no mo rome

julio 24, 2006

Just got home from a dinner with Israeli friends. Banter and black humour which only barely obscures the knot of pain, all the things which are too hard to talk about. What does it matter, says Hava sipping her arak, we’ll be all be destroyed with in 10 years anyway.

There are other ways to tell the story, other lines and other correspondences. Insist insist: this is not an Arab/Jew thing. Insist: shift the pieces, the melodies have other affinities. Alliances so fragile that, given grim realities and more grim prognostications, it seems innocent or nostalgic to insist on them. But…

Here’s an essay from some years ago by the poet/critic Ammiel Alcalay, artist of affinities, out of that part of New York which stretches from Sarajevo to Jerusalem

No Return Ammiel Alcalay

[London] 2 November 1917
Dear Lord Rothschild,

I have much pleasure in conveying to you, on behalf of His Majesty’s Government, the following declaration of sympathy with Jewish Zionist aspirations which has been submitted to, and approved by, the Cabinet:
“His Majesty’s Government view with favor the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best endeavors to facilitate the achievement of this object, it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine, or the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country.” I should be grateful if you would bring this declaration to the knowledge of the Zionist Federation.

Yours sincerely,

Arthur James Balfour

One has to stop for a second, looking at this Balfour Declaration, a text noteable for its esoteric racism in which the whole Palestinian drama has been inscribed… Suffice it to reiterate here that, through this text, a government, that of Great Britain, delegated a land, Palestine, over which it exercised no sovereignty in either law or fact, for the benefit of a religious community, the Jews, then almost wholly living outside of that land.
In turn-of-the century Palestine, despite the efforts of the Zionist movement, the Jewish population scarcely represented 9% of the inhabitants, and the Jews of pure Palestinian stock, around 60,000 souls, made up a minute proportion of the world Jewish population. But nevertheless, oh marvel of marvels, the Declaration wished to “respect” the rights and equity of the Arabs, 91% of the population, by qualifying them as the “non-Jewish communities in Palestine,” to make sure nothing would prejudice their “civil and religious rights.” But there is not one word in the text about the political rights of these bizarre “non-Jewish communities,” the Palestinian people, whom they refuse to name, just as any possibility of their collective existence is eliminated by depriving them of any and all political rights.
In the same vein, the text stipulates, with astonishing assymetry, that nothing should prejudice “the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country.” A futurist text, if you will, the declaration is inscribed in the Arab memory as a monument to perversion, marked annually by mourning.

Georges Corm
Le Proche-Orient éclaté 1956-2003
(The Near East Fragmented 1956-2003)

Arcane from the inside,
explode and

dead reckoning

think in roots,
and of a people suicided,

who bring their chains
to funerals that are blasts

of a resistance
everyone understands
and everyone resists understanding

Jack Hirschman


This futurist text, like a virus gone mad, has incinerated any idea of the book, and now only inscribes the earth by bulldozer, crushing bodies, houses, orchards and olive groves, marking time in what we have come to call “history:” 1948, 1967, 1982, 1987, 2002 — the disaster, the defeat, the invasion, the uprising, the incursion. Tales of land, water and people: tales of oranges, olives, almonds and figs.


I’m not quite sure how we ended up going together, but I remember driving out to a prison from Jerusalem with some friends. It must have been sometime around 1979. I don’t know exactly why we went, but the windows were open in the small car and there were waves of dry heat beating against us that just became more and more oppressive the closer we got to the prison, located somewhere in the desert. There had been some disturbances in the neighborhood my friend lived in — people had blocked the streets off with burning tires and set the dumpsters on fire to keep the police out as protests mounted over the lack of housing and cuts in the subsidies on bread, milk, oil, flour and sugar. One of the guys in the car was a junky who had been active in the Black Panthers, I guess we must have been going out so he could visit someone, but I think there were a bunch of people that we spoke to standing outside the prison who were protesting something. Here everyone grew up together and knew each other — the guards, the prisoners, and those who’d come to see friends and family. Conditions were notoriously bad and the addict, Upright Son (which is how his name translated), told me in detail what he’d gone through when he’d been forced into solitary and had to kick cold turkey. Most of the prisoners had names like mine: Alfandari, Almosnino, Alhadef, Algazi, Altaras, Abulafia.

I remember him as if I’d just seen him: black leather jacket, a party button on each lapel, beret perfectly pitched at an angle resting on his hair, a stack of papers at his feet, a dozen or so copies tucked under his left arm, and one held out in his right hand. I’d go every week when the paper came out — I was only 13 or 14, and he couldn’t have been much more than 16. He’d ask me what I thought of the last issue, and we’d stand there and talk in-between him hawking the paper, greeting people, and keeping an eye out for trouble. We talked about The Battle of Algiers which played pretty regularly in those days. 1969, maybe 1970. Going back to that time, I feel like an archaeologist of sorts as I dig through the traces to see what made me, what made us tick.

As I wade through piles of cheap paperbacks (priced between 75¢ and $2.45), I see a deep rift we haven’t yet begun to account for. From 1969 to 1972 Avon, Bantam, Ballantine, Harper Perennial, Dell, Anchor, Vintage, Grove, Ace, New American Library, Pocket Books and many other publishers brought out books like: Getting Busted: Personal Experiences of Arrest, Trial and Prison; Soledad Brother: The Prison Letters of George Jackson, introduction by Jean Genet; Look for Me in the Whirlwind: The Collective Autobiography of the New York 21; If They Come in the Morning by Angela Davis, Rachel Magee, the Soledad Brothers and Other Political Prisoners; Prison Journals of a Priest Revolutionary by Philip Berrigan; Seize the Time by Bobby Seale; For Us the Living by Myrlie B. Evers, widow of Medgar Evers; One Day, When I Was Shot, James Baldwin’s screenplay based on the Autobiography of Malcolm X; Dick Gregory’s Political Primer; Famous Long Ago by Raymond Mungo; I Ain’t Marchin’ Anymore by Dotson Rader; Lenny Bruce’s How to Talk Dirty and Influence People; “R.F.K. Must Die!”: A History of the Robert Kennedy Assassination and its Aftermath; In Red & Black: Marxian Explorations in Southern & Afro-American History by Eugene D. Genovese; The Middle of the Country: The Events of May 4th As Seen By Students & Faculty at Kent State University; The Long Walk at San Francisco State by poet and novelist Kay Boyle; Paul Goodman’s Speaking and Language: Defence of Poetry; Dudley Randall’s The Black Poets; In a Time of Revolution: Poems From Our Third World, edited by poet Walter Lowenfels; The San Francisco Poets, edited by poet David Meltzer, founder of Tree magazine; The East Side Scene: American Poetry 1960-1965; A Caterpillar Anthology, edited by poet and translator Clayton Eshleman.

How many of my students recognize these names? How many professors? Critics? People in general? Now everything fits into a category (niche markets by color, gender, class and profession, baubles for the academic, the esoteric, believers and non-believers, gun-toters and vegetarians), and it’s become almost impossible to find anything you’re not already looking for:

so many romes to go

o rome of scots
and rome of brits
of slavs and spics
jewrome arabrome
no can go home
no mo rome

o rome


In July, 1969, a delegation of the Black Panther Party is introduced and hosted at the First Pan-African Cultural Festival in Algeria by Abraham Serfaty. In the first issue of The Black Scholar, Nathan Hare, a man born on a sharecropper’s farm near Slick, Oklahoma, who went on to get his doctorate at the University of Chicago and become the head of the first Afro-American Studies Program at San Francisco State University, wrote an account of the Festival:

“There was a battle in Algiers in late July, with lighter skirmishes both old and new, and emerging signs of struggle which now lurk ready to boomerang around the world in the years (and months) to come. The troops came together, African general and footsoldiers in the war of words and politics that splashed against the calm waters of the Mediterranean Sea — in the First Pan African Cultural Festival — from everywhere in greater numbers than ever before; from San Francisco to Senegal, from Dakar to the District of Columbia…
Hundreds of delegates came from thirty-one independent African countries and representatives from six movements for African liberation, from Palestine to Angola-Mozambique and the Congo-Brazzaville. And there were Black Panthers and “black cubs” and old lions from the American contingent. Secretly exiled Eldridge Cleaver chose this occasion to reveal his whereabouts, and expatriated Stokely Carmichael came with his South African-exiled wife, Miriam Makeba. Kathleen had her baby during the festival, and there was Panther Minister of Culture, Emory Douglass, international jazz artists, such as Nina Simone and Archie Shepp, and Julia Hevre (the late Richard Wright’s daughter now living in Paris).
LeRoi Jones (whose passport had been held up) could not get over, but there were: the serious and quietly charismatic young poet, Don L. Lee; Carmichael lieutenants, Courtland Cox and Charlie Cobb; Panther Chief of Staff, David Hilliard, who had to return to the United States before the festival was over to take care of a crisis with Chicago Police; and the compassionate black Parisian poet, Ted Joans. There were many young black Americans who had not been invited, but who had cared enough to piece together their own fare.”

Back in the USA, the FBI aggressively exploited an issue that had begun to present itself in the summer of 1967 when, at the National Convention for a New Politics in New York, two members of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), James Forman and Rap Brown, “led a floor fight for a resolution condemning Zionist expansion.” Just a few months after the Festival in Algiers, the Counterintelligence program, otherwise known as COINTELPRO, embraced a fundamental axiom of Israeli propaganda: to be against Zionism is to be an anti-semite. Rabbi Meir Kahane was chosen as an efficient vessel to convey this message since, as a memo put it: “Rabbi KAHANE’s background as a writer for the NY newspaper “Jewish Press” would enable him to give widespread coverage of anti-Semetic [sic] statements made by the BPP [Black Panther Party] and other Black nationalist hate groups not only to members of JEDEL [Jewish Defense League] but to other individuals who would take cognizance of such statements.” Fabricated letters, like the one below, went out:
“Dear Rabbi Kahane:

I am a Negro man who is 48 years old and served his country in the U.S. Army in WW2 and worked as a truck driver with “the famous red-ball express” in Gen. Eisenhour’s [sic] Army in France and Natzi [sic] Germany. One day I had a crash with the truck I was driving, a 2 1/2 ton truck, and was injured real bad. I was treated and helped by a Jewish Army Dr. named “Rothstein” who helped me get better again.
Also I was encouraged to remain in high school for two years by my favorite teacher, Mr. Katz. I have always thought Jewish people are good and they have helped me all my life. That is why I become so upset about my oldest son who is a Black Panther and very much against Jewish people. My oldest son just returned from Algers [sic] in Africa where he met a bunch of other Black Panthers from all over the world. He said to me they all agree that the Jewish people are against all the colored people and that the only friends the colored people have are the Arabs.
I told my child that the Jewish people are the friends of the colored people but he calls me a Tom and says I’ll never be anything better than a Jew boy’s slave.
Last night my boy had a meeting at my house with six of his Black Panther friends. From the way they talked it sounded like they had a plan to force Jewish store owners to give them money or they would drop a bomb on the Jewish store. Some of the money they get will be sent to the Arabs in Africa.
They left books and pictures around with Arab writing on them and pictures of Jewish soldiers killing Arab babys [sic]. I think they are going to give these away at Negro Christian Churchs [sic].
I thought you might be able to stop this. I think I can get some of the pictures and books without getting myself in trouble. I will send them to you if you are interested.
I would like not to use my real name at this time.

A friend”

It is further suggested that a second communication be sent to Rabbi KAHANE approximately one week after the above described letter which will follow the same foremat [sic], but will contain as enclosures some BPP artifacts such as pictures of BOBBY SEALE, ELDRIDGE CLEAVER, a copy of a BPP newspaper, etc. It is felt that such a progression of letters should then follow which would further establish rapport with the JEDEL and eventually culminate in the anonymous letter writer requesting some response from the JEDEL recipient of these letters.

Other memos, from 1970, describe further operations and their results:

“2. Operations Being Submitted

On 2/27/70, a correspondence was directed to individuals known to have attended a BPP [Black Panther Party] fund-raising function at the home of the well known musician, LEONARD BERNSTEIN. This correspondence outlined the BPP’s anti-semetic [sic] posture and pro-Arab position.”

3. Tangible Results

On 5/7/70 [NAMES BLACKED OUT] both of whom have furnished reliable information in the past, advised that on that date approximately 35 members of the Jewish Defense League (JDL) picketed the Harlem Branch of the BPP in NYC. The purpose of this demonstration was to show that the JDL feels the BPP is anti-Semetic [sic] in its acts and words.
Also on the above date, approximately 50 members of the JDL demonstrated outside of the Bronx, New York BPP Headquarters for the aforementioned reasons.
In view of the above actions by the JDL it is felt that some of the counterintelligence measures of the NYO [New York Office (of the FBI)] have produced tangible results”


At an event to raise money for medical relief at the beginning of the al-Aqsa intifada, I quoted a story recounted by Abraham Serfaty, the same man who had hosted the Black Panthers in Algiers, in a “salute to the African-Americans:”

“I remember my father, when I was about ten, telling me once in the synagogue: “Zionism is against our religion.” And I recall the pilgrimage with my parents, when I was 14, to the tomb of Rabbi Amran Ben Diwan, in an olive grove in Asjen, right near Ouezzane. What did it matter that belief in God was a thing of the past, I couldn’t root this scene from my being any more than the olive trees could uproot themselves from their terrain, that ancient olive grove that so many of my ancestors had prayed in. My roots were there, in the depths of that soil. Could I accept that my Moroccan Jewish brethren had gone to the Holy land, that land of Palestine from which Rabbi Amran had come, in order to uproot olive trees?”

As if that wasn’t clear enough, I read what Serfaty had written in 1982, following Sabra and Shatilla: “That religion of peace, justice, and mutual respect, has been transformed by them into a religion of hatred, war and injustice. What a disgrace to the sacred memory of our ancestors! That assassins like Begin and Sharon used their mercenaries to massacre women, children and elderly people in the name of Judaism. What a disgrace and what a sacrilege.”

When I was through speaking, an entourage of ultra-Orthodox men waited off stage to greet me and one, stepping out from the group and extending both arms to take my hand, exclaimed: “Who was that sage you spoke of?”


In 1991 I got a letter postmarked “Central Prison; Kuneitra, Morocco,” dated June 24th. I had met Christine Daure-Serfaty some months before, when she had come to New York to accept a human rights award in her still imprisoned husband’s name. Happy for the recognition but appalled at the institutional merchandising of pain and suffering she sensed in the proceedings, we immediately hit it off. She told me that the only visitors her husband might eventually receive had to be related. Because of our common background, she suggested I pose as a long lost cousin, an American searching for “roots.” I proceeded to write to Abraham, not quite knowing what to expect. By now an internationally known figure, Serfaty had been captured in 1972, brutally tortured and held at the infamous desert prison of Tazmamart; in 1977 he was given a life sentence for “openly plotting to overthrow the monarchy,” and “offences against state security.” A mining engineer by profession, he had been active in the communist party and belonged to a clandestine Marxist group. By the time he wrote to me, his conditions had improved and the long letter (beginning “Dear Friend, Your letter of May 2nd gave me great pleasure. I am already familiar with your texts in Middle East Report and, moreover, I have long hoped to enter into contact with a younger, militant anti-zionist Jew whose sensibility is representative of Oriental Jews maintaining some rapport with this ethnicity in relation to the State of Israel”), was typed out on thin paper and neatly pasted into an aerogramme. The Gulf War had only been officially over for a few months and Bosnia was on the verge of a siege that would last over three years.


After the assassination of Martin Luther King in 1968, rebellions and riots broke out in 125 cities across the United States; after Robert Kennedy’ assassination, tanks sealed Miami Beach off from demonstrators and rioters too close to the Republican Convention; in Chicago, police battled demonstrators outside the Democratic National Convention; on Moratorium day in November 1969, millions across the country staged antiwar demonstrations; in December, police assassinated Black Panthers Fred Hampton and Mark Clark. In 1970, US troops invaded Cambodia: students were shot and killed at Kent and Jackson State universities. In 1971, Colonel Robert D. Heinl, Jr., in “The Collapse of the Armed Forces,” wrote: “By every conceivable indicator, our army that now remains in Vietnam is in a state approaching collapse, with individual units avoiding or having refused combat, murdering their officers and non-commissioned officers — drug-ridden, and dispirited where not near-mutinous.” In 1971, the Vietnam Veterans Against the War, along with mothers whose sons were killed and their supporters, carried out Dewey Canyon III, “a limited incursion into the country of Congress.” On the final of several days of protest, some 800 decorated veterans stepped up to a microphone in front of the barricades blocking access to the White House, made a statement, and threw their Bronze Stars, Silver Stars, Purple Hearts, and campaign ribbons over the fences.

In high school —1969, 1970, 1971 — if you wore an army jacket, it meant you were against the war. But that would soon change, with imagery and stories of POWS and returning vets facing a purportedly hostile homecoming. It took 10 years to reverse the famous image of General Loan, head of South Vietnam’s police and intelligence, firing a pistol into the head of a prisoner; it took ten years to hand that gun over to a North Vietnamese officer and replace the NLF prisoner with an American POW forced to play Russian roulette. It took ten years, but it happened, in The Deer Hunter, in 1978. In the meantime, the Middle East had taken center stage and “Israel, or a certain image of Israel, came to function as a stage upon which the war in Vietnam was refought — and this time, won.” In 1979, US Ambassador to the United Nations Andrew Young was forced to resign because of contacts with the PLO. The revolution was almost complete: sights could be set on Beirut, barely limping but still alive.


In Memory for Forgetfulness, Mahmoud Darwish describes the effects of a vacuum bomb, used by the Israeli airforce on an eight-storey apartment building near Sanaya Gardens in West Beirut:

A vacuum bomb. It creates an immense emptiness that annihilates the base under the target, the resulting vacuum sucking the building down and turning it into a buried graveyard. No more, no less. And there, below, in the new realm, the form keeps its shape. The residents of the building keep their previous shapes and the varied forms of their final, choking, gestures. There, below, under what a moment ago was under them, they turn into statues made of flesh with not enough life for a farewell. Thus he who was alseep is still sleeping. He who was carrying a coffee tray is still carrying it. He who was opening a window is still opening it. He who was sucking at his mother’s breast is still suckling. And he who was on top of his wife is still on top of her. But he who happned to be standing on the roof of the building can now shake the dust off his clothes and walk into the street without using the elevator, for the building is now level with the ground. For that reason the birds have remained alive, perched in their cages on the roof.

In Beirut-Guernica, Fawwaz Traboulsi writes:

Guernica 1937: testing ground for the latest models of the Nazi death machines on the eve of World War II. A new generation of incendiary bombs. The study of the effects of air raids on a civilian population.

Beirut 1982: testing ground in the atomic age for the latest models in the arsenal of the U.S. war machine:

Semi-nuclear bombs,
smart bombs,
laser-guided bombs,
and phosphopous bombs…”


In 1945, Moise Ventura, the chief rabbi of Alexandria, delivered a sermon called “An Echo of the Atomic Bomb” which began: “The state of the discovery of the atomic bomb marks the historic moment of the most spectacular explosion of materialism, that world system founded on the principle of the eternity and indestructability of matter.”


The scheduled release date for Mordechai Vanunu (the former nuclear technician drugged, beaten and kidnapped in Rome under the orders of then Defence Minister Shimon Peres and taken to Israel where he disappeared for six weeks before being tried in secret and given an 18 year sentence, more than 11 years of which were served in solitary confinement), is April 22nd, 2004.

Meir Vanunu, harrassed and threatened with imprisonment for campaigning on his brother’s behalf, wrote: “The Lebanon war of 1982 had a great effect on the development of his views in the following years, in fact, already, before the war, he refused to train or to be trained in his army reserve service, and chose to work in the kitchen instead. In his geography degree he took a special interest in acid rain and its effects on the environment. He went on to study for a Masters degree in Philosophy, became an assistant lecturer and lectured in philosophy. When I try to explain myself and to others how he came to do what he did, I draw the following picture. On one hand, a man who in his daily reality was deeply involved in the philosophy of those such as Nietzsche, Sartre, Spinoza, and Kierkegaard, and on the other hand faced the reality of his work as a full time night-shift worker at the nuclear complex half an hour from the university.” Later, from prison, when he could finally write, Mordekhai let his brother know that: “I did not want to be a hero. I did not want to be famous. I did not want to perform this act but I knew if I had not done it, no one would.”


In a proposal tabled during the first ever Israeli parliamentary discussion touching on such issues (“On nuclear weapons and Mordechai Vanunu,” held February 2, 2000), member of parliament Issam Makhoul asked the following questions:

“Last year a story appeared in the media, according to which Israel exports part of its nuclear waste to be buried in Mauritania, in Africa. I ask the Prime Minister: Is this true? Has Israel adopted the criminal colonialist practice of polluting the Third World, which European countries abandoned some years ago following the struggle of the green organizations?

I ask the Prime Minister: What is the condition of Israel’s nuclear missile sites near Kfar Zechariah on the outskirts of Jerusalem, and near Yodfat in the Galilee? Are there additional sites?

I ask the Prime Minister: How is it that plants in which the missiles are manufactured and atom bombs are made are located in the most densely populated areas in Israel, in the center and in Haifa? I ask the Prime Minister: Do you understand that the Biological Institute in Nes Tsiona, which is where Israel manufactures its biological warfare, is set in a residential area, which is a crime against the residents of Israel and the neighboring countries?

And what about the risk of an earthquake? The reactor in Dimona is located over the Syrian-African rift. An earthquake similar to the one that occurred in Turkey last year would crack the reactor, and Israel would be covered with radioactive dust. If that happens, there would be nothing left but say goodbye, and die a terrible death.”


Mordechai’s palm, facing out of the tiny window of the paddy wagon, with the name and date of the flight on which he was abducted, tied to a stretcher: “They brought me here like Kunta Kinte, chained up like a slave.” From “Vanunu’s Abduction,” Sunday Times (London); August, 9, 1987.
Bound and gagged in court, a motorcycle helmet strapped over his head: the Jerusalem Post byline: “Yes, the law does allow for people to ‘disappear.’”Locked up in a cell no bigger than himself, the lights on 24 hours a day, a video camera constantly pointed directly at him: “What kind of justice is there in this state and where are all the defenders of human rights? How did the authorities manage to gag them all without putting them in prison or holding them in solitary confinement?”


Like the invisible scars neurologically imprinted on a prisoner deprived of any human contact, there is no return from consciousness: “The individual can compel the establishment, can say to it, You are accountable to me. The individual can expose the dark machinations of any regime in the world, in any sphere, by means of civil disobedience… An action like mine teaches citizens that their own reasoning, the reasoning of every individual, is no less important than that of the leaders… They use force and sacrifice thousands of people on the altar of their megalomania. Don’t follow them blindly.”

In 1998, there were just a few references to Mordechai Vanunu in the American press: a few scattered news articles, some AP dispatches, one item each on CNN and NPR. The New York Times did not mention him once. In Britain, on the other hand, according to the Nexis database, mainstream outlets did at least 45 major stories on Vanunu, with 16 appearing in the Sunday Times. Many Nobel Prize winners, prominent intellectuals and public figures have campaigned on his behalf. When he was temporarily taken out of solitary in 1999, he spoke of the methods he used to survive: “I developed a way to deal with this nightmare. I waged a totally conscious war against the messages the prison was trying to get through to me. I brainwashed myself to create a system of checks and balances to counteract them. I checked myself continuosly to make sure I wasn’t going off track. It was like an obsessive trance. I knew that if I stopped that would be the end of me. I could never allow myself to become apathetic. I looked at things only with my own rationale. I couldn’t afford to allow any room for pain or emotions. It would have broken me like a twig. If I would have thought about all the things that I missed I would have collapsed.”


plutonium for memory uranium for forgetfulness
the chosen people is 200 bombs that don’t exist
in Dimona acid raining on Bengazi and Tripoli
Algiers Oran Casablanca Rabat and Marrakesh
the Nile the Tigris and the Euphrates glow
the Orontes lights up Gilgamesh chips and
cinders float over this imploding planet


3 comentarios

  1. maggie,

    is that you? are you ok? in beirut, where? give a sign of life…

  2. thanks for reprinting this..which I found by googling vacuum bomb. Yesterday and today (August 6 2006) I’ve been reading Mahmoud Darwish on Beirut August 6 1982..
    take care

  3. Never knew much things about what happenes in Beirut before reading this…it’s been illuminating.


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