Paul Eisen

Paul Eisen

Monday, 18 June 2012

The Bookseller

With apologies to Naseem Elissa of Cobham (The real bookseller) 
Take my friend Nadeem for example. Naseem owns Joppa Books in Byfleet and I’m down there one Saturday morning, by appointment, to see him and his books. Not that an appointment was necessary since it quickly becomes obvious that Naseem spends most of his waking life amongst his books.

 “Joppa?” he says in answer to my query, “Why Joppa? It’s the old name forJaffa.”
 It turns out that it was in old Jaffa that Naseem was born and it was from the old Jaffa waterfront that Naseem, aged eleven, was passed down to a small boat with his parents as Zionist militia took the old town with mortars, gunshots and loudhailers. He can’t remember much of course, just the noise of the loudspeaker vans.
 “They’d recorded sounds of screaming and sobbing. Women. Always of the women. I remember that…..…. Irgun” he tailed off trance-like.
 “Irgun” he said “You know, Deir Yassin”

For Naseem and for the six million other Palestinians in Israel, Palestine, Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, America, Europe, South America and anywhere else these people have found themselves, no more need be said to explain the mad flight from towns and villages, the clearing of the land. For some it’s Lydda or Ramle or Haifa or five hundred odd villages. But for Naseem it’s Jaffa. Thousands, then with numbers swollen from the outlying villages long fallen to Zionist onslaught, tens of thousands, pouring down the boulevards leading to the sea. From every corner of the city, from the swish Ajami, and from the squalid Manshiyyeh they began their flight by sea and land, on wheels and on foot. Meanwhile in the smart city centre, young Irgunists ransacked stores of dresses and ornaments for their girlfriends till everything was carted off: furniture, carpets, pictures, crockery and cutlery. And what they could not carry, they smashed: pianos, lamps and window-panes.

Finally the most disgusting spectacle of all, as Jews of all classes poured into Jaffa from Tel Aviv to grab what was left.
“And now?” I ask

“Now?” Naseem answers, “So now you choose, Arab squalor or Hebrew chic" He’s referring to the pride of new Jaffa’s old Ajami district, now crammed with espresso bars and bistros where Israelis come of a Saturday afternoon to sample the authentic middle-eastern flavour. The artists’ studios, the final vulgarity.

 “….the New Israel Fund put some money in, mainly from rich, Los Angeles Jews,…. liberals. Something about renewing the city centre. So what did you get? Galleries and pizza bars, and Jaffa is gentrified by the very same people who had created the mess in the first place….Now they’ve done with rocketing prices  what the Irgun did with guns and mortar bombs – the destruction of Arab Jaffa”

 A few years back Nasseem visited.

“You know, you drive on the main highway andJaffaisn’t even marked as an exit.  You have to know to get off at the exit marked Kibbutz Galiyot.”

Rejecting any ready-to-wear conspiracy theory, Nassem concludes that Kibbutz Galiyot is simply a more important feature on the Israeli map than is Jaffa. Then, once off the highway it’s just housing projects and industrial parks all the way. “I tell you, David, you’ve really got to want to get there to make it through that lot!”

 Finally he made it to his old district, even to the site of his house.

 “….There was nothing there, so I assumed the house was destroyed but I kept on hanging around, checking landmarks. I just had a feeling….Then it hit me. That horrible two-story pebble-brown Israeli building I was standing in front of is our house, or at least, was our house. Now it had a second storey and the whole thing had been coated with institution coloured pebbled-cement. David, they’d buried my house. Well, I was just too upset to even think of going inside so I just got back in the car. Then, emblazoned in Hebrew and English letters I saw its new identity, Beit Nurit - House of Light and ahead, a large electric gate which was now the front entrance. It was open and I just couldn’t resist so I walked in.”

“The inside was as confusing as the outside. Entrances had been switched, additions made, walls knocked down. And, just like the outside, the whole place had been coated with this anonymous institutional fascia. Then I saw these arches. It was like a sudden shock of recognition. You see, there’s this old family photograph from 1947, you know with that dream-like, slightly out-of-focus quality to it, of all of us standing in front of these same arches. When I was a boy I used to look at that photo and I always wondered at how innocent they all looked, you know, when you realise what was going to happen to them just one year later.”

“Well just then someone spoke to me in Hebrew and I was startled out of my dream. A woman, a large blonde Germanic looking matron in a white coat, a real Nurse Ratchet, saying things I didn't understand. I looked around and realised that the house was full of retarded children. I answered in English. She asked me what I wanted and I said that this was once my house and I just wanted to look at it. She said I must be mistaken, that it couldn't be true, and, anyway how could I know it was my house? I said I grew up in it, that’s how I know. Anyway, she said that before I looked around anymore she must ask the Director. So, after a bit I was ushered up to the Director whose reaction was completely different. He sat there at his desk with this aura of wisdom, of deep, expansive understanding, like a sage.”

‘Come in come in, yes, yes come in, here I want to show you something’ he said in that aggressive manner that seems to pass for warmth in Israelis.

I followed him to the landing where there was an odd coloured frieze on the wall. He asked me to look closely and then proceeded to explain to me that the frieze (which I was barely able to focus on as I heard his words) depicted the return of the Jewish people to the land of Israeland the creation of the Jewish state. He ended with words that I vaguely remember as something about the success of the Zionist dream. I really wasn’t sure what this was all about, perhaps he was just really wanting to gloat and make sure I was completely clear about who was in charge. It was very sick and unnecessary. ”

 My reaction was, well, one of non-reaction. I was speechless. Anyway I left and walked round the neighbourhood. There was a small archaeological museum with placards narrating the history of Jaffa. But they had completely removed virtually anything Arab from the city. Look, I can show you."
He got up and marched into a back room, returning with a small brochure which he slapped down on the desk.

 “Look at this David” he taps impatiently with a forefinger.
 Headed “Old Jaffa” and published by “The Old Jaffa Development Corporation”, on the front page was a potted history.
 **1750 Establishment of Jaffa's first Jewish hostel
**1799 Conquest of Jafa by Napoleon's forces, outbreak of the bubonic plague
**1820 Revival ofJaffa's Jewish Community with the establishment of a hostel and synagogue by
    Isaiah Ajiman
**1832 Conquest of Jaffa by the Egyptian forces
**1881 First Group of Jewish pioneers, belonging to the Bilu organization arrives inJaffa
**1903-1905 Jaffa suffers a crippling cholera epidemic
**1917 Expulsion of the Jewish communities ofJaffaand Tel Aviv by the Turkish Administration
**16 November, 1917Conquest of Jaffa by Allenby
**1936-39 Anti-Jewish Disturbances throughout the country [this is how the Great Palestine Rebellion against British rule is described]
**14 May 1948Jaffais liberated during the passover festival by the Jewish underground
**24 April 1950Tel Aviv andJaffais unified.

Accompanied by panels and etchings illustrating the history, there was not one Arab to be seen.  Before I even got to the bottom Naseem reached over,

“No David, look, look at this.” He snatches the leaflet, turns it over and thrusts it back into my still open hands. “Look, look!”

"Towards the end of WWI the city was conquered by General Allenby, ushering in the period of the British Mandate. The port of Jaffa, (the sole port at the time) served as the point of entry for the increased Jewish immigration which came to the land. The Jews suffered from pogroms and persecution at the hand of the Arabs. The attacks reached a peak shortly before the declaration of the state of Israel in May 1948.
 "Jewish defensive action led to the flight of most of the city's Arabs, and shortly after that part of the city was settled by the impoverished Jewish families whom the war had left homeless."
 “So this is what we’re up against, David. Unbelievable….Anyway I’d had just about enough history so I left and went to the fish restaurant by the sea. A bit of a ritual this, for us old Jaffaites. After being slapped in the face by our gentrified, de-Arabized city, and after being treated to a laundered version of our own history, we then treat ourselves to a slap-up meal by the sea to forgive and forget….”

Still, Naseem’s made a good enough life for himself. For years he was inAbu Dhabiworking as an engineer and then thought, “Shit, what’s life for?” So he came to Britain to work with his real love. Books.

Naseem has a lot of books. On shelves, in cupboards, on desks, filed and catalogued in his elaborate computer system. Just one glance at the Palestine-Israel section of his catalogue which he so promptly sent in answer to my telephone enquiry tells you all you need to know. Books onIsrael, onPalestineon the Israel/Palestine conflict catalogued with author, title, short description and an assessment of condition. Books on everything. The land, the people, the history, the archaeology, the culture, the wars, the treaties, Jerusalem, Arafat, Ben Gurion, the American Jewish lobby, the 1948 war, the Suez campaign, the Six-Day War the Yom Kippur war, the Lebanon war, Entebbe, travel guides, biographies, photo books, pre-state Zionism, post-state Zionism, Ashkenazim, Sephardim, Bedouin, Druze, pro-Zionism, anti-Zionism. Why, there’s something for everyone! 

So go into Naseem’s stock rooms at the back of the shop. I did, and I spent a good two hours there whilst Naseem sat in his office compiling his lists of old books a million miles from oldJaffa.
 Neck aching from reading the spines, heart beating from this treasure-trove I pause only, when, at the end of one of the shelves, stacked neatly on the floor I come across a pile of “The Protocols of the Elders of Zion”. Not believing what I am seeing, I go on, finally settling on a book on Palestinian village life. It was cheap. Naseem’s books, fascinating as they are, are outrageously expensive. Then to the front office to pay. As we go through the formalities we chat.

Naseem brushes off The Protocols. He just sends them to America. A middle-man. And he laughs and shows me a book so anti-Semitic that I can hardly put it down. “Is he mad?” I ask Naseem referring to the author who, Naseem assures me is a Jew.

Naseem likes England though not, he’s quick to add, the weather. But he is disenchanted with the peace process. Actually ‘disenchanted’ doesn’t do Naseem’s feelings justice. Like so many of the Palestinians I’m to meet in these post-Oslo days Naseem is bereft. Like a motherless child, he searches everywhere. Arafat? It’s as if his own father had upped and gone. And, like so many Palestinians I am to meet over the next few weeks, his spirits only really rise at the mention of Edward Said. “Did you see the article?” He booms, referring to the piece by Said in the Guardian a few days ago denouncing the Oslo sell-out. Only one other name receives a similar accolade. “Ah! Chomsky!” he beams, “Now there’s a man! A Jew who speaks out!” And Rabin?  “A man to trust, a man to do business with.”  Says Naseem. I’m not so sure.
 “You know I sometimes I feel I ought to do something.” he says, “But what?” I have no answer for him.

On the way out I ask him if he lives nearby.

“Yes in Cobham”

“Cobham!” I say. “Weird place for a Palestinian.”

Wednesday, 13 June 2012

Zionism's Fierce Beauty

Any fool knows that Jews find Israel and Zionism beautiful. But does anyone else? And is this only because they've been brainwashed by Jews?

 Or....does it have some kind of inherent beauty?

Does such a thing exist? And if it does exist, does it exist in Zionism and Israel?
 And does this mean that Israel and Zionism just aren't as bad as everyone makes out?

Or is it that there can be "No ethnic cleansing without poetry" ......... and "if you want to understand barbarism you better learn to see the beauty that is entangled with it.."   




Sunday, 10 June 2012

The Ballad of MacKenzie Paine

Some time ago Ingrid Rimland told me about MacKenzie Paine. Ingrid knew and loved MacKenzie by her real name of Audre Pinque. One evening in Alabama USA, Audre died in a car crash and some time later Ingrid determined to write and publish a short elegy. She asked me to write a foreword for this labour of love.
"Whatever you may think about revisionism and revisionists, you'll be hard-pressed not to thrill to the story of MacKenzie Paine. 
MacKenzie Paine was the nom de guerre of Audre Pinque - revisionist and Palestinian solidarity Internet activist extraordinaire .Audre died in a terrible car crash at 6.30 in the evening on March 12 2002, in Alabama, USA. With her death, all lovers of truth and freedom worldwide lost a vehement supporter and tireless advocate for justice. 
Audre's internet sign-off was as follows: "MacKenzie Paine battles intolerance disguised as tolerance from a dusty hilltop in Mexico"  Audre did just that - a maybe died for it. 
One of her last earthly communications was an email to a Palestinian revisionist, Dr. Ibrahim Alloush, which ended, "If I fly into Amman, can you meet me and point me in the right direction to Palestine?"This is the kind of book you'll find in a youth hostel and then never forget. Appreciate it!"

                Paul Eisen, Director (UK), Deir Yassin Remembered

And here is my favourite MacKenzie Paine missile:

At the Museum of Tolerance

by MacKenzie Paine

Teaching tolerance through "Holocaust education" in the public schools is now the law in cities, counties, and states acrossAmerica. As revisionists are well aware, the standard account of the Jewish Holocaust taught in such courses is more than dubious.  So too are the controversial methods, including "role playing" and similar types of psychological manipulation.  But does Holocaust education really promote tolerance?

I recently had the opportunity to answer that question for myself when I visited the Simon Wiesenthal Center'sMuseum of ToleranceinLos Angeles.  And, since it is our children who are now the chief targets of "Holocaust education," I took my own two sons with me to gauge the museum's impact, and their reactions.

Prior to our visit, I interviewed my sons on things the Museum of Tolerance regards as key issues for elementary school pupils.  Their innocence was evident. They had no concept of Jewishness, were aware of no people or nation that was inherently evil, and knew of Hitler and the Nazis only what they had seen inHollywoodmovies. They are both fifth-graders who attend a Catholic school inMexico, and their outlook is entirely appropriate for their ages and life experience.

On a dreary Sunday morning in early March, we joined the long line for the Museum of Tolerance.  Germar Rudolf, visiting town to discuss his role as an expert witness in David Irving's upcoming appeal, accompanied us.  We waited, along with dozens of school groups, as each visitor was subjected to a security procedure more searching than any airport or border check I've ever experienced.
After a short explanation of how the tour would proceed, we were pointed toward two large doors. Above them, bright red neon signs designated one door "Not-Prejudiced," the other, "Prejudiced."  On a nearby video, a rather sarcastic actor challenged the visitors to consider whether or not they were prejudiced.  

Then each of us was instructed to choose the door that matched our attitudes.  As the already humbled mass ambled herd-like toward the "Prejudiced" portal, I opted to try the "Not-Prejudiced" door.  It couldn't be opened -- it was fake.  So began the brainwashing of yet another group of young Americans.

The first part of the tour is an emotional barrage of film clips and still photos showing racial strife, riots, and sufferingThird Worldchildren. There may have been a European-American pictured without a Ku Klux Klan robe, but if there was I missed it.  It hurt to see my sons viewing such violence and carnage, so I tried to rush them through as quickly as possible.

Then came the feature presentation, the Holocaust exhibit.  The tour is self-guided, so there is no one to ask questions of, no one to challenge. The visitors simply go from one grayish display of mannequins and recorded "conversations" to another.  All of them "explain" the political environment of 1930s Germany, without the least attempt at balance or accuracy.  As Germar dryly commented after the causes of the Second World War had been neatly packed into a three-minute explanation, "They forgot to mention the Russian Revolution."

The third part of the tour is an emotional assault on the psyche.  I watched my two sons gulp, their eyes wide, as they viewed the usual photographs of heaps of corpses and listened to recorded descriptions of diesel gassings, viewed photographs "ordinary" Germans said to have helped the Nazis shoot Jewish civilians, black and white films of people carrying all of their worldly belongings, and more.  All of these images flash across multiple screens in a darkened room, and the students absorb them like sponges.

Then came the grand finale, a forty-five minute lecture from Elizabeth Mann, a self-professed Holocaust survivor, to a now traumatized roomful of students and teachers.  At the end of her monologue I asked Mrs. Mann why she had told so many impressionable young people that the Germans made soap out of Jewish corpses during the Second World War, when even the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum says that wasn't so.  She responded that she disagreed with the USHMM.  How's that?  Differences of opinion are one thing, but arguing for a heinous accusation that has never been substantiated, and is dismissed by virtually all historians as false, is quite another. But this was lost on the students.

I next asked Mrs. Mann why she had told her audience that the "gas chamber" at Auschwitz was a dual-purpose shower room, which could be converted into a homicidal gas chamber with the flip of a switch. The lethal gas, she had told us, came out of the showerheads.  When I pointed out that all the "orthodox" Holocaust literature on Auschwitz describes only rooms into which the poison was dropped -- in granules -- through windows or holes in the roof, the room erupted into hisses and boos.  Mrs. Mann, saved by the booing, made no response.

Once outside the lecture hall, the students called me over to ask me how I could possibly question such a sweet, elderly woman who had suffered so much.  They accused me of calling her a liar. I was happy to explain to them, as a mother to her children, that I hadn't accused Mrs. Mann of lying.  I had simply questioned some of the things that she had said.  I looked out into the group and could see fear in some of the faces, as if they were being confronted by a lunatic with a gun, and I beseeched them to visit the USHMM's Internet Web site and read for themselves what that museum's authorities say about the soap libel, and about gassing atAuschwitz.  When one of the teenagers asked me how I knew that soap wasn't made at Auschwitz, Germar, identifying himself as a chemist, told them calmly that it would have been physically impossible to make soap out of human fat in the buildings atAuschwitz.  There had been no facilities for such an undertaking.

With each of our responses the group became more unruly, sarcastic, and intolerant.  Rather than ask responsible questions or make clear arguments, at last they resorted to taunting us, calling Germar a Nazi and telling us to "f___ off."  They frightened my sons, so we left, but not before they ended their outburst by chasing our van out of the underground parking lot.  Their teacher was helpless to stop them, although she tried.

My sons and I learned a lesson at theMuseumofTolerance, a lesson about intolerance -- taxpayer-funded, state-sanctioned intolerance -- not merely of Germans and Christians and European-Americans, but also of intellectual curiosity and reasoned dissent.  While I was able to "de-program" my sons with some healthy discussion and simple logic, I'm one of the fortunate few who have heard the revisionist side. If that angry mob of teenagers is indicative of the effect Holocaust studies have on our children,Americarisks schooling a generation in bigotry.

About the author
MacKenzie Paine battles intolerance disguised as tolerance from a dusty hilltop in Mexico.

Tuesday, 5 June 2012

Israel Shamir and the One-State Conference

So, the forthcoming One-State Conference in Munich has banned Israel Shamir (someone who, in my view, may well be read five hundred years from now.) Oh, I know they haven’t exactly banned him, they’ve simply, in the light of certain ‘sensitivities’, asked him not to attend.

And what are these ‘sensitivities’? Well, the conference is taking place in Munich - Hitler’s city, whose citizens heard Hitler’s hoarse and assuredly unforgettable voice long before the rest of Germany and the world had that experience.  And why Shamir? Well, he always keeps bad company (God bless him) and in this case he’s been seen hobnobbing with Horst Mahler (God bless him too).

Well, I’ve heard this and I’ve heard that but as far as I can see, the only worthwhile response of anyone who seriously believes in One-State is to say to the German and Palestinian organisers who cannot see their way to hosting Shamir is:

“We understand and sympathise with your situation but until Munich, Germany and yourselves are able to host the likes of Israel Shamir then Munich, Germany and yourselves are not appropriate hosts for our conference. We wish you well and look forward to your liberation.”