In Holland, there’s a bit of an row lately around a Dutch lady who joined the Columbian guerilla (or terrorist, depending on where you stand) movement FARQ. The 29-year old was studying Spanish when, back in 2002, she decided to go ‘local’; join the Marxist rebels and take up arms to fight poverty in the Central American country. A female Che Guevera, so to speak. The Dutch government is a bit embarrassed by it all since they will have to explain the Columbian government what exactly one of their nationals is doing out there in the jungle, running around with an AK-47. 
Joining foreign ‘liberation’ movements seems to have its magnetism. I remember an American teenager, and an Australian as well, running with al Qaeda in Afghanistan.
Here in Lebanon, Fatah al-Islam seems to have had its fair share in attracting just about every nationality in the Middle East. My, they even had people from Bangladesh!
But the Dutch do not have to worry about me. I am not about to join the Fatah Islam, or what is left of it. Their dress code is a bit of a problem for me, and there may be issues from their side regarding my religious integrity.
But let me tell you about the time when I (sort of) almost ended up with Hezbollah. This was way back in the early nineties, and Hezbollah wasn’t yet the sophisticated organization it is right now.
They did have a press officer, but he did not speak English, would not give his name and would not hand out phone numbers nor organize press trips to the front line for journalists, complete with croissants and coffee.
And the press guy was just not very cooperative.
I needed a story, and he wasn’t giving one.
Interviews with combatants, a tour through a chador factory, talks with martyr’s wives, a look at the front line, an explanation of the organization’s structure, a ‘day in the life of’….. it was just not materializing.’ Even pictures were a virtual impossibility, other than the regular photo-ops of the Hezbollah military parade on Jerusalem Day.
The guy exasperated me.
“I need to understand how your fighters think. What they feel, what they care about, what kind of men they are,” I tried one afternoon. “If I understand them, go through what they go through, I can show people in Holland a better picture of Hezbollah, and people in Holland can sympathize with you (yes, I know; the things you won’t say for a story), get a better impression of Hezbollah.”
“You want to go with our boys?” said press guy.
I felt we were making a connection. I saw an opening.
“Yes, yes, with your boys. Into the field.”
“So you can do everything together?”
“Yes, exactly, that’s it!”
“So you want to know how they move, and cook, and set up camp?”
“Yes, and train, that would be nice too.”
Press guy seemed to understand me. He was getting into the groove.
“Yes, you can do many things together. You can go with them when they go to the Beqaa Valley”, he mused.
“Exactly,” I replied shaking my head enthusiastically.
“Walk together, eat together, everything.”
“Yes, yes!”
“You can swim together.”
That swimming part threw me of.
Swim?
These guys went on swimming expeditions? Was I correct in visualizing a group of young Hezbollah fighters in the Beqaa Valley, all together in their Speedos in a swimming hole, splattering and jumping and having fun; their battle fatigues hanging from the tree branches while their M16’s were leaning against the trunk? I did not quite make the connection. We were not talking boys’ scouts here, were we?
I voiced my reservations.
“Well, swimming may not be a good idea. I don’t quite see how I, in my bathing suit, would quite fit between your fighters. I don’t think that would be very appropriate.”
“Oh, but you must do everything together. We can arrange that with the swimming. We can make it legal. You want to do everything? You do everything!”
I was not sure if I understood him correctly, and wondered if maybe something got lost in the translation. Between my pathetic Arabic and his poor English, lord knows what we had missed. But I didn’t quite like where that story went to, and so did not ask for clarifications.
The conversation quickly petered out from that point on.
And thus nothing ever became of me ‘joining the troops’.
I wonder though what would have happened had I taken him up on his offer, made it legal (?) and hung around in a swimming hole with a battalion of soldiers from God.
Now wouldn’t that have been a story?
Joining foreign ‘liberation’ movements seems to have its magnetism. I remember an American teenager, and an Australian as well, running with al Qaeda in Afghanistan.
Here in Lebanon, Fatah al-Islam seems to have had its fair share in attracting just about every nationality in the Middle East. My, they even had people from Bangladesh!
But the Dutch do not have to worry about me. I am not about to join the Fatah Islam, or what is left of it. Their dress code is a bit of a problem for me, and there may be issues from their side regarding my religious integrity.
But let me tell you about the time when I (sort of) almost ended up with Hezbollah. This was way back in the early nineties, and Hezbollah wasn’t yet the sophisticated organization it is right now.
They did have a press officer, but he did not speak English, would not give his name and would not hand out phone numbers nor organize press trips to the front line for journalists, complete with croissants and coffee.
And the press guy was just not very cooperative.I needed a story, and he wasn’t giving one.
Interviews with combatants, a tour through a chador factory, talks with martyr’s wives, a look at the front line, an explanation of the organization’s structure, a ‘day in the life of’….. it was just not materializing.’ Even pictures were a virtual impossibility, other than the regular photo-ops of the Hezbollah military parade on Jerusalem Day.
The guy exasperated me.
“I need to understand how your fighters think. What they feel, what they care about, what kind of men they are,” I tried one afternoon. “If I understand them, go through what they go through, I can show people in Holland a better picture of Hezbollah, and people in Holland can sympathize with you (yes, I know; the things you won’t say for a story), get a better impression of Hezbollah.”
“You want to go with our boys?” said press guy.
I felt we were making a connection. I saw an opening.
“Yes, yes, with your boys. Into the field.”
“So you can do everything together?”
“Yes, exactly, that’s it!”
“So you want to know how they move, and cook, and set up camp?”
“Yes, and train, that would be nice too.”
Press guy seemed to understand me. He was getting into the groove.
“Yes, you can do many things together. You can go with them when they go to the Beqaa Valley”, he mused.
“Exactly,” I replied shaking my head enthusiastically.
“Walk together, eat together, everything.”
“Yes, yes!”
“You can swim together.”
That swimming part threw me of.
Swim?
These guys went on swimming expeditions? Was I correct in visualizing a group of young Hezbollah fighters in the Beqaa Valley, all together in their Speedos in a swimming hole, splattering and jumping and having fun; their battle fatigues hanging from the tree branches while their M16’s were leaning against the trunk? I did not quite make the connection. We were not talking boys’ scouts here, were we?
I voiced my reservations.
“Well, swimming may not be a good idea. I don’t quite see how I, in my bathing suit, would quite fit between your fighters. I don’t think that would be very appropriate.”
“Oh, but you must do everything together. We can arrange that with the swimming. We can make it legal. You want to do everything? You do everything!”
I was not sure if I understood him correctly, and wondered if maybe something got lost in the translation. Between my pathetic Arabic and his poor English, lord knows what we had missed. But I didn’t quite like where that story went to, and so did not ask for clarifications.
The conversation quickly petered out from that point on.
And thus nothing ever became of me ‘joining the troops’.
I wonder though what would have happened had I taken him up on his offer, made it legal (?) and hung around in a swimming hole with a battalion of soldiers from God.
Now wouldn’t that have been a story?
3 comments:
I think sadly you have missed the point! he was taking the piss out of you!
FYI - it's AK47s and not M16s :P just a thought though
Anonymous,
I thought about that at the time, and if he was taking the piss out of me, this would imply a certain amount of humor. But if there is one thing that most Hezbollahs have in common (apart from their leader maybe) it is a lack of humor. So it wasn't that, I'm pretty sure.
Sietske
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