Brothers at War - The Heartlessness of Terrorism - The Most Intelligent of Idiots

Steven Clark Bradley, Author of such hard-hitting novels as Patriot Acts & Nimrod Rising, presents Part Two of his expose on the conflict in the State of Israel, which he witnessed firsthand. The current conflict and the ultimate events of this war between the Jews and the Palestinians is a major theme of Nimrod Rising. Read and learn about the experiences that led Mr. Bradley to write these very important novels. With America confronted with a severe economic crisis, surrounded by potential enemies with a White House sending America into territory that may well change her fundamentally forever, with Iran ready to set the world ablaze and ready to embark on a nuclear strategy, it behooves us to know what is happening in some of the most entrenched hot spots in the world. Israel and the Palestinian Authority certainly rank near the top of that list. Read Part Two Brothers at War - The Heartlessness of Terrorism and ask yourself if peace is even possible.
Brothers at War - The Heartlessness of Terrorism

The morning was as sunny and hot as the evening was cool and breezy, but the day started and the other ended the same way, with death. I had risen at 7:30 AM and went to contribute to my caffeine addiction. Though I found no coffee, at around 8:15 AM, no less than 15 minutes later, I saw ambulances and police vehicles racing down King David Street towards Gilo, on the road to Bethlehem. I had planned to go to Bethlehem at 11:00Am. I ran into the King David Hotel and learned of the deadly bus bombing that had just killed seven children and 12 adults. So, I hailed down a taxi and headed towards bedlam.

The sight was so much more devastating to see in person than anything one might see on TV. There was a certain charred smell in the air, and I knew what it was. It was hard to think that the blasted out bus was the scene where nineteen innocent souls who were destroyed, amongst whom were seven children had had their young lives cut short. It made me feel guilty to take pictures, but their story had to be told. They had awaken that morning and died before the afternoon in this attack which would prove to be the worst attack in Jerusalem in 40 years. Though I was refused entry at first into the scene, I was finally able to enter in from the left side of the blocked off crime scene. Bits of personal effects and clothing items were strewn everywhere. It all brought crashing home to me that so many had suffered so terribly right there.


The day after the terrible carnage of the suicide blast had left an indelible image burned into my mind, I spent a lot of energy and time trying absorb and understand the thoughts and emotions that flooded my mind. I was in Israel to write objectively and to explain both sides, but my angry and saddened mind kept telling me how much I hated the other side. I have four children. I have a family. I want them to outlive me! Such thoughts coursed through me and I had to get them into some type of perverse perspective in order to accomplish my task. So my whole morning was a day of trying to take in what I had seen the day before. There was a report that two bombers were in the new city. One was gone and the last one was a reportedly still out there. The population seemed convinced there would be a second bombing, soon. They proved how well the people of Israel had refined their sense of danger.


I was seated in the Rosemary café on King David Street for a bite to eat when I heard it all over again. The wailing sirens gave evidence all around that the angels of death and war had stuck again in the city of David. We got to the scene on the Northeast side of Jerusalem, which was almost in the West Bank, and I managed to get up close to the bus stop where the bomber had taken out his hatred on those who had never given him a reason to hate them. I saw a black colored vinyl bag on the ground next to the bus stop, and I did not have to ask what it was. Seven victims were claimed there. Ultimately, seven died in this blast and over two dozen were injured. When I was finally ordered out of the area, I walked past a soldier who was dressed in full fatigues and heavily armed. It was seriously and powerfully moving to witness such a toughened up man with tears flowing from his eyes. It was sure that this attack would not go unpunished. Two times in two days was unusual.
Is This Really The World You Knew As A Child?

I find it impossible to fathom how someone could be so out of hope and so full of hate that they could deliver death to such small and completely blameless victims. One soldier pleaded with me, "How can the people ever trust anyone again. Once they have killed your children, who is to be trusted?" This soldier's worn and bitter shoes, I did not want to wear.
In fact, children from both sides have been brutally killed. Children from both sides are growing up to hate each other and to distrust everyone around them. The only difference is that the Israeli children still have a solid family structure intact and a government to give them slightly more than a semblance of normality. The same cannot be said for Palestinian kids who have had all their security torn away from them, partly by Israel but also by their own leaders who have taken their people down the road of terrorism and death. Both sides love their children; both sides want the best for their children and both sides must do more to save their children, both physically and emotionally.


A part of humanity's future dies with each one that perishes, Jewish or Arab and new seeds of hatred take root with each blast. There could be no greater reason to find peace than to save the children. Though I had already begun to understand the Palestinian situation better, seeing these blasts only brought more resolve to me that there is no justification for such a crime against humanity and that such attacks only hurt the Palestinians' hopes. I had to get inside the Palestinians' heads to understand what could motivate them to do such acts.


In talking to many Palestinians about the deadly phenomenon of suicide bombing, I think I found the deadly recipe. As one Palestinian man at the Old city of Jerusalem put it, "How can we be equal partners or even equitable as adversaries with Israel? We do not have tanks or planes. The peace Israel wants makes us conquered, not liberated. When a man or woman has had their mother and father, perhaps her husband and children were destroyed by an invading nation, what have they left? They cannot work, go to school nor feed themselves. One can subsist in America. You have the laws and the institutions to help the sick and the hungry. On a good day in the West Bank, we are at subsistence level. When you get to the point when survival is worse than death, all you have left is your God, your stones and your body." Take this scenario and combine it with hatred and revenge and you have just produced a suicide bomber. I knew I would have to go to the West bank.


Probably the best thing that happened in Jerusalem was meeting two freelance journalists, Gregory Harms and Vicram Sura. We decided to work together on a trip to the West Bank. We planned the short trip to Ramallah and argued the finer points of the Palestinian issue. During the day I met the General Secretary of the Federation of International Journalists, Aidan White. He had just returned from the Gaza and was going to Ramallah. He gave me his card. The same evening, I contacted Mr. White and found him to be very helpful. He gave us the number of the President of the Palestinian Journalist Syndicate, Mr. Naim Toubasi. Having had the opportunity of meeting Mr. Aidan White and Naim Toubasi made all the difference in the journey, which followed.


Are You Ready For Nimrod Rising?




There were normally many of the small cramped minivans or shurups heading to Ramallah, but not this morning. There was nothing except taxis. The border had just been closed, which was a tale-tale sign that something was in the works for the Israeli army. We knew we still had a small window of opportunity to get into Ramallah and we at least had to try, though there were no guarantees about getting back out. Though we had never met Mr. Toubasi, he had said he would meet us, and he was our only hope to get a true picture of what had been the fate of Ramallah. We all three piled into a taxi and headed to the former western border of Jordan, now called the West Bank.

The ride to the capital of the Palestinian authority caused me to pay attention to my surroundings. I had already been to Iraq twice and I knew what that feeling in the pit of your stomach was all about. It told you that you had temporarily left your sphere of normality and security and that you were not quite sure of what could ensue and that my need to know had overtaken my requirement of safety.


The valleys of the Holy Land are breathtaking. They were the hosts of many biblical wars. The valley of Megiddo still waits for the final bloodletting at Armageddon. As we past in the taxi toward the Qualandiya checkpoint, the valley to my left changed quickly. In the valleys of Israel, you can see growing affluence and a stubborn insistence on truly possessing what the Jews regard as their biblical birthright. This is the amazing thing, considering that the Jewish state has been virtually at war since before the founding of the nation. I could tell that when we had left Israel and were in the West Bank. The buildings began to look older and there began to be signs of destruction and desertedness everywhere. Suddenly, we were out of the urban area of Jerusalem and in front of us was a line of Palestinians, lined up to cross over the massive checkpoint to their jobs and hopefully back to their families in the evening.


Though the Palestinians wait at this massive checkpoint without violence, as they seek to carry on their daily lives by enduring what they regard as humiliation, the deep-seated hatred and anger of the men and women as they dealt with overheated and crying children was pervasive. There are no accommodations for women and children, an idea which seemed far too thoughtful and merciful according to the Jewish soldiers I talked to. After about one hour, I finally was able to pass. I immediately was confronted with the ravages of a war of incursion by the Israelis responding to attacks of Palestinian suicide bombers on the lives of the innocents in Israel. Buildings were demolished all around me with snipers having been spotted and heard from the hillside homes on my left and right. The sun was hot and shots were fired and we stood out in the midst of the war between Isaac and Ishmael.

Nimrod Rising In Depth

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A Land of Sheikhs - The Most Intelligent of Idiots - The Memoirs of Author Steven Clark Bradley

A Land of Sheikhs - The Most Intelligent of Idiots - The Memoirs of Author Steven Clark Bradley

A Bridge To Cross - The Most Intelligent of Idiots - the Memoirs of Author Steven Clark Bradley

http://stevenclarkbradleyspatriotacts.blogspot.com/2011/06/bridge-to-cross-most-intelligent-of.html

Read The Most Intelligent of Idiots - The Love of God in Chandraghona by Steven Clark Bradley

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A Land of Sheikhs - The Most Intelligent of Idiots - The Memoirs of Author Steven Clark Bradley

A Land of Sheikhs

The streets of Dakar, Senegal were always strangely quiet during the day. That was a stark contrast to the loud and vigorous streets at night. Those who seemed to be securely locked away, during the day, poured out onto the streets after the last call to prayer of the day had been sung. The nights swelled with people on the streets all night and darkness took its turn to nocturnally reign.

Steven Clark Bradley

Copyright 1,1999

Present Time, 2011

If I had to compare the lifestyles between Bangladesh, Pakistan and Senegal, I would have to say that Senegal’s lifestyle was far superior to that of the other third-world countries I had spent considerable time in. One of the biggest differences was the fitness of the Senegalese people. I had never seen groups of people exercising early in the morning. Every morning hundreds of young African students were out at the coastal areas of Dakar every morning running and playing sports. The Senegalese had a lot more energy than anything I had seen in Bangladesh or Pakistan.

I loved to drive out to the coast, in the morning. I could watch the fishermen out in their large canoe-like boats casting out their nets into the ocean to bring in the catch of the day. It was a real mystical experience to watch how these men kept themselves, their families and the rest of the country eating for another day. Yet, there were many things that were the same, such as the interiors and exteriors of the homes. There was again a real infatuation with the interior of their home without the slightest concern for the outside.

One other aspect of life in Senegal was the looseness of the women. Wolof women are considered by many to be the most beautiful black women, in the world. In Pakistan nor in Bangladesh, I had never been offered sex for money in neither country. After couple of days of walking around on the streets, with and without Ruth, by my side, with the kids. There had to have been at least twenty times that a passing Wolof woman looked at me and uttered the same words.

My French was not bad, at the time, but this accent trying utter French words made it hard to understand. Then, the next woman passed me and uttered the words very quickly. “Fait L’amour?” Each and every woman who had said the same thing were asking me if I wanted to have sex. I would say that the lax morals were so against the precepts of the religion they kept. The need of food, lodging and clothing made such terrible offers emanate out of the mouths of such beautiful women.

Yet, the one grave thing that was not different were the same spiritual forces that were at work in Pakistan were now also at play in the nation of Senegal. By the time we arrived in Senegal, I had already worked with Muslims for over seven years. I found the same blind adherence to their false belief, in Senegal. I also found a wonderfully resilient people with good and democratic leaders and Islamic roots which were tempered throughout Western African Islam. There was almost an amalgamation of ancient Islamic principles mixed with animistic ideals that could be called a Muslim based cult more than purely Islamic.

Unlike Dakar, the coastal, quite elegantly designed, Senegalese Capital, Touba City, the center of all of West Africa’s brand of Islam, is located some two hundred kilometers north, in the interior. It is a hot and dusty, inland sun-baked city. Yet, to members of the Mouride Islamic movement, Touba was not what it appeared. It was a great a pilgrimage to venture to Touba City for Mourides as Mecca is, for more traditional Muslims, around the world. To the Mourides, Touba was a holy city. It was where the tomb of Sheikh Ahmadou Bamba Mbacké, the shrouded, face-covered prophet of West African Muslims, who is fundamentally worship by the Muslims in Senegal and most of West Africa.

Ahmadou Bamba Mbacké was the founder of the movement of his followers’ profound devotion. Bamba’s rule of his millions of followers have proclaimed and extended by reign through his successors, Mouhamadou Moustapha Mbacké, Mouhamadou Fallilou Mbacké, Abdoul Ahad Mbacké, who had all lived and died. Yet, no one would ever even consider the outrageous notion that their very own prophet had gone the way of all the Earth. Abdou Khadre Mbacké now reigned as The Grand Marabout in Touba, the heir apparent of Sheikh Ahmadou Bamba Mbacké’s distorted Islamic movement, to the present day.

Senegal is a land of sheikhs, whose followers are good people who work hard and have no notion that life is possible without struggle. Outside the homes of Dakar, Senegal, the nation’s very well designed capital, which was once called, the Paris of Africa, there were strong people, bustling and striving and making it work.

The streets of Dakar were always strangely quiet during the day. That was a stark contrast to the loud and vigorous streets at night. Those who seemed to be securely locked away, during the day, poured out onto the streets after the last call to prayer of the day had been sung. The nights swelled with people on the streets all night and darkness took its turn to nocturnally reign.

The Senegalese had a certain dignity that was engrained in them. This society, while by no means free of dangers and divisive dealings, quietly carried the religious burden, while most ordinary Muslims busied themselves to the more pressing need of eating for just one more day. Still, no matter what level of sophistication these followers of Bamba exercised, most Senegalese often consulted their own trusted Marabouts, who guided them and prayed for them and cast spells on their enemies, and performed voodoo on their loved ones upon whom the devils had set their eyes. These false teachers of lies were everywhere.

Dakar contained nearly half the country's population of 8 million people. But, the 'Grand' Marabouts were far from the people. They could be found at religious centers like Kaolack or Touba or in even more obscure villages, from where their devotion to a faith that even Muslims from around the world decried, practicing dark magic that was more allied with the occult than the with typical Muslim doctrines. But they held sway over a people in tune to accept the message of Sheik Amadou Bamba .

Then, there was also the Bayfalls who form a Muslim sect to which thousands of men belong and serve as the guardians of Touba City and the Grand Marabout. When a powerful Marabout was in the area, one could see literally hundreds or at times, thousands of black men marching down the street and violently twirling their large wooden batons and making an amazing amount of noise, as a warning to the public to stay away from their god on earth, the Grand Marabout.

Bayfalls wear long, matted dreadlocks that they told me were similar, but not at all the same as the Bob Marley Rastafarians’ look. These men were not savages, but were also totally unafraid to die for the Grand Marabout. A Bayfall’s dress consists of a set of patchwork clothes, resembling a quilted set of vestures. They gave the viewer every and any impression they wished to relay to the situation around them. When they needed money, they were friendly and able to talk in quite good French, and Wolof, which I actually learned well, while I was there, but have almost completely forgotten since then. My French is almost as good as it was when I lived in Senegal. I was able to talk with many of them about Christ.

The best time to approach them was when they were hungry. These were not beggars. They are a genuine part of the established Islamic brand of Mouridism. I actually was able to eat with four different Bayfalls. They did look spooky, too, but they were just following their faith to sincere sinner’s hell. Talking with them, I could feel a real desire to know God, but they were looking in all the wrong places. All I had to do was offer them a meal at the tent covered outdoor restaurant. I have eaten with four different Bayfalls. With one I we ate Cebujin, Senegalese rice and fish. The next one, a few days later, I got us both Maafe, better known as peanut butter stew. It is wonderful and nourishing. If you have are allergic to peanuts, Senegalese maafe is not for you. The last two Bayfalls were together, and I served them Yassa, a simply beautiful dish with lots of onions, in lemon sauce and spices. There, each time I sat down with the Bayfalls, all round me I could hear the word “Toobob, Toobob.”

It was a common expression that white people heard, most of the time after some people had just walked by next to you. Inevitably, you’d hear it, “Toobob, Toobob.” It was not a word of social indignation. I was not a white slur either. It meant the men with the red faces. In Wolof, Whites are not called white, In most of Africa. The Wolof language called them “Gor bu honk.” Translated, it means, red man. The term was actually transported over to the Americas with the arrival of slaves from Africa. Most white Americans would know term, “Honkey.” It is a direct pulled word from the Wolof language, which was the language most kidnapped blacks from Africa communicated it.

Each time I met with the Bayfalls I looked around at the sea of black as coal faces all around me and with me the only white face. It makes the pre-civil rights days come right home to a white boy to be in the small minority. One thing is for sure. Blacks in America, in 1985, did not receive the respect and smiles, from whites in America as I was afforded by the Senegalese people. It made me a man free of racism. I became a man who only loved the persons inside. It is only that which can give life to the outside, anyway.

I discovered that they were really no different than any of us. They told me of their weekly all-night prayers and chants; especially on Saturday nights, with dancing, drumming, and chanting in Arabic and Wolof. These experiences served me well, because I recall so well that just three weeks later, I got a knock at my door. I opened the door and there stood a man who was a picture perfect example of something right out of Tarzan. He wore a similar patchwork quilted sort of thing and had a sword and his baton was strapped to his side.

He seemed different than any other Bayfall I had met. Both of his ears were pierced with animal bones stuck through the lobes. He had a sharp piece of wood stuck clean through his nose and numerous other, very voodoo-like things attached to him. I looked at him up and down and right and left and right again. “Qu’est ce que vous voulez.” I asked him what he wanted. “Rien, je vuex rien. Oh, oui. Je veux de l’eau.” He looked at me and smiled softly “I want some water.” I still didn’t invite him in. The souls of Christ inside had far more importance to me than this guy’s did. I felt he was safe, but who’s taking chances with a walking armored vehicle standing in front of you. This was a land that had once possessed a great African Kingdom. The residue of its power and influence still filled the heart of the Wolof People.

Out of some six million people, there were more than fifty-six languages spoken in the many different tribes throughout Senegal. French was the language that was supposed to bind them together, but in reality, it was Islam that bound them. It was Touba City and the Grand Marabout was the de facto ruler of the nation. If the President were to do something that the Marabout was displeased about, there could be war on the streets of Dakar. These were devoted people and their many tribes and tongues that formed the nation we were about to enter in 1985, and to which we had committed our lives to making sure we told as many as possible that Jesus Christ is Lord...

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A Bridge To Cross - The Most Intelligent of Idiots - the Memoirs of Author Steven Clark Bradley

http://stevenclarkbradleyspatriotacts.blogspot.com/2011/06/bridge-to-cross-most-intelligent-of.html

Read The Most Intelligent of Idiots - The Love of God in Chandraghona by Steven Clark Bradley

http://undergroundcontroversy.blogspot.com/2010/09/most-intelligent-of-idiots-love-of-god.html

Read The Most Intelligent of Idiots - A Stranger Just In Time:

http://stevenbradley.blogspot.com/2010/09/most-intelligent-of-idiots-memoirs-of.html