Авторский блог Alexander Prochanov 03:00 16 октября 2000


Date: 17-10-2000
The nations whose step once shook the earth, who endeavored revolutions of great magnitude, populated new continents, conceived and inspired faiths and religions, now drowsily stare with groggy eyes at their shepherds, who brought them into the sties of the new global order, drip dross from a table of America into their manger, pour the Circe’s potion of IMF, titillate them by a distant sight of the synthetic heifer of the American dream. The nation that dares to moan and pull the chain is flogged by electronic scourges of CNN, its skin pierced by sharp edge of Tomahawks, its mouth gagged by the ‘Holocaust victims’ stopper.
The Russian people languidly breathe, they forget the language of Pushkin and general Zhukov, try to speak Kazakh, learn the great history of tiny Estonia. Latin America does not recollect Bolivar, Sandino and Che Guevara; they twist their swarthy asses on the carnival, push drugs and provide a cheap labor force on the building sites of California. The Serbs have said goodbye to their dream of greatness, have sold Karajitch and Miloshevitch, they greedily suck the rotten boob of Albright. Only in a sole point of the sky, a beam from Space burned through the dead shell that seals the mankind. This plasma beam, as God’s finger, points to the people of Palestine. Wherever the beam reaches the earth, wherever it shines over Gaza, Jerusalem and Hebron, History Alive is created before our eyes. As in the days of the prophets, the nation prays, shoots, bleeds, sings the songs of struggle, faces the Jewish tanks, tears by naked hands their steely caterpillars, stops up with the bodies of their own children the flaming mouths of guns, demonstrates to the fuzzy emasculated world the meaning of words Freedom, Homeland, God.
Israel is doomed. She is disgusting to the Arabs, French, Englishmen, even to herself. Red- hot intifada is the fiery river, in which another myth of the 20th century melts and sinks to the bottom — the theory of Zionism. According to designs of Herzl and Zhabotinsky, a small geopolitical monstrosity was created on the Arab lands. They have dragged there their tablets, as the ants drag eggs. They have imposed on America and Germany the annual tribute of five billions dollars. They pour napalm on the mosques and transform the whole nations into homeless survivors and refugees. They brainwash the whole world by their black dandruff, which they call ‘the ashes of Auschwitz’.
On the place of Israel, the Arabs will plant many fig trees and Lebanese cedars, they will create a National park. It will be the home of the large pretty Hebrew-speaking parrot. The sad Jews in black hats, with long, up to the ground, whiskers, will carry their shabby briefcases with tablets elsewhere, to another place on earth. Even to Birobidzhan. There, beyond Amur River, China will arrange the Chinese intifada.
Yasser Arafat is the last national leader of the fin-de-siecle. The Great Palestinian, who was reared by his people professing the faith of freedom, when the division between the mundane and the divine struggle vanishes together with distinction between Life and Death. God came to His people incarnated as the leader, wise, fearless, tireless, incorruptible leader. He closes eyes to the fallen fedai, embraces the orphan, wipes tears of widow, departs from burning Beirut with his warriors, enters the Beast’s lair in Camp David, reads the incinerated Koran in Sabra and Shatila, kisses the hot earth of his native Palestine.
The present world leaders will never become the real leaders. They are clerks including de Clerk. The Russian president Putin should learn the biography and the life of Arafat the Palestinian, who walks with his olive branch and the Kalashnikov gun into the immortality of history.
“Tell me, the branch of Palestine: where did you grew, where have you blossomed...” - “I grew in the Garden of Eden of our Lord the God. Of my strong wood, the handgrip and the stock of the machinegun are made. My fiery leaves, like the drops of a Molotov cocktail, fly on the armor of the Israeli tanks. My blossom decorates the bullet-perforated banner of PLO. My fruits are sweet for the heroes and martyrs, sweet, as Freedom... "
Alexander Prochanov