Green Shirts and Red Fezzes
69
I die, after me my brother, after him my younger brother, and
so on down the family line until Palestine is liberated."
As we watched from the balcony, the Followers of Truth
marched across the bridge in long thin columns, their khaffiyas
flowing in the wind, their banners proclaiming in huge Arabic
letters: GO AND FIGHT THE JEWS . . . THE ARMY OF ALLAH
GOING TO FREE PALESTINE . . . I WANT TO COME WITH
YOU.
While the two fuehrers stood side by side with me, waving
from the balcony, the columns marched to Misr el Fattat
headquarters.
That St. Patrick's night, I witnessed the weirdest briefing
session any American could hope to see. Green Shirts and
Followers of Truth filled the courtyard, so that not even a
crow could find a resting-place. On the iron fence was a banner, reading: THE ARMY OF MOHAMMEDAN GOD. FOR THE LIBERATION OF PALESTINE. The light from two gas-lamps eerily
highlighted the bronzed features and the white headdress of
these Nile warriors, as a half dozen orators waited to set off
the fiery flames of a Holy War.
From eight o'clock on, for two hours, speaker after speaker
mesmerized them with the most extraordinary supercharged
emotional oratory I have heard in ten years of hearing the best
among our worst Americans. The average Arab is highly emotional and responds quickly to the rhythm of poetry, and the
passion of oratory. The Arabic language itself is highly poetic.
In addition, its repetitious phrases, its changing cadence from
deep guttural to sustained high-pitched tremolo, conveys a
deep, earthy, angry explosiveness. The effect over a period of
time is overpowering. It seemed to me the words were like
savage thrusts into the night. They were like flying stilettos
jabbing at my senses. I understood only a few words—Allah,
Yahood, Falastine (Palestine), attl, attl (kill, kill), Mujahed
(Holy Warrior), Jehad (Holy War)—but I felt the impact
of every word, and the crackling thunder of every sentence as
it ripped and lashed out into the night.