Gods of the South-West

By Ariti Jankie

The back waters of the south western districts of Trinidad are opening up in more ways than one.
In recent years, the government has placed emphasis on road works and infrastructure in Penal, Barrackpore and Siparia; areas that had been completely neglected for decades.
With better roadways, more people are likely to discover a church in Siparia that draws worshippers of all religions. On Good Friday, Siparia takes on a new life when Hindus make the pilgrimage to seek miracles at the feet of Siparee Mai. She sits in the Roman Catholic Church on Church Street and after Good Friday returns to being the saint La Divina Pastora.
The legend of Siparee Mai began when an immigrant worker from India spotted her as a young girl on mornings. She grew with the day and by evening was an old woman. The area became sacred and a church was built on the site. Mother Siparee is believed to be the Goddess Durga and was first seen on the Friday before Easter.

La Divina Pastora

The church thrives with annual donations from the Hindu and Muslim communities.
A similar occurrence took place in the 1940s in Patiram, Penal when a labourer named Manickchand accidentally struck a stone with his cutlass. Instantly, milk oozed from the stone.
Manickchand was puzzled and did not want to tell anyone but that night he saw in a dream that the stone was a Shiva Lingam, that is, a representation of the God Shiva. He broke the news the next morning and scores of people from neighbouring villages converged on the site. A small thatched hut was built over the stone by Nancoo, the owner of the land.
The building was renovated and later extended with an adjoining hall made of aluminium roof, brick walls, and concrete floors. The temple is privately-owned and cared for by Ramlochan Nancoo and Sanicharie Nancoo (now deceased). The lingam symbolises the energy of the Shiva, the creator. It has never been removed from its original position since it was discovered in the 1940s, and is literally rooted in the earth from which it seems to grow by the natural accretion of mineral material. Devotees claim the lingam was a wishing stone that bestows anything that the pure-hearted devotee desires. 

Not one Sunday passes when scores do not visit Pattiram Trace Mandir nor any Hindu religious festivals fail to be celebrated there. Prime Minister, Kamla Persad-Bissessar often made the trek to the stone lingam to worship, her ancestors being devout Hindus.
The 85-foot tall Hamuman murti in Waterloo. Central Trinidad, commands attention and attracts local and foreign tourists. Another is in the making at Rochard Road not far from here another farmer stumbled upon a stone shaped in the likeness of the elephant god Shri Ganesh, remover of obstacles.
On February 18 this year, 55-year-old Jagmohan Seepersad was cutting grass when his brushing cutlass hit a stone and a white substance flowed just like what happened more than 40 years before at Pattiram Trace. The farmer realised that it was milk coming out of the stone and continued clearing the area until he found the stone in the shape of an elephant with the markings of the ancient Hindu symbol, “Om” on the forehead.
Jagmohan dropped his cutlass, fell to the ground and began chanting the Sanskrit mantra “Om Shri Ganesh Aye Namah”.
He then hurried to his home, half a mile away to tell his wife, Leela Ramdeo.
Jagmohan’s daughter-in-law Sita said in an interview, “The whole family went to see the stone and became very emotional. We have been holding the hand of Shri Ganesh as we struggled over the years and this is a sign that Ganapatti is pleased with us.”
The family did not want to tell anyone but soon word got out and hundreds turned up to offer milk, water, flowers and fruits.

For days, traffic built up along Julien Branch Trace, Rochard Road, Penal as Hindus and non-Hindus visited the site.
Local contractors have since cleared the dirt-road that leads to the empty plot of land where the murti lies. The site is about 50 feet from the dirt road, and a quarter-mile from Rochard Main Road.
The family each year hosted extravagant nine-night yagnas and felt that God had come in answer to their prayer. For many years the family has been praying to Lord Ganesh, and has received countless small miracles.
“It is clear in my mind that this murti means that God is calling on his devotees to lean on him, and to reap the benefits of devotion to him,” said Sita.
Ganesh is easily identified with an elephant head and is known as Vinayaka worshipped as the remover of obstacles. He is also known as the patron of the Arts and Sciences and the god of intellect and wisdom.
Born in poverty, struggling to make ends meet, facing scorn and humiliation every day made believers of the people in the rural districts. They see God in everything and everywhere and the special sightings may be dismissed by others but to them, there is evidence that God is among them. Faith is all they have.

 

An anecdote

by Zorina Shah

One day in early February 2010 Father Michel de Verteuil surprised me.
Several years before he had collapsed in a bookstore in Toronto and remained in a coma for maybe three weeks. He suffered severe memory loss from a stroke, following a mass at Paramin later the same year.
On this day in February he remembered my first name. He remembered the name of former Pakistan Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto. He remembered that Germaine Scott had given him a copy of Bhutto's autobiography. He remembered that Bhutto's marriage had been arranged but that she fell in love with her husband, Asif Ali Zardari, (he didn't remember that name) afterwards.
I had gone to his apartment at the priest's residence, top floor of Fatima College to tell him that I was going to Guyana for a few months.
"You will need something to read," he said as he plucked the book off the shelf. I tried to convince him that he should keep the book and read it especially as I had already taken the Anne Murray CD, a gift from the same Germaine Scott. He tried equally hard to convince me that he didn't need to read it again.
I sat at his computer, a trusty Mac G4 ibook, checking to make sure his email was working, his online newspapers were loading and that he would have no computer problems for those few months. After about 20 minutes of total silence (he was peeved) and out of nowhere he asked "What is Sura (something or the other)". The pronunciation of the second word had me stumped for a long, long time. Then he explained it. While Benazir was in prison she recited this prayer 49 times every night he told me. I checked every chapter where Bhutto was in prison and came across the reference. The prayer is very short and when translated into English says:

In The Name Of Allah, The Beneficent, The Merciful

Say: He, Allah, is One.

Allah is He on Whom all depend.

He begets not, nor is He begotten.

And none is like Him. Father had read the book.

2013 – The Year that was
Ariti Jankie shares her thoughts

A moment of truth flashes past me from the mirror with every bathroom call.
I must do something to help that woman. I’m so fond of her. Why doesn’t she pause to look into her eyes, to fix what’s broken?
If the truth be known, she fears loneliness for she has had a lot of it.
During Christmas of 2012, she was alone. Families celebrated all around. Husband gone, the children abroad, she desired a family and six months into 2013, she found her family. And she is happy but the loneliness is ever present.
There is another mirror as one year ends and another begins; the mirror of hope, a chance to start all over again.
And this woman, this year understands that loneliness is different from “alone-ness”. Loneliness is not having someone to share the things that matter most while alone-ness gives her an almost perfect life. She warms her coffee with the morning sun and music is her almost constant companion. She touches hands with hundreds like her in the social media with just the right amount of knowing you and rejoices knowing that she knows how to reach you.
This year, she migrated to Houston, Texas. It’s like one of her former home towns: New Delhi. The summer was scorching hot and I know yet what the winter is like. I came at the end of June and planted hot peppers (what’s it with Trinis and hot pepper?), bigan, bodi and caraille. The machan went up for the carailli and just as it was about to bear, the weather changed.  Bigan died up with all the flowers. The bodi was harvested.

Long time ago in Trinidad, almost every yard had a fine-flower on a hard tall flowers tree called MYRTLE. (Alyou remember?) Many colours of the Myrtle were all over the place here in Houston while other plants dried down. Now the Myrtle lost her leaves and the roses are all over….My first fall…at first the changing colour of the leaves from green to yellow was pretty but now I am impatient to plant back my garden.
Houston has history, culture………and I am just getting to know her.
I have been working on a collection of short stories which you will all enjoy, you can be sure of that because it is Trinidad and each one defines us, as a people.  I am calling it “WHISPERING HOPE” but the name might change.
A friend of mine is leaving Trinidad for India to spend a year and I want to document her journey right here. More on that at another time as I hope to keep on writing this blog. Is Ok if I write from here?

Lots of Love. 30/12/13.

Editor's Note: The plants in paragraph 6 are all vegetables grown in Trinidad. Carailli grows on a vine and the machan is a stand built for the vine to run.

 

On the "Path of Peace"

Launching the Book “PATH OF PEACE”.
Raja Yoga Centre, Pointe-a-Pierre Road, San Fernando.
March 31^st, 2013 (Easter Sunday)
By Ariti Jankie

Tunapuna businessman Vijai Sadal, Ariti Jankie, Sister Hemlata and Sister Jasmine

My best friend, Phoolo Danny-Maharaj accompanied me to launch “Path of Peace.”

The hall was filled with Brahma Kumaris, all dressed in white cotton. Sister Hemlata was speaking as we entered the room. Brother Vijai Sadal took the boxes of books and quietly arranged a display near the entrance as Sister Hemlata paused to welcome me and Phoolo. She invited us to sit on the reserved seats in the front row while she continued her talk for another minute or two.

As head of the Raja Yoga in Trinidad, Sister Hemlata introduced “Path of Peace.”

She said the book was well written and flowed smoothly.

“I couldn’t put it down. I thoroughly enjoyed it,” she said.

Vijai introduced me and I reached out to touch the hearts of all those who sat before me. The yogis had come from the eight Centres in Trinidad and I asked them to blank their minds, sit back and like the days of old when stories were told to listen.

I began with the story of a young boy who began his career as a jeweler.

“Growing up in India, he reaches the top of his profession. He became a millionaire. At the same time, he made a spiritual breakthrough and when knowledge descended, the young man was able to restore the dignity of women and gave to man a greater opportunity to carve a worthy life. He became Brahma Baba and inspired a wave of supporters to abstain from meat and alcohol and embark on a life of celibacy in a quest for purity.”

I told my audience that the book was designed to tell stories of 15 outstanding members of the local Raja Yoga community.

“Path of Peace” is about a young girl who broke through many barriers to graduate from medical school. At the threshold of a medical career, she gave it all up. That young girl came to Trinidad from India to become a religious icon. Sister Hemlata built a bridge leading from the soul to the Supreme soul, from Trinidad to India, from light to darkness and through it all maintained a simplicity that speaks volumes of a rich, spiritual life.”

I carried the yogis a little further to a place called Iere Village near Princes Town where mandirs, mosques and churches catered to the villagers.

“Harry found the divinity he was searching for one day when he attended a lecture at Gandhi Ashram on Todd Street, San Fernando. He became Brother Harry, the Yogi. On the other side of the island in St Augustine, a young boy had just completed his GCE examinations. He switched on the television to find a lady in white calling out to him. Vijai Sadal explored Raja Yoga before deciding to dedicate his life to Brahma Baba’s teachings.”

Opening the 225-page book to Page 34, I told them about Rajyogi Khem who was the pride of the Raja Yoga Centre in the Caribbean.

“He enlarged on the philosophy of Raja Yoga by studying the scriptures of the world’s greatest religions to shed new light on age old traditions. He takes us through the corridors of the Brahma Kumari Raja Yoga World Spiritual University sharing the wisdom gained by years of intense study and devotion.”

Then we met a young lady so beautiful; she could have won a series of beauty competitions. “She was loved wherever she went which sparked a desire within her heart to be loved not by human being only but by God. On Page 52, Sister Jasmine tells readers she ‘pushed the biology book aside and watched two teardrops fall on the paper’ as she began to write. : “Dear God, I have tasted the love of people but I yearn to taste your love.” For Jasmine, It was the dawn of a greater spirituality.

Page 62 she introduces a courageous woman who took the teachings of peace into the state prison where she has been working with prisoners for the past 25 years. “Sister Kay Narinesingh tells us how she was heartbroken when her mother refused to allow her to go out with her older brothers.”

She said, “I went to my room and lay sobbing upon my bed. After some time, my eyes fell on the picture of Lord Shiva. I poured my heart out to him.” As we turn the pages, I said, “Kay becomes a friend, a mentor, a tower of strength and a credit to the Raja Yoga Centre while carrying forward the indomitable spirit of the Trinidadian woman.”

The book also speaks of Sister Indira who was born in an influential home.

“Life changed when she discovered the path of peace. On Page 76, she begins to share her life story.”

“Brother Anthony knew he was chosen. Several things pointed to it. He became a yogi while fulfilling all his childhood ambitions and dreams.

Sister Hansa and Brother Chandra took Baba’s teachings to Florida and now have two main centres in Ft Lauderdale while travelling throughout the United States spreading the knowledge of Raja Yoga.

Garfield King found a voice on radio through the murlis and penned the best seller “Motivational Minute”. He has been the inspiration behind many who have become yogis over the years.

Meet Sister Geeta, Uma, Chandra and Gloria. They discovered a life so precious, it enabled a little girl born in a poor agricultural village of Avocat to break barriers in achieving her dreams of being one with God.”

I told them about Silvereen Mangroo who stunned those close to her when she announced that she was going to become a Pundit. She chanced upon the Raja Yoga and danced in a drunken state to conquer her motherland India and neighbouring Venezuela where she manages several centres.

I told them that “Path of Peace” held hands with Sister Hemlata and it was she who brought the curtains down on the book.

I concluded by saying that “Path of Peace” was by no means the complete history of the Raja Yoga. It was aimed at Secondary School children and the ordinary man travelling on the bus and others who retire in their hammocks to read for the sheer joy of reading. It was a glimpse of another world designed to offer the greater world an alternative to the darkness, the chaos and corruption that surrounds them in today’s society.

President of the Trinidad Chapter of the Global Organization for People of Indian Origin (GOPIO) Ena Maharaj walked in a little late after getting lost on the way to San Fernando. She recommended the book and said that the “Path of Peace” would light the way to lead our nation’s children out of the darkness unto the light.”

“It is a proud moment to stand up and take note of the pioneering work being done in contribution to the building of a better society,” she said.

Sister Jasmine, head of the Chaguanas Centre, Sister Uma who runs the Sangre Grande Centre and Silvereen Mangroo of the Venezuelan Centres also spoke.

The book was offered to Brahma Baba, spiritual leader of the Brahma Kumaris before it was declared officially launched.

The yogis were generous and gave me a moment held dearly in my heart of a long line waiting for autographed copies of the book. A delicious vegetarian feast was served. Phoolo took pictures and we lingered on to enjoy a wonderful morning with the Brahma Kumaris Raja Yogis.  

Practising yogis eager for autographed copies of the book that traces their local history

WRITING THE BOOK: PATH OF PEACE
by Ariti Jankie

I don’t know how else to be but to be myself. Blame it on running wild and free in the sugarcane fields and lagoon lands in the shadow of my parents and elders.
I was circulating “HUSH. DON’T CRY” and Ravi Ji told me that I should write my parents story. “In the Footsteps of Rama” resulted. Both books did very well by the way. Then I took footsteps to Vijai Sadai, and he asked me to write the history of the Raja Yoga in Trinidad.
Immediately, in my head, I had the book already laid out. It would be literature instead of history as all history in Trinidad today is emotional and still in the making, particularly the Raja Yoga.
What made me more excited was the handful of men and women who were born in good homes and carried a streak of purity in their inner spiritual reservoir.  I had met them along the way and bonded naturally.
My challenge was to use a universal language of the spirit in the hope that it would inspire the younger generation who may not be blessed with that inner strength that came to us through the gentle inculcations of a different type of parenting. I wanted the words to fall gentle by a light drizzle of rain, soft and silent. And I wanted the book to read like we speak in Trinidad; a kind of spontaneous literature.
And something else happened when I almost complete the book; a disruption that brought out a ritual that I didn’t quite know I possessed.
Readers who are in my generation would remember our mothers cooking on the chulha.
First thing on morning, Ma would pick up the pan with a rag and soaked dirt from beneath the chulha (the chulha was on a stand). She would lepay the chulha with the rag, lay the sticks to catch the fire easily and when she lighted the match, shesaid a prayer. Then she began to cook. And when finished, she would take a lotha of water and sprinkle it around the fire, bow and then pull out the remaining pieces of wood to out on its own.
From that tradition, we got food that was finger licking good. I’d say it was not cooking with wood and on a chula but cooking with LOVE.
As I wrote “Path of Peace” I realize that the tradition was steeped in my consciousness and like cooking I took the ritual to my writing.
PATH OF PEACE was a working title but the Raja Yoga boss liked it and wanted to keep it. I interviewed men and women and told their stories to preserve their history. I tremble with the desire to place before you a dish that would allow you, the reader to see the importance of spirituality in our lives versus religion.
I started with Hemlata and our friendship, went to Brother Harry, Vijai, Khem Jokhoo, Sister Jasmine, Kay Narinesingh, Uma, Chandra, Geeta, Garfield King, Anthony Weekes and ended with an almost life story of Silvereen Mangroo, a young village girl Avocat.
I made friends along the way and now “PATH OF PEACE” is out of the printery and ready to be launched.
Let me know what you think by emailing aritijankie@gmail.com or your comments at the end of this text.

My friend Bud

by Zorina Shah

Bud (right) with his friend Lynn Ludlow

I had lost touch with Bud several times during the 34 years I had known him. Once I tracked him down to China during his tenure as Fulbright Professor at a university there. I found him in Oporto, Portugal by calling the US embassy. I was in Frankfurt in 1989 for Buchmesse and woke up on October 18 (Frankfurt is nine hours ahead) to the news of the North California earthquake. Bud and his wife, Georgette, lived in the Bay Area. I tried desperately to contact them through San Francisco State University where he had been Chairman of the Department of Journalism. I finally made contact with the new chair and she told me Bud was no longer there. A couple weeks later I received the information through snail mail. Bud had retired and he and Georgette had moved to Mercer Island, Washington. I wrote. He wrote back. Serendipity, he said. They had moved before the 7.1 earthquake hit.
Writer that he was he painted the most beautiful picture of the view from his sun deck, Mt. Rainier, Lake Washington. I don't remember exactly what he said about the Puget Sound.
Bud was my journalism professor at the Caribbean Institute of Mass Communications, Mona Campus. He was driven around by Assistant Professor Vivien Carrington until he and Georgette acquired a VW Rabbit and she drove him around instead. I started off not caring too much about him, maybe the little halting speech, maybe the face which reddened too easily in the blazing Jamaica sun.  He adjusted quickly and so did I. He had a wealth of experience in newspaper production, but boy, was he on the ball with the writing techniques and nose for a story? He could show you how to first get the information and then how to use that information to craft a wonderful story. During that time we were able to look at global coverage of Jonestown massacre in Guyana, the Grenada Revolution and the Iranian Revolution.
Bud could tear your story to bits in the kindest way. Most people fell for it. I knew what he was doing and worked hard for his approval. I was rewarded with editing the department newspaper. He referred to Marcia Mentore (Erskine) and me as "the dyad from Trinidad".
I maintained contact with him because I had promised to before leaving Jamaica, It would drop off, sometimes for months, and start again. The last time I found Michele Liebes on the internet. I knew her name. That's my father alright, she said. He had moved from Washington State to Bethesda, Maryland after Georgette died. I called often. Sometimes he wouldn't be there. Like when he had gone to take Georgette's ashes to Grenoble in the French Alps. Her family is French. He met her while working for Stars and Stripes and I like to think it was around this time http://www.stripes.com/news/foreign-entrants-pace-tour-de-france-cyclists-1.122021.
During the war young Bud was a waist gunner on B-24 raids into Germany. I thought about it often, but strangely, I never asked. The halting speech may have been linked to fragments of shrapnel in his chest although I have read elsewhere it may not have been his chest at all.
At the end of the war Bud's combat unit was in Rome and he was one of several allied officers sent to an audience with Pope Pius XII at the Vatican. Twenty four years old, meeting with the pope, what else would he remember? "My feet sank into the carpet". I found a picture on the History Channel website and hoped to ask if he was in it.
On another occasion no one answered the phone in Maryland for weeks. Michele had died. I had communicated with them weekly during her illness. Many times I would speak to her when he was out. I often leaned on the church wall across the way from where I live on Sunday evenings for the call. We talked politics, global economy, US foreign policy, the effect of internet on print media. I also read the books chosen by his club for review. He sent me newspaper clippings and books in the mail starting way back with copies of feed/back, the review of newspapers in Northern California when he was at SFSU. He once asked me what I thought the greatest threat to US national security was. "George Bush and Donald Rumsfeld", I said.
We had been in contact for about seven years, I called, he sent email messages and the regular packages. When I returned from an assignment at Guyana Times/ TV Guyana, and overwhelmed by the loss of my own nephew, I couldn't find Bud. I only knew the first names of his two grand daughters. At first the phone rang, then it was disconnected. Late last year I googled BH Liebes. I found two items, one at http://thetardytimes.blogspot.com/2009/11/going-to-mall.html written by his friend Lynn Ludlow and this other http://storify.com/hfinberg/bud-liebes-journalism-professor-extraordinaire for Bud's 91st birthday.
I try most times not to feel regret, but it is impossible to communicate how sorry I am that I ignored my instincts and did not comment on or share the tributes from his students at San Francisco State. I have written so many email messages over the last year with no response. On the night of Sunday, February 10, a few days ago, I googled Bud again. This time I typed his first name Bernard and I saw it. It never occurred to me before that I should type his first name. I had asked once what the BH represented. He told me. "If your middle name was Hxxxxx you wouldn't use it either", he said.
Bud was a real person and I never saw him as anything else. I know that because not once in 25 years did I ever think that he was Jewish. It suddenly dawned on me one day while I was at the University Chaplaincy in St. Augustine, Trinidad and I was talking to my friend Fr. Michel de Verteuil about the Middle East. Fr. Michel is the closest I have come to finding Bud in all the people I know, but for all his scholarship and humanity I always told him he was a distance behind Bud. Next phone call I asked and he was surprised that it had taken me so long to figure it out. I had failed the test, I said. I had been a great fan of war time movies and I'd tell him about the ones I had seen, mainly of family of holocaust victims and how they tried to adjust in their new lives. He particularly liked my story about Paula Richman, Professor of South Asian religions at Oberlin College, Ohio. When Paula told me she was Jewish, I said I knew from the name. "That's not how we got this name. When my grandfather arrived here, he was asked by immigration why he had come. To be a rich man, he said. They recorded his name as Richman."
So many things in the last year reminded me of Bud, the front page of The Irish Catholic  http://issuu.com/mellyg/docs/oct_18th_full_issue or a reference on a Jamaican website to the late Belgian artist Claude Rahir. Rahir's murals grace the walls of the administration building and the Institute of Mass Communication at Mona. In 2007 Bud sent me a clipping from the Jamaica Gleaner with a story I had written about the artist. I offered to contact Rahir only to discover that he had died on the same day the envelope was postmarked in Washington. We missed out on talk about the 2012 US presidential elections, something we had done several times before; the 2008 campaign was an exciting time. Whenever I thought of US politics, I imagined I was talking to him.
I never gave a thought to Bud  dying. He was always cheerful. He always sounded as if I could find him if I needed guidance, as I always had. For me everyone else was mortal, but not Bud: February 19, 1921 - May 01, 2012

FLY ON THE WALL

He: Welcome Madam Secretary

She: My pleasure your highness

He: And how was the trip to Cambodia?

She: A most suitable decoy milord. Thank you for this week of distraction

He: Never mind we will be well paid. You will sink deeper into debt for it, but we will be well paid.

She: The press has put Petraeus on the back burner. Our people love a war more than a sex scandal.

He: Do you really think so? Have you forgotten the Jewish girl so easily?

She: I have no need to remember her. I don’t even remember her name. But my true love proved that a cruise missile provides more romance for our people. Those 70 he fired at Jalalabad after the bombing of the embassy in Nairobi, I have learnt a lot from that. This pretty boy you would rather not see was such an innocent, but I have taught him well.

He: I had so hoped you would get through those primaries. My people stood firm, but too many don’t want a woman to lead. We are light years ahead of you. Every country in the world will have a female leader but not yours.  I fear you will always remain a backward society living it up while you are waiting on everyone else to bail you out. The Chinese? Goodness, the Chinese? You hurt me Shiksa.

She: Backward?  The most progressive society on earth?

He: Yet half of your people wanted to be stuck in the 18^th century with that moron, sorry mormon. You were saved by immigrants, Hispanics, blacks. At least you can be honest about that.

She: We are going through a difficult time, but we are a strong people, we will weather the storm

He: Speaking of weather…

She: Forget it, forget it (holding her fingers to her temples)

He: How can I? All this carbon we have put into the atmosphere these past few days, all that dust and rubble that Palestinian children must inhale. It not so kosher right? I cringe when I think what they are drinking for water. I cringe everyday when I think of how they live. That refugee camp in Khan Younis. How do they even survive? We are going after them before this ceasefire you know. They run to Khan Younis to avoid our fire power, but they can’t hide. I cringe more at what that klutz Bushwa did in Iraq. Three miles of the Tigris on fire in one night. Bushwa makes my interior minister sound like a sissy when he says "We must blow Gaza back to the Middle Ages, destroying all the infrastructure including roads and water." I bet you never read that in the New York Times. But we know you share that dream too.

She: Your pre-election fun is coming to an end?

He: Not so fast, let me enjoy it. When I am finished my people will be so afraid no else can save them.  They may even mark “for life” on the ballot next to my name

What’s the hurry, two months to go. I could put the fear of death into my people and let them think it is those hoodlums from Gaza with their godzilla rockets. We show the same 10 over and over on television, we let the siren scare them. When they are hiding in the tunnels they don’t know that 20 godzillas and 20 from the iron dome you paid for make up 40. They don’t know the difference between a $40,000 intercepting nothing  falling near to them and a $1k godzilla.

She: You use Iron Dome to ….. you are wasting our money like that?

He: Our money Madam, we are working hard for it. What is a mere $40,000 to give ourselves a reason to kill a few barbarians?

She: Don’t say barbarians milord, we are insisting on “terrorists”.

He: You are insisting? I start a war to give you a reason to bring three warships in the Med, and you are insisting? How will you get supplies to Syrian rebels………
She: Quiet, walls have ears

He: Not my walls Shiksa… You failed your poster boy in Benghazi big time Madam Secretary.  You don’t want to show a hand in Syria so he paid the price. Now the world knows Madam and you tilt your head in the air and walk.

She: Don’t get personal

He: I say what I want Madam, you need me more than I need you. You think we want your Caterpillar bulldozer to go into Gaza. We could use our own. We just need to remind them that you are with us every step of the way.

She: When you are ready let me know, I will talk to our allies

He: Allies…hahahaha………..poor Saddam.... hahahaha...Hosni....hahahaha.......Pahlavi.....hahaha....Abdullah your turn is coming....hahahaha