Only In the Guardian
I told you I was going to make this a daily feature. You ask, I deliver.
In a story covering yesterday’s barbarian suicide bombing in Jerusalem, Suzanne Goldenberg writes:
Although Mr Arafat convened a rare press conference in Ramallah to condemn the attack, Mr Sharon cancelled scheduled ceasefire talks between Israeli, US and Palestinian security officials, and summoned his security cabinet last night. Such sessions are the usual prelude to Israeli military retaliation, but Mr Sharon was also scheduled to meet the US envoy, General Anthony Zinni, which could influence Israel’s response.
Yes, yes. Mr. Arafat held a press conference after one of his own boys brutally murdered three people and injured scores more, yet those nasty Israelis are still considering military action. Don’t they get it? Arafat held a press conference. That makes it all better. Now go line up quietly for the ovens like good little Jews.
The bomber struck outside a toy shop on King George Street, an area of Jerusalem that has been targeted so relentlessly by bombers that several witnesses spotted the grim-faced young man in a heavy winter coat, who was suspiciously bulky around the waist, where he had strapped the deadly nail-studded device.
Re-read that last paragraph. Really, go back and read it again. The bomber strapped C-4 and nails around his body, then hung out at a toy store. A toy store. Can you picture him, trying to look casual in his last minutes of life, waiting for the bloodiest possible moment, for the greatest number of children to be near, before pushing the plunger? And yet…
Yesterday’s attack was critically timed, and strikes at a key element of the Bush administration’s vision for the Middle East, which sees a ceasefire between Israel and the Palestinians as a precondition to staving off opposition from Arab states for a future military strike on Iraq.
And yet the worst of it is, that silly bomber had the poor timing to ruin the useless peace conference that the EUnichs want. Imagine the gall.
Oh, wait — you don’t have to. You just read all about gall, only in the Guardian.