When A Terrorist Was A Terrorist

Dare I say it? Shall those words come from out of my own mouth? Oh! Here it comes . . .

I miss you, Abu Amar. Yasser, you were the genuine article. No silk ties with Oxford knots for you, or putting on deodorant just because you were visiting a president or prime minister. You really made your clothing last, Yasser, season in and season out. And you didn't know about matching socks from adam. They say that khaki, like plaid, is never out of fashion, as you have demonstrated so elegantly. You were a terrorist's terrorist, and not ashamed of it. Forever the desert warrior fresh out of battle, with a manly scent about you, and a crusty festering wound or two. Now even Hamas guys show up in the darndest places wearing Italian suits. And your old PLO trench-mates, they shave, habibi, they shave every blessed day (except for Hanan Ashrawi, who should). Oh the humanity!

But now you're gone, Yasser, and a big hole remains in my heart (but not where you shot me, you bugger!), and another really huge one in Ramallah, which I think is where your house used to stand, yes?

You, I understood. Nu those crazy goons that run around today in Ghazza City, Washington, Ramallah, Paris are pale techno-terrorcrats in comparison. They won't amount to a hill of spicy chick peas in the great scheme of things. But who could ever forget Yasser.

So . . .

Here's looking at you, sh'kheed!