When I wrote about Human Sacrifice in the post just below this one, I got a very mixed reaction. Someone I have known for a very long time, a teacher and inspiration of mine, put her finger directly on the fulcrum of this reaction when she wrote:
“It is always difficult to determine whether an article like this will primarily arm with many particulars those who already agree with you, or if it will reach also those who do not currently agree.”
Its a problem. I understand that terms like human sacrifice are harsh. It sounds wild and outlandish. But many years ago, I almost unknowingly sacrificed my own child in this way so I know that we need to express this fully and honestly.
|This is not my Amy. This is a picture of Hallel Yaffa Ariel, an Israeli girl who was savagely slashed to death in her own bed, as she slept by a Muslim Teenager. To protect my daughter, let Hallel represent her here.|
Back in the early eighties my young family and I lived next door to an Iranian family. They were nice, friendly people. Hamid (not his real name) was a physician who was just starting out in his own practice. His wife, Haideh, also Iranian born, was a mathematician. She taught at a local college. We moved in to our brand new houses just months apart and shared the rigors of nurturing lawns where there had been only bulldozer tracks. We cooperated in the planting of trees and shrubs to define the empty expanses between our new homes. We borrowed tools from each other. Hamid and I played tennis often and even discussed the possibility of building a tennis court in the flat spot where our lots met. Our children played together and his son, Amir and my daughter Amy became very close friends. The two of them were barely more than toddlers when they first met but were soon talking about getting married the way little ones sometimes do when they find a close companion of the opposite sex.
The next summer, they went back to Iran to visit with their families. We were afraid for our friends. We knew the country was in turmoil. They were gone for several weeks. For much of that time my Amy’s days were occupied with day camp but she still missed her friend. They finally returned a week before school.
It was a sunny Sunday morning and Amy went out right after breakfast and met Amir in his backyard. We watched as they began to play and turned away to read the Sunday paper. We were surprised when Amy came back inside a short while later. She walked by us with her head down and started up the stairs to her room. We had expected to have to call her in for lunch so it was odd that she came back so early. I called after her and asked her what was wrong. She told me how little 5-year-old Amir had matter-of-factly informed my innocent 5-year-old daughter that because she is a Jew it is his duty to kill her.
I went right over to talk with my friend and neighbor. Hamid was deeply embarrassed. He hastened to explain that: “Over there, the radio and TV were full of that kind of thing - you simply couldn’t avoid it.” He assumed that Amir had heard this kind of thing on the radio or TV because no one in his family believed such things. He was sure, he told me, that now that Amir was back here he would soon forget it. He assured me that he would talk with Amir and was sure that the boy didn’t even understand what he was saying.
I could see how distressed he was and told him that I understood and that I appreciated his concern. We looked at each other and shook hands and patted each other on the shoulder. I was sure that it would not change things between our families.
Remember that this was twenty years before September 11, 2001, and just shortly after the fall of the Shah. Before they had left, I had wondered vaguely if his kids were going to be exposed to anti-American rhetoric and how that would sit with them. But what manner of “rhetoric”. This had never entered my mind. The raw, murderous Jew hatred was an utter shock. Back then many of us believed the myth of the benevolent ancient caliphates and the benign toleration of “Dhimmis” under Muslim rule. After all, I mused, Iran was at war with Iraq. And Israel had recently bombed the Osirac reactor thereby preventing Iraq from developing nuclear weapons…
In the light of everything that has transpired since then, it may seem hopelessly naïve of me but I was amazed that what had surfaced first from this child’s sojourn in his homeland was the immediacy of the violent impulse. As I lay awake in bed that night, I found I couldn’t get the event out of my mind. The idea that a child could have such an impulse was staggering by itself. What kind of madness had he been exposed too? What hellish clatter of hatred and fear was there in the streets and media over there that could move a five year old say such a thing?
I had seen the pictures on the nightly news reports on the recently ended hostage ordeal. The impression was of dense, agitated crowds of shirt-sleeved young men with posters and bullhorns. For all that it was fascinating, the violent rhetoric was often reported untranslated and the alien animus seemed unconnected to me personally. It now began to creep in upon me that our news media were not showing us the whole picture- that they were hiding the things that were the deadliest and most disturbing.
I had watched the news with the detachment of one who had every confidence that it had nothing to do with me. Now, as I lay awake, I could see- it was very personal. It was frightening, it was unfamiliar, it was hateful and I had no idea how big or how close it was. I understood then that I had no real information about it- that is the moment that I began to realize that our media and our leaders were not being straight with us.
I lay awake that night thinking, picturing the sweating, rioting crowds in the streets of Tehran and imagining their squawking radios and televisions. The morning before, I had thought that all I had to do was talk to my neighbor about this thing. Now I saw clearly that this was very big and very ugly- beyond reach of a friendly neighborhood talk. I got out of bed and looked out the window toward their house, bathed in pale moonlight. The calm late summer night was filled with a new shadow- the specter of an evil that had once seemed far away and theoretical and was suddenly present and breathing quietly in the deep shadows of that soft night. I walked down the hall and looked into Amy’s room. Her soft brown curls shone in the moonlight and she stirred and sighed.
I wandered back to my bed and lay down. What kind of culture, I wondered, puts ideas like this into the mind of a little boys? How was it, even with parents like my friends Hamid and Haideh, the racket and stink of genocidal hatred could so easily stick to him and be carried so quietly and so deep into the heart of our safe little suburban neighborhood.
And what kind of culture leaves its own citizens so uninformed and unprotected as we are?
Only now, more than thirty years later, I see what is most frightening about what happened to my family. It was never truly about Islam. It is that I could never have anticipated or defended against this threat because, as a liberal I was blinded by the “The Narrative”. The modern liberal/progressive movement with its high priests in the media and its Royal lineage of progressive leaders, starting with Eugene McCarthy and culminating in Carter, Obama, Kerry, and Clinton, intentionally advocates that we agree to be defenseless against the cultural and behavioral dangers that we face. It was my internalization of Political correctness that prevented me from understanding the role of Islam. It was multiculturalism that blocked my ability to see that not all cultures are equal or peaceful. It was “diversity” that encouraged me to want to accept alien cultural influence as beneficial. And it was , “social justice” that encouraged me to want to ignore obvious dangers.
Political Correctness, multiculturalism, diversity and social justice are, after all. intellectual constructs. They are purposefully meant to disarm us- to divorce us from reality and make it impossible to question “The Narrative”.
The horrors of this “narrative” are all around us; and we are paralyzed. The intellectual barricades that have been constructed around it to keep it from collapsing are, by now, embedded deep in us. All the while the attacks of an unforgiving reality are killing and maiming innocent people. Our media don’t show us the blood- just the dry body count- and they don’t dwell on that. Nor do they talk about who the murderers and rapists really are. The soft, neutered and incomplete reporting of the media that prevent us from even identifying the threat, let alone address it. Worst of all, our leaders distract us, turning the public reaction into debates about “gun violence”, “religious tolerance” and “profiling”.
For many years, the victims were mostly far away. Israelis killed in bombings, shootings and knifings were somehow acceptable losses. The Narrative told us this was bad but “understandable”. Once in a while the violence would break through to us as when Pan AM flight 93 was brought down over Lockerbie with with hundreds of Americans on board or the Marine barracks bombing in Lebanon. But those too were far away and somehow portrayed as “tragedies” instead of the atrocities they were. Then 3,000 died on 9/11 and The media acolytes of The Narrative obfuscated more aggressively. They mewled, “Why do They Hate Us?” and answered their own questions with bromides about economic conditions and job opportunities.
Still the bodies pile up, and they no longer far away. They are here. They are torn, bloody bodies of unarmed service men and women cut down on a military base, two Coptic Christian men beheaded in their car, a whole family literally shredded by a hail of explosion-propelled nails and ball bearings on the streets of Boston. One minute they were standing there cheering the marathon; the next, they were blown down and torn to shreds. The 8 year old son, suddenly legless, lying on the cold cement, bled-out from his massive wounds with his eyes open, pleading for help. There are so many, we forget them as the next wave of murder materializes.
So, I am left to wonder if, the next time I read about a young Muslim man whose parents came here when he was a child, shooting people at a mall, or planting pressure-cooker bombs in public places or slaughtering gay people in a nightclub, or stabbing random passers-by if his name will turn out to be Amir. So far so good- at least for me- the names have been Hassan, Tsarnaev, Farook, Mateen, Arcan Cetin and so many others I can’t even count.
I feel as if in a nightmare with some rude beast bearing down on me, coming for my family, devouring my community undermining my nation- and they don’t see it! I can’t move, can't scream, can’t even speak! And even if I could, no one would hear or understand.
I share this personal story in the hope that you, my reader, will understand and help us wake up from this nightmare. Hillary Clinton ignored the peril to her own employees in Benghazi in order to support The Narrative and help Barak Obama get re-elected. In that sense, she is personally guilty of sacrificing four human beings, one of them a man she called a friend in order to support this morally bankrupt, intellectual fantasy. She did not give Ambassador Stevens the security he requested and wherever the “stand down” order came from, she had to have been part of that decision.
Human Sacrifice is the only way The Narrative survives and more innocents are fed to this hungry monster every day. To name a few:
- Each and every death by Islamic terror
- The victims of street violence in the inner cities that have been wasted by the sickness of the liberal welfare and poverty bureaucracy.
- The living infants murdered in “live birth abortions”
- The veterans betrayed by the VA medical establishment who die waiting for care
They are all offered up to support The Narrative and The Narrative is Hillary.
For all his human shortcomings, Trump is our only hope to stop, or at least begin to break down The Narrative. It is his very impulsiveness that gives me this faith. He speaks the truth about what he sees. He is not cowed by the opinions and fears of others, He believes in confronting reality- and dealing with it head on.
Can there be any doubt that if that little boy had found a gun, or taken a knife or used one of the gardening tools instead of talking first, that the only news about the death or maiming of my daughter that would have reached the rest of the world (or my, former, liberal self!) would have been a bemused and vague report of a tragedy? Enough of calling atrocities “tragedies”! Have we not had altogether too much of the liberal agenda and the progressive narrative and the sacrifices they require of us?
A vote for Hillary is a vote to make The Narrative stronger and even more opaque. A vote for Trump is a vote to breach its defenses, to make reality our guide and, yes, to Make America Great Again.