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September 11th, 2015 
Awake Goy While in Cairo two years back, slipping in between revolutions and CIA coups, my wife and I stayed in a posh $250-a-night room at the Mena House in Giza, but a stone’s throw from the Great Pyramids.
Meanwhile, down in the teeming Nile Valley most of the twenty-two million people who make up the second largest demographic disaster on earth (aka “city”) were living a hand-to-mouth existence in mud huts beside canals clogged with garbage and dead animals. One does not see any dogs or cats running around. Because of a thick blue smog, visibility anywhere in Cairo is, I would guess, about a hundred yards on a good day and about as far as you can toss a hundred-pound oxygen canister on a bad day. Construction work at Tahrir Square (the main meeting ground and the place where most of the recent violence took place) continues apace and close by ex-President Mubarak’s old “Mubarak-For-Life” party headquarters, a tall modern building, was still a burned and gutted monument to the regime’s corruption and the fallen leader’s roll as US puppet and Israeli stooge.
Flocks of young maidens, everywhere, all in their black jeans and colorful scarves—for some reason they were riveted by my wife wherever we went. The young ladies’ large, olive eyes followed my quiet mate quietly, and a bit suspensefully, I thought, as they examined everything about her—her slimness, her confidence as she walked beside me (not three paces back), her reddish-blond hair, her frizzy hair style, her simple, yet chic, clothes, her gold sandals, the simplicity of her jewelry. When my wife would feel a hundred eyes on her and look over and wave to the girls their faces instantly lit up like Chinese lanterns as they waved back in unison (above). M’Lady must have felt like Queen Nefertiti surrounded by her handmaidens; and yet she never said a thing about it except how “adorable” the kids were.
In one shop where she was having a gold cartouche necklace set to hieroglyphics, my mate was speed-dialed by an amorous Arab doing the job. Not standing on the least bit of ceremony, Mahmoud, Mustafa, Mehmet, or whatever his name was, point blank proposed to the startled American woman. Sadly, the lady stated to her suitor that she was already married, married, she pointed with a grimace, to that old, bald lout standing over there swatting flies in the corner and that the Egyptian might have to wait a few years for the lout American to be killed by pit bulls, or until some senile Florida geezer ran over him on his bike, whichever came first.
Along with Cyprus, we also spent a few days in Israel.
Because of his persistent criticism of the Israeli government and its death grip it has on the US government and media, as well as its nonstop attempts to keep the world perpetually at the brink of nuclear annihilation, this old Tom was a might concerned about 1) being allowed to enter Israel and 2), (and waaay more importantly) this old Tom was hugely concerned about being allowed to leave Israel in the second place if he was allowed to enter Israel in the first place. See? You do? Good!
As it turned out there was no problem. Although Thomas was on high alert during the sweaty-palm slide through passport control (he had heard bad stories of similar scenarios), all went well and your bloggist was relieved to see that no one was tailing him and that no Mossad death squads were lurking in the shadows to whack him. Paranoid much? Maybe.
Although the day we entered the Jewish state (my wife’s first visit) was the same day the rockets from Gaza started falling on southern Israel and the same day the missiles and bombs from Israel started blasting the rubble that is Gaza into more rubble, the only signs of war we saw were the US-made gift tanks heading south on flatbed trucks. We entered the country through the port of Haifa, a rather grubby and gritty place, as most ports are. Generally, we were treated well by the Israelis. Like folks everywhere, I’ve learned, they were eager to help a stranger. My argument has never been with the average Jew on the streets of Haifa or Jerusalem, but with their gangster government ensconced in the capital, Tel Aviv. Sound familiar? We Americans are also a pretty decent people, generally, willing to help those who need help. But we are burdened by an out-of-control thug regime that thinks war all over the globe is just jim-dandy, that thinks torture of prisoners is pretty neat too, that thinks backing Israel’s aggression is just peachy, and that thinks that we, the American cattle that they herd to the sham elections every four years, should pay our taxes, cheer at our sporting events, and, except when sucking down toxic fast-food and GMO’s, we should just keep our bitch holes shut, or else.
If possible, the Palestinians in the West Bank live lives like American Indians on their western reservations live lives—in utter, abject and spectacular squalor. The Palestinian poverty is exceptional, however, even by American Indian standards. Many huts are hardly more than rock piles. Even the simplest possessions seem virtually non-existent. Lower down the human ladder, if possible, bedraggled Bedouins roam around the Judean Desert at will tending their sheep and goats.
Source Article from http://renegadetribune.com/out-of-africa/
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