The Israeli Ambassador to Gaza

Palestinian kids are being torn limb from limb or pulled limp and lifeless from the rubble of destroyed apartments in Gaza but you won't be reading anything about that in Rupert Murdoch's Sydney tabloid, the Daily Telegraph. Certainly not from the pen of the recently rambammed Simon Benson.

No, Benson's job, it appears, is to serve up to readers examples of the Israeli soul, which, even as Hamas rockets literally block out the sun over Israel, always manages to shine through.

You will of course remember, from the previous post, young Sivan Hanukayer from Israel's Stalingrad, Sderot:

"She says that when the rockets rain down, all she can think of is hate. Wanting her enemies across the border 'dead, erased'. When it's over, and she returns to a rational state, she sympathises with the Palestinians across the border who are used as human shields by the jihadists."

That was in last Friday's edition. Writing in the Sunday Telegraph (18/11), Benson brings us the heart-warming story of Dr Lior Sasson, who specialises in mending Palestinian kiddies' hearts:

"As Israel and Hamas exchanged rocket fire..."

Parenthetically, if you had to 'receive' rocket fire, which would you choose, that coming from Gaza or that raining down on Gaza from Israel? Just asking.

"... over the border, doctors from the Save a Child's Heart Foundation were planning a procedure that would offer [7-year old Palestinian] Mohammed [Naser] a life that would have otherwise been tragically cut short... 'We never let the conflict interfere with what we are doing,' the foundation's head of surgery, Dr Lior Sasson said. 'If there is a kid we can help, we do it. If we are successful, we send home an ambassador.'"

Fat chance, Dr Lior! These brainwashed savages, unlike Benson and the readers of the DT, are blind to the radiance of the Israeli soul. As Benson says:

"His family cared little for the irony - that they had to turn to a people they are told are their enemy to save their son's life as their leaders prepared for full-scale war." 

You can imagine the scene:

Benson: Do you not realise, woman, the incredible irony in your son being healed by those you've been taught to see as your enemy? Do you not see that, while the good Israeli doctor is saving your son's life, your leaders are trying to kill him?

Mrs Naser (Remains silent, looking puzzled, as if thinking, Who the hell is this lunatic?)

Benson ('thinking' aloud): As I expected, irony is quite simply beyond these people. (Scribbles thought in notebook and departs for long liquid Tel Aviv lunch.)

But this business about little Mohammed returning to Gaza as an ambassador for Israel has got me intrigued.

Just imagine, if you will:  Mohammed's back in Gaza City with his family. He sets off, through the rubble-strewn and smoking streets, the constant din of Israeli planes, helicopters and drones and the occasional sound of exploding bombs failing to deter him in his mission. You see, Mohammed can't wait to tell his best friend, Ahmed, about the wonderful Dr Sasson and all the other beautiful Israeli souls he's met in Israel.

Before long he reaches Ahmed's two-storey house. Or what is left of it. He stands in disbelief, gazing at what looks like a concrete and rebar version, only larger, of an Ikea furniture piece which someone's simply given up on assembling in sheer frustration and left behind after first taking to it with a sledgehammer and then setting it on fire.

"Ahmed!" he cries out in anguish. His only answer is the sickly-sweet smell of rotting flesh which wafts his way from somewhere deep under the pile. Overcome by a steely anger he simply cannot control, he looks up at the humming, droning sky and screams: "Fucking Israelis!"