Hanan, I have found our dolls,
And all our chores are done,
And all our schoolwork is done.
The rest of the day is ours!
Come play with me, have fun.

Yes, yes, Leila, I am coming!
But first let me find my shoe.
And please will you tie the lace?
I cannot tie the lace.
I never do it well.
Leila, I’m glad that you do.

There, Hanan, your shoes are tied.
Come, let us go away
Do you have the doll’s clothes?
The ones that we made? The doll’s clothes?
Good, then we are ready.
We shall visit Maria today.

The Palestinian sisters
Skip gaily out of doors.
They run past the ancient olive tree-
Their family’s last ancient olive tree,
And try hard not to remember
That there once were many more.

Leila, it’s very muddy today.
Yes, Hanan, you are right.
The pathway will be full of mud.
Let us not go the way that has such mud.
Let us walk along by the road
Where the mud is very light.

Leila! I will not go that way!
There are war tanks along the road!
And the soldiers are so cruel-
You know they are always cruel.
You know they might shoot us for fun!
You shall not make me go!

Hanan, if we close our eyes up tight
As we pass them by,
Then to them we will be invisible!
They see not what is invisible.
They cannot shoot invisible girls-
They could not see to try!

So, holding hands and closing eyes,
The sisters ‘invisibly’ walk through.
Hanan still feels the fear in her heart,
But trusts her sister with all her heart.
The soldiers see them, but pay no mind.
For once, they have something better to do.

You see, Hanan? They did not see us!
Yes! Oh, Leila, you are so clever!
What a wonderful idea it was you had!
The best idea anyone has had!
We must tell this plan to our people.
Now we will be safe forever!

Just wait till we tell Maria
The wonderful idea you’ve had!
Think how happy Maria will be!
She will say it is too good to be!
Now all our people will be safe!
Oh Leila, I’m so glad!

Yes, Hanan, I’m so glad, too,
And here is Maria’s home.
And there’s Maria’s mother.
Let us ask Maria’s mother
If we can play with Maria today
To show her the doll clothes we’ve sewn.

Hello, Mrs. Fayyad, is Maria home?
Yes, girls, in her usual place.
Go ahead and play with her.
I know you want to play with her.
I know it makes you happy
To see her smiling face.

Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Fayyad!
And quickly away to Maria they ran.
Maria’s mother watched them go-
With grief-filled eyes, she watched them go,
And wiped a tear from her worry-lined cheek
With a trembling, calloused hand.

The girls came to a garden wall,
And there beneath a large fig tree,
Maria sat beside a stone-
A very round and large, flat stone-
A perfect dolly-party table
For baklava and coffee.

Hello Maria, how are you?
We’ve brought our dolls to play.
We made new clothes to show you-
In just a minute we’ll show you,
But first you’ll hear a wonderful thing!
Leila, tell her what happened today!

So with breathless words and sparkling eyes
Leila told Maria how all the while
They had passed the soldiers and been invisible
And were safe because they were invisible
And all Palestinians could be safe from the settlers now!
And Maria brightly smiled.

Can you believe this Maria?
God is great! Is He not?
Think! Now our parents will be so happy!
Now all Palestinians will be so happy,
Because now at last we can live without fear
Of being bombed or shot!

Maria’s beautiful black eyes shone
From beneath her curly head.
And her lips were oh, so happily smiling,
So beautiful, cheerfully, happily smiling,
And dimples marked her rosy cheeks,
But never a word she said.

Hanan, Maria, we must celebrate!
Here, have a piece of cake.
One for you, Hanan, and your little doll,
One for Maria, me and my doll,
And now, God be praised, we shall eat.
But Maria did not partake.

Soon, the day’s shadows began to grow long,
And Maria’s mother came.
Girls, you should be going back home,
It’s late, and your mother will want you home.
She will very soon be worrying for you.
you must stop your little game.

Yes, Mrs. Fayyad, we will go home now,
And we shall tell you a wonderful thing!
But goodbye, Maria, we will see you soon.
You can be very sure we will see you soon.
Oh, Allah be praised for His goodness!
And the happiness He brings!

Later, alone in the dusky twilight,
Maria’s mother strode to the rock,
Where Maria still sat there smiling-
Maria sat motionless, blankly smiling.
Her mother touched the hard little face
And gasped through a strangled sob.

For this Maria was her daughter’s doll,
And her own Maria was dead!
Her form had been ripped by machine gun bullets.
That demon-soldier’s machine gun bullets
Had torn through the body of her little darling,
And to death, Maria had bled.

And at noon, the next day, a hard wooden box
Had been carried away through the streets,
That bore the corpse of Maria.
All the townspeople mourned for Maria,
And cursed the race of invaders
Which again had destroyed what was sweet.

But Maria was loved by Hanan and Leila
So much, that when after she died,
The two little girls found Maria’s doll-
Maria’s favorite, beloved doll,
And pretended it was Maria herself,
So that from their grief they could hide.

Oh precious girls! They should not know
The gnawing, sickening pain of dread!
And their poor little dreams of being invisible!
For they can live only by being invisible.
And Maria the doll is loved and caressed…
While the Maria the child is dead.

A glaring sun stood over
The heap of demolished home.
The rubble breathed the breath
Of dead and silent stones.
And in the midst of wreckage
One figure stood alone-
One figure stood there weeping,
A little child weeping.
A son of Palestine weeping.
And he was all alone.

He bore a likeness to my brother.
His tears shone in the harsh sun.
His hands were clasped together
As proof that despair had won.
All fear and grief and sorrow,
Became him who was so young.
And in his face I saw my brother-
Little Anthony, my brother.
A child of innocence, my brother,
Wept there in the glaring sun.

The outraged sun burned its fury
In a sky of weeping blue,
As the child wailed in anguish
That his nightmares had come true.
The bleak and desolate desert wind
In despair about him blew-
And all of us were weeping.
For my brother, I was weeping-
For the outrage I was weeping-
And in despairing wonder, weeping
All that I could do
Was touch my brother’s face and whisper,
“What have they done to you?”

There once was a Muslim, he was humble and good
He cared about others, as all humans should.
He fought against evil with powerful words
His wit and his mind were sharper than swords.
He prayed often to God and asked for His grace
He preached truth and justice, regardless of the place.
He never would cower or shrink from the fight
Of good against evil and wrong against right.
And to any observer it was quite plain to see
That he strived to become the best person he could be.

But alas, for him! He was no Zionist Christian
And some find it their duty to tell
That he never supported the Jewish agenda
And so he went straight down to hell.

There once was a Jew, he abandoned his faith
To go follow Christ, so that he might be saved.
Of Israel’s bombs the whole world he warned
Then for 18 years suffered in jail for his Lord.
But still for justice and goodness he fought
He did not give up. His soul could not be bought.
He practiced humility and suffered oppression
But never would he agree to a concession.
And to any observer it was quite plain to see
That he strived to become the best person he could be…

But alas, for him! He was no Zionist Christian
And some find it their duty to tell
That he never supported the Jewish agenda
And so he went straight down to hell

There was once a maiden, she was young and sweet
When she was shot to death on Palestine’s street.
While taking a simple walk to the store
A Jewish gun fired, and she was no more.
A hole in her stomach coughed out innocent blood
That took life from her body and put it into the mud.
She knew life was fading before her own eyes
Death was standing before her with no dark disguise.
And the last words uttered by this maiden of 8
Were simply these three-’God is great’.

But alas, for her! She was no Zionist Christian
And some find it their duty to tell
That she never supported the Jewish agenda
And so she went straight down to hell.

There once was a woman, she was Christian and brave
She traveled to Palestine, the people to save.
While protesting destruction of Palestinian homes
The Jews’ bulldozer deliberately crushed all her bones.
For trying to save lives, hers was taken away
For being a heroine, her reputation was slain.
For loving justice, she was shown none
Her life, when under the bulldozer was done.
She had hatred for evil and all that is wrong
Her nature was true, her passion was strong.

But alas, for her! She was no Zionist Christian
And some find it their duty to tell
That she got in the way of the Jewish agenda
And so she went straight down to hell.

There once was a man, he was a liar, a thief
The only thing that concerned him was his money to keep.
He called himself Christian, but this was a lie
For his work caused so many to suffer and die.
He lied to the world and led people astray
And his riches with blood innocent people had to pay.
He was the most lying, hypocritical wretch on the earth
And not one filthy penny was his damned soul worth.
And to those who had eyes it was quite plain to see
The he was as rotten as could possibly be.

But hooray for him! He was a Zionist Christian
And it seems it’s our duty to tell them
That He ALWAYS supported the Jewish agenda
And so he went straight up to heaven.

2007 by Stefania Glenn
sglenn@crescentandcross.com

American and a Christian I am supposed to support and bow down to the authors of the crime that is pictured above.
CRIME! What sort of word is that to describe this act? What sort of word can properly describe the horrific injustice wrought against that innocent branch of God’s creation? Is this a display of the justice for which my country is supposed to be famous?
I am a Christian American, and as a result of that my duty is to serve God and my country to the best of my ability. If serving God means that I turn away from the liars who claim to speak in God’s name but who support the horrors like the one shown above, then so be it. If serving my country means to fight against the injustices that my country encourages, then so be it. I am loyal to God, not to the people who assume that they are doing the will of God, but who instead are doing the will of their father, the devil. I am loyal to my country, not to the criminals who control it. I am loyal to justice and I refuse to sit quietly while other innocent people suffer and die because of a few greedy people and the lazy indifference of others.
Injustice makes a hell on earth for so many people. Just look at the picture above. Think of how many things would change if we restored justice. And it wouldn’t only change things for this life, it would make it easier to get to eternal happiness in the next life as well. Justice would make earth more like heaven than like Hell, as it presently is. It would bridge the gap between heaven and earth so that passing from this life to heaven would not be so difficult. There would not be such a deep, wide chasm through which to pass, but instead a bridge. A beautiful bridge of justice. It will be built, and I will help to build it.
Stefania Glenn
sglenn@crescentandcross.com

Murdering abortionist, how see you the blood,
As you cut, butcher and slay?
As you sever and slash, forever for cash
You attempt to explain it away…
‘It’s only a fetus, of course, you know,
Not really a human of worth.
The birthing process is painful and slow
And there are too many people on earth.
The choice is yours,’ you say as blood pours
From the wounds of the babe God saw fit to create.
Oh machine of murder, programmed to hate,
Is this how you see the blood?
Virgin Mary, how see you the blood
Of your son as He is nailed to the cross?
He hangs in shame and you feel his pain.
Your tears flow as each blood drop is lost.
Blood pours from each wound cut in flesh so deep,
Blood is spilled with injustice so great,
That you think even the Pharisees with shame will weep,
But they look on with eyes full of hate.
Too great is grief to cry, as red innocence meets your eye.
The anguish that makes your heart bleed is beyond sobs.
Oh beautiful, sorrowful, Mother of God,
Is this how you see the blood?
Child of innocence, how see you the blood
Of a wound whether large or small?
Be there pain or no, flow it fast or slow,
You will weep from fear of it all.
The red seeping out causes innocent tears,
It is fright that outweighs the pain,
Blood is the source of your childish fears,
Ah, from you we have wisdom to gain.
The mere sight of red you abhor and dread,
For you are human, untainted and true
Oh, little child whom pureness shines through,
Is this how you see the blood?
Heart of compassion, how see you the blood
That the evil take from the just?
If blood must spill–as indeed it will,
From the cursed let it flow as it must.
Oh, why should the innocent suffer and die?
It is they who bleed the most,
While the evil that kill them deceive and lie
And of imagined righteousness boast.
You feel the pain as lifeblood drains
From the good of the world and leaves it dark
Heart filled with compassion(the human mark)
Is this how you see the blood?
Child of America, how see you the blood
That spills from the unjustly maimed?
Do you see the flood of innocent blood
Like that of your video games?
Is blood really for you some kind of play?
Is it really so much of a joke,
That you didn’t give a thought as to taking away
Someone’s life with a club and one stroke?
Is it that you don’t see that blood is not free?
That it is not like the gore of a cheap Hollywood film?
Oh, pitiful child, being trained to kill,
Is this how you see the blood?
Soldier of ignorance, how see you the blood
That you once were so eager to take?
The blood that you now loathe is soaked through your clothes
And no water can make it forsake.
Your nights are haunted by ghosts red, not white
Through eyelids closed you see
That the reasons for which you were told you would fight
Are not what they now seem to be.
‘But why would they lie?’ you wonder and try
To make sense of insanity with each passing breath.
Oh, ignorant soldier, now wishing for death,
Is this how you see the blood?
Father and mother, how see you the blood
Of your child, a model of you?
As you gasp and cry you wonder why
Your babe must be made to go through
This horrible pain, this inhuman crime
Committed by some heartless beast
Who views human life as less than a dime
And a hindrance to them at the least.
The blood is your own, the life is your throne.
You will live and relive this torturous day.
Father and mother, titles now stolen away
Is this how you see the blood?
Soldier of Israel, how see you the blood
That the Palestinians bleed?
You mangle and cut and practically gut
As commands your hellish creed.
As if you can’t be satisfied with killing
And adding more grief to that bottomless flood,
You have to invent new ways of spilling
And strengthening the flow of innocent blood.
Do you see bloodshed as fun? Have you compassion none?
You have killed the innocents and your humanity too
Son of the devil, as Christ himself called you,
Is this how you see the blood?
And now I ask you: How see you the blood?
Are you human, or are you a beast?
Do you weep and mourn as it seeps through flesh torn?
Or like vampires on blood do you feast?
Does the blood of innocents enrage your own?
Or are you indifferent to the suffering of others?
Is their pain yours? With them do you moan?
Is your compassion so great that it smothers?
Or have you stunted the growth of heart and humanity both
So that you may without anguish ponder bloodshed?
Oh, the blood, blood! the horrors of red!
Through what eyes do you see the blood?
c 2006 by Stefania Glenn
sglenn@crescentandcross.com

In the photo the Israeli soldiers were marching through Palestine. Their faces were blackened and determined-looking with the flag of Israel waving majestically over their heads. Everything about them suggested –or at least was meant to suggest–their courageous acts…their willingness to sacrifice their very lives for their people and homeland…their unbending will…and oh, such piety…
The caption above the photo read ‘Their Job is to Protect Israel…Ours is to support them’ then; ‘You can send money to support these soldiers who are defending their homeland! Send money to relieve the stress that these soldiers go through…blah, blah, blah…’
This was in the Christian edition of the ‘Jerusalem Post’. ‘Support these soldiers’–the picture in the magazine may have looked great–it may have given the effect of wonderful, courageous soldiers, but that is due only to the fact that these soldiers knew they were being photographed for a magazine. They knew they had better at least pretend to not be the murderers and terrorists that they truly are.
I have no doubt that the photo did its work well. I am sure that at least hundreds of Christians were ‘stirred’ by this ‘touching’ scene and sent barrelfuls of money into Israel to slaughter innocents. Maybe these fools who call themselves Christians should see a few pictures of these same exact soldiers when they do not know that the camera is on them and they are being their true selves. Maybe Christians need to see pictures of these soldiers shooting the heads off of Palestinian children whose only crime has been to exist and who are committing the extremely terrorist acts of walking to school or playing in their front yard.
The suffering that these Christians support! The pain, agony, torture! Scenes of suffering are now flashing through my mind, and they stab my heart with a thousand knives! Just imagine for one moment…
A Palestinian girl and her little brother are walking to school. Their hearts are pounding, pounding. They are pounding so loudly that the children imagine they cannot hear anything else. They feel fear. Fear so intense that they do not even recognize it as fear. Their skin is cold and numb and beads of sweat form on their necks and foreheads. The cold wind blows on them but they do not feel it. They feel only the coldness of fear within them. They know that children have been killed on this road before. They remember the time that the boy who had lived only a block away from their house had been on this very path and was machine-gunned dead by the soldiers. He had been doing nothing except walking to school, just as this boy and girl were now doing.
They clutch each others’ hands and move forward, each silently praying, ‘God, keep us safe…’
Then the girl feels a sharp jerk at her shoulder and the boy feels himself sprawling forward into the dust. They see only flashes of their surroundings. The girl sees the blackened face of a man. She catches a glimpse of something long and black. She screams with a scream that seems to have come from somewhere else. Her brain is burning with only one thought, ‘Where is my brother? I cannot see him! Where is he?’
The boy is dragged to his feet. He sees the butt of a rifle coming closer and closer to his face. It hits his chin but he does not feel the blood running down his face, nor the pain that should be accompanying it. He realizes that he is lying on the ground. He struggles to get up, thinking only of protecting his sister. He hears a series of loud sounds and recognizes them as gunshots. Then he sees his sister.
The girl is lying on the ground though she does not know why. She thinks that she must already be dead, though she can determine no reason why it must be so. She is allowing herself to slip away into that strange realm that we call death, but just then a fleeting image of her brother enters a small opening of her darkening brain. The result is electrical. She knows suddenly that she is not dead. She jumps to her feet and whips her head around. She sees her brother, a small, writhing heap at the feet of two soldiers who are kicking him and beating him with the butts of their rifles. She is about to spring forward, but an arm is wrapped around her neck and jerks her away. It is only then that she sees blood pouring down her skirt. It is only then that she sees a hole in her stomach as large as her fist. It is only then that she knows she has been shot. And then she feels…she feels the burning of her wound, the coldness of the blood on her skin, the sharp agony of mangled organs and shattered bones. With a cry of fear and pain, she once more drops to the ground. Her senses have suddenly become sharp, quick and acute. She hears the heavy breathing of the soldier. She feels his shadow move over her body. She looks up into his face. His eyes glitter with some kind of inhuman hatred. He lifts his rifle above her head. She knows what he is about to do. In another moment the butt of his rifle will come crashing down on her head. Maybe it will kill her, maybe it will not, but she is sure it will kill her. Her breath comes in sharp painful gasps. She whispers a prayer and closes her eyes.
Then…she feels a hard blow on her skull. She hears ringing. It grows louder and louder and echoes throughout her brain. Then suddenly it stops.
She does not feel. She does not hear. She does not see or know.
She is dead.
The boy is struggling to avoid the blows given to him by the soldiers. He is sobbing, screaming. His sister is dead and he had seen her being killed. Grief that he has never before felt races through his body. He does not feel the blows of the rifle butts. He feels only burning rage and grief. ‘You killed her!’ he screams over and over again, but he does not know that he is screaming. He looks into the face of the soldier who is standing nearest to him. The soldier’s eyes are so light-colored that they seem to be completely white, with no irises. They seem to glow in his blackened face. He shows his teeth, not as in a smile but a snarl. The boy feels the hatred flowing out of the soldier. He knows what is about to happen. The soldier raises his machine-gun and points the barrel towards the boy’s head. The boy does not feel fear. He does not care whether the soldier kills him or not. His sister is dead, and he would rather die than live with the grief of losing her. He, as his sister had done only moments earlier, closes his eyes and murmurs a prayer.
Then…he hears the rattling sound of machine-gun bullets. His head feels heavy. It feels so heavy that it seems to be sinking beneath the ground. He thinks that the dirt is smothering him. He cannot breathe. Then the last gleam of light fades from his vision. He lets out a sigh.
Now he no longer feels pain or sorrow. He does not hear. He does not see.
He is dead.
The soldiers dump the bodies of the two dead children off to the side of the road. They feel no remorse for what they have just done. These children are just two more Palestinians. Just two more brats who they thought it was appropriate to kill. These children are of no consequence to them. And why should they be? After all, Palestinians are not Jews. They are merely goyim and lower than animals, really. And they themselves are Jews…their blood is pure blood. They, and they alone are loved by God. So what does it matter if they have just robbed a father and mother of two children? What does it matter if they have just destroyed their lives? It is perfectly fair and right that they should do this, for the one simple reason that they are Jews.
These soldiers do not feel the pain of dying justice. They do not hear the wails of the suffering people. They do not see the injustice of the blood that they spill. They do not know what it is like to fell these things, because they are dead– because they have allowed their souls and humanity to be killed…
And so, as if to put life back into the deadness of their souls, they will kill. And they will not stop.
And children will weep…
But they will not stop.
And parents will mourn…
But the Jews will not stop.
And according to the ‘Jerusalem Post’, our job is to support them.
2006 by Stefania Glenn
sglenn@crescentandcross.com

In my mind, I see the debka being danced. I hear music being plucked from the strings of the oud as if by magic. I hear a woman singing in Arabic. Her voice rises and falls like a swirling wind. The scenes and sounds do not stop at my ears and eyes. They travel through them into my heart. My heart sends the haunting beauty into every vein of my body. I do not move, but my spirit dances on the wind of the music.
I cannot understand the things that I feel during this time. I know that inside I am weeping, but it is not sadness that I feel. Nor do I feel happiness, even though I am also laughing inside. It is not peace, though I am calmer than I ever am, nor is it excitement, though my spirit shouts and dances. There is an aching, empty void somewhere within me in which this strange feeling drifts. What is it? I do not understand. I feel none of the human emotions, and yet all of them. Perhaps the word that most closely describes this thing is ‘longing’.
I continue to see, hear and feel the Arabic culture. After a time, I realize that I do not actually see, hear or feel any of these things. I am all of them. I am part of it.
My eyes are closed for a long time. When I finally open them, I feel that they are wet. So are my cheeks. Many tears fall quickly and silently from my eyes. This time I know that it is sadness that I feel, and also anger. The people and culture that I love so much–that are a part of me–are being destroyed. First it was Palestine, then Iraq and then now just recently, Lebanon, which is the land of my ancestors. What will be next? Will it all soon be gone? Will it all be destroyed?
My anger turns into hatred for the people who are causing these tragedies. A hot, burning hatred. Some people say that all hatred is wrong. They say that you should hate no one and nothing. They say that you should love everything. I see hatred as an inevitability, but if it is used correctly, then it is a good thing. Without hatred, there can be no love. If someone loves one thing, then he will hate it’s opposite. If he loves justice, then he will hate injustice. If he does not feel a strong hatred for anything evil, then he does not truly love goodness. If hatred is directed at evil things and people then it is a good thing. It shows that there is a healthy love within the heart. I love the Arabic culture passionately. My hatred for those who are destroying it is equally passionate.
In my mind, the circle of the debka is falling apart. It is smaller, for lack of people. The dancers move slowly and shuffling, as if in pain. The song of the oud is faint. The voice of the Arabic-singing woman is no longer as beautiful and mysterious as it once was. She is weeping.
I weep with her. How can the beauty of this culture simply be destroyed? How can it leave? How can there ever be a time when people will not know about it except through old history books? How can it’s strength be overcome?
Then suddenly I know…
The strength of the people and culture! They are too strong to be destroyed! It is impossible. They will never give in. Even though their homes are being bombed and their loved ones murdered, they will not give in. They seem to only gain more strength from these things! They will NEVER give up.
Now in my mind, the circle of debka dancers expands and grows stronger. The dancers move faster and with courage. The oud shouts it’s song of hope. The woman’s voice gains a new strength. Her voice is filled with hope and stubborn will. It rises high, and flies like a dove over the waters of the flood, and returns with a Palestinian olive branch in it’s mouth.
2006 By Stefania Glenn
sglenn@crescentandcross.com

Yes, I know, Mr. Goldstein, I’ve heard all about it. I’ve heard all about the Holocaust, when 6 million or 6 billion or 6 trillion or 6 gazillion–or however many Jews you want–were murdered by mean old Hitler. I’ve heard all about the diary of Anne Frank, the Jewish girl who died in a German concentration camp during World War II. I’ve heard all about your people’s persecution in Russia. I’ve heard all about how your people have been despised and oppressed all over the world. Yes, I know, I know! You don’t need to remind me AGAIN that for nearly two thousand years you have been without a country. How could I possibly forget these things? You and your paid liars never get tired of screaming insensibly about all the inhuman crimes that have been committed against the Jews. About the only thing we ever hear these days is that your people, the Jews, have suffered horribly throughout history and that we (the non-Jews) must make amends with you in every way possible.

Well, Mr. Goldstein, here in the United States of America, we have done everything within our power to pay you back. I don’t know what else you could possibly want. We helped you acquire your own country. We stood by silently while you murdered hundreds of innocent Palestinian civilians at Deir Yassin, so that your desire to have a country of your own could be fulfilled. We send ten billion dollars of American tax money to Israel every year, even though America is already in debt up to her eyebrows. We are constantly hiring some blabbermouth to rant and rave to America about “God’s chosen people” and how they have always been “under attack” and how we must rescue them from “all the Hitlers of the world”. We are never finished hearing about your precious Holocaust, since it seems that you would never be able to exist without it. You are the kings of this country. We have licked your boots for so long that you don’t have any boots left…

…So now, Mr. Goldstein, please tell me, because I am dying of curiosity to know what it is that you want. What more can we possibly do for you? How can you still be unhappy with the way you are treated?

Do you think you are the only group of people that has ever suffered? That is one of the most conceited things I have ever heard. Very typical of you, though. I cannot pretend to be shocked or even mildly surprised at this idea. It is just too typical. After all, don’t you also view yourselves as a superior race? Don’t you call the rest of us non-Jews “goyim” or “cattle”? You really are the most self-centered group of people there has ever been. Therefore, I really can’t be surprised that you would entertain the absurd idea that the Jewish people are the only sufferers in the world. Or at least, that their suffering is the only suffering that truly counts. 66 million Russians died during and after the Bolshevik Revolution. However, nobody seems to feel any sort of special obligation to the Russians the way they do for your 6 million. I have always been horrible at math, but it is unquestionable even in my mind that Russia’s 66 million greatly overshadows your 6 million. But never mind that, Mr. Goldstein. The Russians really don’t matter that much. What we need to concentrate on is how many other things we should be doing for you.

Now come on, just tell me. What do you want? What can we do that will make you happy? If there is anything that we have not already done for you, tell me what it is, and we’ll be sure to do it right away. If you were anyone else, I would encourage you not to be shy in making your demand, but as I have never known you to be short on boldness or nerve, I see no point in warning you against what you yourself would never even think of doing. So go ahead, shoot. Tell me what we have not yet done for you. Go ahead, I’m listening.

Oh, my goodness, Mr. Goldstein, you make me laugh! No, no! I heard you perfectly! You don’t need to keep screaming it over and over again. I heard you. You said that the thing you want is for us to submit our very beings to you. In short, become your slaves. (You see? I KNEW I didn’t need to worry about any shyness on your part!) You say we have not become your slaves? Who do you think you are trying to fool? We are your slaves. We have been for years! Only slaves would bow to your every wish the way we have. Was I not clear when I said earlier that we have been licking your boots for so long that you don’t even have any boots left? Yeah, okay then. We’ll buy you a new pair of boots since we have apparently wronged you by licking them off. What?! You want them made out of solid diamond?! We can’t afford that! How about we just get a pair of sneakers from the thrift store? Oh, okay, never mind, never mind! We’ll get you the diamond. Your wish is our command. But boy, oh, BOY! I just can’t get over what you said about us not being your slaves! In fact, I can’t stop laughing. Now, please, Mr. Goldstein, PLEASE, will you stop screaming like that? You are a somewhat disturbing spectacle with that blood vessel popping out of your neck, your mouth covered in froth and your eyes bulging two inches out of your head. Calm down! It really isn’t good for your health to throw these violent temper tantrums.

All right. Now that you have finally gotten yourself under control, perhaps you can rationally answer the question that I am about to ask you. Ready? Okay, then; is it possible (in your mind, at least) that the Jews have suffered so much that we gentiles will never be able to repay you? Will we never be able to refill the great hole of your suffering? Will you never be satisfied with our efforts to appease you?

I heard you answer in the affirmative. Well, I must admit that I am glad to know that. Since we now know that you can never be happy–that despite the whole world’s concentrated efforts, it is impossible to ever repay you, and that making you happy is a flat impossibility, maybe we can turn our attention over to another subject. Maybe since what we have been trying to accomplish all these years is utterly impossible, we can just forget it and focus on what is possible. I am only being reasonable, Mr. Goldstein, when I ask ‘what are you going to do to repay us for all the suffering that you have caused?’

How are you going to repay all the Palestinians whose land you stole and whose children you have been murdering for over half a century? How are you going to repay the millions of babies that you have murdered in abortion clinics? How are you going to repay the families of the thousands of Americans who died on September 11th? How are you going to repay the Iraqis for destroying their country? How are you going to repay the families of the American soldiers who have died in Iraq? How are you going to repay the Lebanese for ruining their country? How are you going to repay all those who suffer under communism, which is another invention of yours? How are you going to repay the Muslims for all the lies that you have told about them? How are you going to repay all the Christians that you martyred when Christianity was still new?

You’re speechless, Mr. Goldstein, but I can read your answer in the hatred of your eyes. You will never try to repay us for the suffering that you have caused. You will never even apologize. And what is more you will continue to treat us Gentiles in this inhuman and merciless manner. You will never voluntarily stop. You will never attempt in any manner to repay us…

…but that’s alright, don’t worry, we’ll repay you…

We will repay you for every injustice that you have caused. We will repay you for every drop of innocent blood that you have spilled, and it is possible to do so. Just wait and see, you will be served justice one day.

A very wise, just, merciful man from Nazareth whom you also killed once said to your leaders ‘Upon you will come all the righteous blood that has been shed on Earth, from the blood of righteous Abel to the blood of Zachariah.’ I have never doubted His words…He always knew what He was talking about.

I will not try to convert you, Mr. Goldstein because I know that it is impossible. Remember, that we are now focusing on possibilities. So, since you refuse to become a human being by leaving your primitive, savage way of thinking, I will only warn you. Of course, you will not listen to me, but I will do it anyway. I warn you that things are going to be changing. You will be experiencing justice for the 1st time in your life. There is a day coming when humanity will get sick of being treated like animals. They are going to find out why they have suffered so much. They are going to be angry. And guess what? You are going to be the object of their rage. You are going to get a triple-dose of your own medicine, which ought to please you, since you always want more of anything than anyone else has. You are going to discover how human beings act when they see a glimmer of hope after being beaten down all their lives.

There, I have now told you what to expect one day. Now when it happens, you won’t be able to rant, rave, scream, kick, holler, howl and screech about how ‘it isn’t fair’ because nobody every warned you.

Well, Mr. Goldstein, I am sure that you do not like my tone. I can see that by the blood vessel in your neck that has finally burst that you do not like what I am saying at all. But considering every injustice that you have caused, every suffering that you have aided, all the innocent blood that you have spilled, I would say that this is merely a feeble attempt of mine to settle the score between us. I don’t see why you are so furious with me. After all, I am only trying to pay you back. isn’t that the very thing that you have wanted for so many years?
2006 by Stefania Glenn
sglenn@crescentandcross.com