Six Years Later

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Epilogue

About the Author

To my wife, Gladys. Like Noah’s dove that brought a message of eternal spring under her wing, you have given me the inspiration and faith in writing my debut book. You have taught me that one should never keep silent and that following the flood the sun will shine again.

Dedication

On a hot summer day, near the town of Ismailia, Egypt, a strange group congregated. It included a Bedouin sheikh, known as a mubasha, an anthropologist, an ‘umdah (mayor of a Bedouin village), and a group of townspeople. The people had congregated for the bisha’h, or truth ceremony, an ancient Bedouin ordeal by fire in which the guilt or innocence of the accused is determined by their licking a scalding-hot ladle. The immediate reaction of the accused’s tongue determines guilt or innocence: a blistered tongue indicates guilt, while a clean tongue indicates innocence.

In this particular case, a young girl, 15 years of age, had become pregnant; she claimed that a young man had seduced her, promising to take her hand in marriage. The young man had denied that he was responsible for the girl becoming pregnant. The ‘umdah suggested writing a temporary marriage certificate, which would only become binding if the bisha’h ceremony found that the girl was telling the truth (if her tongue was found to be clean). All parties agreed to this arrangement.

The young girl was accompanied by several family members to the ordeal by fire. One of these was her paternal uncle, who brought with him a large axe in a bag. He planned to use it to do away with the girl if the ordeal by fire showed her to be lying, an act dictated by the traditional codes of Bedouin family honour.

When the girl was about to lick the red-hot ladle that had been heated in the fire pit, her tongue suddenly curled, and her fingers became paralysed—she could not bring herself to lick the ladle. She was mortified and ashamed to lick the ladle before the congregated crowd. Her family screamed at her, Hayatek! (literally meaning Your life!), indicating that her life depended on licking the ladle. After she had made several unsuccessful attempts to lick the ladle, the mubasha’h indicated that the ceremony was over—meaning the girl would certainly be killed on the way home.

The anthropologist, who as a rule did not intervene in the many ceremonies he observed, decided to break his own rule in an attempt to save the girl’s life. Knowing that the rules of the bisha’h ceremony allowed for a proxy to lick the ladle in the place of the accused and that the result would be considered equivalent to the accused licking the ladle herself, the anthropologist approached the girl’s two uncles, asking if they would serve as proxies. One of the uncles responded that he did not believe that the girl was telling the truth, and thus he could not serve as a proxy. The mubasha’h then asked if her second uncle could serve as a proxy. He responded that he was ill with diabetes, and so he could not lick the ladle. The anthropologist knew that diabetes could affect the results. He inquired as to the uncle’s blood-sugar level and discovered it was alarmingly high. The anthropologist asked the uncle to expose his tongue, which was completely dry. He explained to the mubasha’h that such a dry tongue was sure to be blistered, no matter what the truth. The mubasha’h was satisfied with this analysis and indicated that the uncle could not serve as a proxy due to his medical problem.

At this point, the mubasha’h asked if anyone else who believed the girl’s version would serve as a proxy. The ‘umdah surprised everyone present by volunteering—usually only family members of the accused served as proxies. Following the bisha’h ceremony, the ‘umdah’s tongue was found clean, meaning that the pregnant girl was declared a truth-teller. Her life would be spared, and the boy would have to marry her.

The anthropologist who observed and, in this case, actively intervened in the ceremony, was the late Professor Joseph Ginat, one of the world’s leading experts of Islamic culture and relations between Middle Eastern nations. The story exposes two important faces of Ginat: first, that of the dedicated researcher of Muslim and Arab culture, who insisted on studying a phenomenon from primary sources before drawing conclusions; and second, the humanist, who knew when to place objectivity aside and engage with his subjects.

Professor Ginat served as a leading intellectual at academic institutions across the world, including the University of Haifa, the University of Utah, the Israeli Academic Centre in Cairo, the Centre for Peace Studies at the University of Oklahoma, and the Centre for Strategic Dialogue at Netanya Academic College. He also served as advisor for Arab affairs, Islam, and radical Islam to several heads of state. Throughout Giant’s career, his field work involved direct engagement with his subjects; he often lived among their tribes and communities and served as an intercultural bridge.

Just two years ago, Professor Ginat passed away, leaving behind numerous friends, colleagues, and students from a range of religions and cultures. We all miss him, both for his friendship and for his unparalleled depth of analysis.

This book is dedicated to him.

Acknowledgements

A great deal of hard work and scholarship went into this book, which drew on research in the fields of security, history, anthropology, philosophy, and much more. I owe all the many people I consulted with a debt of thanks, but the list is too long to mention all their names.

However, there are some names that I will note, people I would like to personally recognize and thank, because if it were not for them, this book would never have been written.

First and foremost is the late Professor Joseph Ginat, who dedicated his life to studying the anthropology of the Muslim world and was gracious enough to share his ideas and thoughts with me. They serve as the basis for this volume, and it is to his memory that this book is dedicated.

I would also like to thank the Netanya Academic College and the S. Daniel Abraham Center for Strategic Dialogue, in Israel, which helped and enabled me to publish this volume, thereby helping to perpetuate the memory of Professor Ginat, who served as the vice-president of the college and director of the Center.

I would like to express my gratitude and appreciation to Esti Ofer, who worked with me—and without whose boundless devotion and loyalty I could not have written this book. An endless source of information and knowledge, she tirelessly and skilfully navigated among the piles of information that arrived from various sources. Our brainstorming sessions were instrumental in enabling me to put my thoughts in order and organize the ocean of ideas represented in this book, and for that, I am deeply indebted to her.

Special thanks goes to General Baruch Spiegel, a military man and officer and an expert on strategy of national and international security, whose advice in these areas was invaluable.

I would like to thank Esti Meir—writer, artist, and translator—who brought her linguistic and phonetic skills to new heights in translating this book, which greatly moved and assisted me.

My special gratitude goes to my son Rabbi Yoav Altman for enriching my knowledge of religious philosophy in the context of fundamentalist ideology and for his vast historical knowledge and deep political insight, from which I benefited greatly. To my daughter Shahaf Hampel whose psychological insights contributed to the conception of the characters in the book.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Shimon Mandel, who enhanced my understanding of international issues, in particular regarding Latin America.

And a special vote of appreciation and thanks to Miriam Shaviv, for her help in editing the book and for her uncompromising determination; despite my occasional opposition, I was ultimately forced to admit that she was right. Thanks to her, we managed to find our way among the abundance of material at our disposal and separate the wheat from the chaff.

Prologue

It was 1975. In a small suburb cresting the Red River of Hanoi, there stood the modest home of the North Vietnamese military commander, General Vo Nguyen Giap. The French Colonial house welcomed many a delegation that came to congratulate General Giap for his great victory. Among them was a large delegation of Islamist fundamentalist organizations, who came as one to shake the hand of the general who had defeated the American superpower. Welcoming him with open arms, the senior representative of that particular delegation said, Honoured General, we are all full of admiration and the utmost respect for your wisdom and great courage. You, a small country of a small nation, have overpowered the mightiest, wealthiest, greatest country on earth, and you have prevailed in an unparalleled and immensely impressive victory.

The general humbly nodded his appreciation. Commander, continued the senior delegate, permit me to ask you a personal question. As a strategist and a triumphant military commander, how do you regard the struggle between the Islamic world and the West, particularly our struggle against the Western bridgehead in the form of the Zionist entity? When, do you think, shall we prevail over our enemy, as you have, against the United States? The general raised his eyes and said in a decisive tone, Never. The room fell silent. The delegate collected himself and asked, Why?

General Giap responded, It is all about determination, fortitude, and resolve. You do not possess the same willpower as your enemies. They are determined, brave, willing to make any and all sacrifices. They back their words up with deeds, whereas you project weakness. That is why you will never prevail.

The delegation rose to leave the modest house and went to settle down in the government building assigned to them. The atmosphere was dark. The delegates felt distraught and troubled and loudly argued about the general’s harsh words. The senior delegate quieted his colleagues and said in a sombre tone, "Dear friends, General Giap has spoken the truth. If we do not change our strategy, we will indeed never triumph over our enemies. The general has shown us the road map to victory. The first signpost on the path is resolve. Let us remember that General Giap led a war against the United States of America during which Vietnam suffered some four million military and civilian casualties, whereas the United States lost fifty-eight thousand men and women. Now that, my friends, is the epitome of resolve! The second signpost on our path to victory is time. Immaterial to a determined warrior, time may stretch a year, or ten years, even thirty or fifty years. No matter. The Vietnam War lasted twenty-five years. The Achilles heel of the West is its addiction to time. Time is money, they say, and money is the idol of the West. We, therefore, must consider the West and approach it as one would a drug addict, giving them small doses of their drug, a few moments of hollow grace for which they would be willing to pay any price, and which holds little significance to us. The third element in the plan is what Vietnam has taught us—that our best and most reliable collaborator comrades are the radical left journalists in the West. They must be co-opted to our struggle, at any cost, to influence Western public opinion in our favour. My friends, if we were to adopt these three truths and make them our own, we would have a good chance of triumph over the West and the Zionist enemy."

The various delegates returned to their home bases and began to put into motion a plan for creating an Islamist army of determined suicide killers. Having pre-planned the sparse moments of grace in advance, such as peace agreements with Israel and the West, they began planning the details of the propaganda efforts that would form the core of the Islamist fundamentalist war with the entire Western world.

Chapter 1

The heavy window framed the grey winter sky, exposing a dull light on Oxford University’s campus. Professor Joseph Giant was looking through his apartment window, pondering why this Sunday felt so different from most of the other Sundays of his life. Something was unusual about this Sunday; something was amiss. The car horns blared in the congested streets below as they always did, the people hurried past, each to his own endeavour, as on every other day of the week. And then it occurred to him that the resonant sound of church bells ringing, so typically British, so familiar, was palpably absent. Instead, a distant muezzin called—tremulous, sonorous, ringing in the air, even lingering. Professor Giant was thinking about the transformational process that had altered the face of British society so drastically in such a short time. As an anthropologist, he had long studied social processes that affect various social groups.

Giant reflected on the odd experience he had had a week earlier at Oxford’s Debating Club, where teachers and dons occasionally debated current events before an audience of students. Giant recalled how it all started. He had spoken of his thoughts regarding the new official day of rest, which was now Friday, rather than Sunday. The ‘revolutionary’ students, he had said, support the anarchists and incite them to radical action, and they are the ones who stand behind this foolish revolution.

Left-leaning organizations had pushed for a new law that would address the day of rest not in terms of a religious imperative but in terms of the social function the day has for society. This was how the insane process began. I am telling you here this evening, Giant had said, that many of these organizations are irresponsible, nothing more than puppets on a string for other equally irresponsible organizations.

Giant remembered the red-haired student who had stood at the back row and challenged him, What gives you the right to deride groups and individuals you don’t even know?

Giant was naturally a moderate person and not wont to overreact, either in or out of the lecture halls. Nevertheless, he fixed his eyes on the fiery student and retorted, You seem to belong to the same puppet-on-a-string group that is obviously being manipulated by some unseen hand, and as such you do not deserve an answer. Giant was actually stunned by the student’s obvious anger and the pained look in her eyes, but he was patently unprepared for her impassioned comeback, Who do you think you are, you in your ivory tower? You are yesterday’s man, and you can’t understand the language of tomorrow’s generation!

Giant wanted to measure his words. He was silent for a moment and then said, My dear young lady, I may be yesterday’s man, but you represent a world with no tomorrow at all. You represent the vast void, which leads nowhere.

He then stood up and left the club.

Thinking back, Giant could not figure out why this one girl had made such a strong impression on him. Now the muezzin’s mellifluous voice ringing out brought him back again. Giant put on his coat and left for yet another workday at Oxford.

* * *

The student club at the outskirts of Oxford was unlike any of the exclusive clubs that were the typical haunt of college students. Located in the basement of a high-rise building, it was accessed through a side door behind the car park. Members were greeted by a huge poster of Boris Eifman’s dance troop, featuring Giselle, in a billowing red skirt, dancing to her doom. The space included a long bar, several rooms that were jumbles of chairs and small tables, and scores of loud students. The back room held a particularly noisy group of students who conducted a colloquium on politics. The debate was dominated by the same slender red-haired student, whose passion again seemed to ignite the room.

Comrades, said Beth Rimmer, this is our time in the sun. We have the power to make a mark, to impact everything that is happening in this country. No one can stand up to the might of a student body. Our French brothers and sisters lit up Paris in 1968. The difference between us and them is that their struggle began with a student union protest over the suspension of some students, leading to the most significant political struggle of their decade. Tens of thousands of students took to the streets in a struggle for social justice and against the Vietnam War, becoming the bane of American conglomerates and the primary menace for airlines and banks in the late sixties and early seventies. We, too, have a calling. We have embarked on the path of our struggle because we want a better world. We want to fix it. We want to make a difference. And governments are afraid of student riots, because the chaos of 1968 has not been forgotten.

The students in the room were enraptured by Beth’s confidence. No one dared interrupt. The French students enlisted the workers at Renault, who brought the French car industry to a standstill. We will enlist all the trade unions in Britain, and together we will transform British society forever!

A group of Muslim students, seated in the back corner of the room, began to interject loudly. Beth turned to them. Is there a problem?

Why don’t we call for the strengthening of minority and immigrants’ rights? asked Nabeel, the most prominent among the Muslim students present in the room.

Because we will lose, answered Beth. Remember how in 2005 hundreds of young immigrants in France rioted? They did inflame many in France, but because their struggle was regarded as a sectarian issue, the riots were soon put down by force, and the general public kept its distance. The recent unrest in Greece was focused on privation and discrimination, and once again the general public did not join in, preferring to stay on the sidelines while waiting for the government forces to quell the violence. We will not go that route. We will speak of values and ideology; we will speak of human rights; we will seek the widest common denominators and gain many allies, creating coalitions and alliances that will help us stir all of society, not just parts of society.

Nabeel Dajaani stared at Beth, astonished at her vigour, her intelligence, her passion. Like every other man in the room, he also saw her willowy form, her diminutive frame, her fragility, and her beauty and, like every other man, he somehow felt the urge to protect her. But when she looked at him—when she looked at anyone, for that matter—he would shrink and dare not argue.

Beth ended her inspirational address with a whisper, Let’s all light as many fires as we can, because we have the power and the will, and because we believe and have faith in our struggle.

Even though she knew she had the audience eating out of her hand she, too, was still rattled by the exchange with Professor Giant the previous week. This evening no one challenged her as the Professor had. It wasn’t what he had said as much as the way he had looked at her—condescending and disrespectful. I’ll show him, she thought. I’ll show him yet.

Beth knew Nabeel Dajaani, the Muslim student leader, as a perpetual student. He had spent many years at Oxford but never completed his studies. The scion of a wealthy princely family in Saudi Arabia, he was rich, but low ranking in the Wahabi hierarchy. He had once told Beth that he’d been glad to leave his homeland for Oxford’s green lawns. He had always been an activist in student organizations, but ever since he had joined the madrassah and the Islamic fraternity, his life had been changed to the core. Here he felt he was doing something really important, he told her. Here he mattered.

Meeting Beth was as exciting as it was challenging. She was so utterly different from any of the women he had ever known. He was accustomed to docile, submissive women, hidden from view, women who listened to him. Beth looked him in the eye; she regarded him as an equal. Whenever they spoke, Nabeel always felt at a loss for words. This evening, he sensed that she was upset about something, that she was out of sorts and not focused, even as she presided over the meeting. He once again tried to invite her to join him in one of his many endeavours. He asked her to attend the meeting of the union of the administrative staff at Oxford. They were proposing to initiate an academic boycott against countries in violation of human rights. Beth declined his invitation, claiming fatigue and stress.

Nabeel Dajaani smiled, So perhaps you’ll join me for a boat ride in the Oxford canals, then?

Beth only shrugged her shoulders and muttered, Another time, perhaps.

Beth left the club and walked across the campus, deep in thought, until she found herself standing by the faculty café near the library.

Professor Giant was seated at that very café, poring over his notes for a lecture; it was an overview of contemporary social trends. Suddenly, a shadow fell on his papers. Lifting his gaze, he saw before him that fiery red-haired student who had yet to leave his thoughts. Professor Giant smiled as she asked to join him. After a short few introductory sentences, the two were soon deep in conversation. Giant was a distinguished-looking man, with a tall frame