to strike.
> Arab women in the rich, red embroidery
> of Guatemalan Indians squat, sell their wares.
> The enemy? What if the enemy
> is oneself? One's own self-doubt? One's masochism,
> or a guilty conscience? (Didn't that concept
> arise with this Chosen People, anyway?)
> Down by the gate where Stephen, first Christian martyr,
> was stoned to death, Arab children celebrate
> Id-El-Fitr, in their new clothes, eating felaffel,
> riding donkeys, mounting wooden ferris-wheels
> spun by two brawny men, shrieking with delight
> as the wheel rises five metres: these belong.
> This is their land, their home, their festival.
> No one can take it from them. The Other People
> come from everywhere and nowhere. Where is here?
> They have no answer, self-fulfilling prophets,
> knowing what's taken must be given back,
> a paranoid people, always remembering
> Ahab and Naboth's vineyard and Elijah,
> and the dogs shall lick the blood of Jezabel.
> Approach the dome of gold now, with its blue
> and green faïence tiles, given by King Hussein;
> geometric lozenges, and an endless ribbon
> of calligraphy proclaiming God is Great
> and Beautiful and Only and Supreme.
> Enter, and in the darkness you'll behold,
> looming up craggily, the rock.
> The peek of Mount Moriah. The first land
> to emerge from primal seas, when God's hand pointed;
> and it will be the last, legend says, to sink
> in the final fire; that chain hanging from the dome
> points down to the exact centre of the earth
> (as all chains do - but let us not be quibblers).
> This the mountaintop where Abraham
> lured Isaac (Muslims say it was Ishmael,
> and Samaritans - who still exist - insist
> it's a different mountain), his best-loved son,
> to sacrifice him blindly to an angry
> God in a burning bush. That God was pleased
> by His servant's obedience, stayed his hand, sent an angel,
> and placed a sheep conveniently nearby,
> in a thicket's completely irrelevant
> to the fact that blood was spilt to please a God
> innocent blood was spilled on the Holy Rock
> to please a primitive God that lives on blood.
> Abraham, father of three religions,
> all drenched in blood. In a few weeks, the Muslims
> will celebrate the feast of the Sacrifice.
> Already they are fattening sheep; each family
> (even those living in apartment houses;
> the sound of baaing fills the quiet nights)
> has a pet ram now that is fed and coddled,
> paraded by proud children on daily walks,
> with its fat tail, pink ribbon and pink paint mark.
> It thinks it's loved, and it responds with love,
> quite unsuspecting that, early on the feast day
> the father of the family will slit
> its throat, spill its blood ritually, till it dies,
> while those same children watch, grave-eyed with wonder,
> then eat it, make a rug out of its skin.
> The blood-soaked human race! This is the rock
> whence Muhammad one night, on his poet's wings
> and his Pegasus, El Burak, sprang to the seventh Heaven,
> talked there with God, with prophets and with angels,
> and brought his message back, of justice, mercy,
> forgiveness - and blood, too. Scant miles from here,
> over dry rolling hills, the other one,
> the lonely one, the man on the donkey,
> who tried (and failed) to send a different message,
> was born. Within three days his birth was marked
> by blood - the Slaughter of the Innocents.
> He said "This is my body. This is my blood."
> "Take ye and eat. Take ye and drink." They did.
> He died in blood, and three hundred yards away
> (in a dark church which five denominations
> control and fight over, and which they claim
> is the earth's real centre) his body lies.
> (It does not lie there, naturally: "He is risen";
> though Muslims say he did not even die;
> another was crucified in his place; he rose
> to heaven, and will return at the end of time
> when Mount Moriah burns; an empty tomb
> awaits him at Medina, beside the Prophet;
> and many Protestants believe the body
> lays in another spot, outside the walls
> of this strange city.) The Dome of the Rock.
> Look around now in the cool octagon
> with its circling windows - clearly Byzantine,
> which of course means an imitation of the Roman -
> and the columns holding it up are Corinthian;
> it was built originally by an Ommayyad caliph,
> used also by the Crusaders - how one tires
> of names, facts, history's burden! I softly pad
> on red Rabat carpets given by the King
> of Morocco, circle round and round the Rock
> and look up
> into a fantasy of red and gold
> arabesques
> calligraphy
> stylised vegetation
> and no human form,
> infinite yearning for the unknown God,
> Maker of all, the Beautiful, the One,
> faceless and formless, pure spirit, pure good.
> The children shriek with happiness at their funfair.
> An old Pole rains down death on Arab towns.
> Below the Jews wail at their Western Wall,
> forever damned. I stare down at the Rock.
> But the Rock runs red with blood!
>
>
> (Note: This poem should succeed in offending everybody, and I do not 
> feel
> like annotating it; it is largely self-explanatory, and its references
> will be clear to anyone who knows anything about the Bible, 
> Christianity,
> Islam and/or Jerusalem. The phenomenon I refer to in the last line is 
> of
> course the afterimage that would appear on the rock if one switched 
> one's
> gaze to it after a long time spent staring at the red-and-gold dome.)
>
>
>
>
> Regards
>
> BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB
>