THE CHARTER OF ALLAH: THE PLATFORM OF THE ISLAMIC RESISTANCE MOVEMENT (HAMAS)* Translated and annotated by Raphael Israeli Harry. ISBN (eBook). DOI / .. Hamas is the only Muslim Brotherhood branch that rules a political en- tity. In chapter 6, Hillel of nonaggression: Dar al-Sulh or Dar al-Ahd, “the abode of truce” or “the abode of covenant. Hamas Jihad: Antisemitism, Islamic World Conquest and the Manipulation of Palestinian Get your Kindle here, or download a FREE Kindle Reading App.
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This volume profiles Hamas (Harakat al-Mugawama al-Islamiya), main radical Islamic terrorist group dedicated to the destruction of the State of Israel and the. The Hamas charter referred to by Mahmoud al-Zahar was formulated during the The Hamas charter is the document which sets out the movement's ideology. As the 50th anniversary of the Israeli occupation of Gaza, the West Bank and East Jerusalem approaches, Fatah and Hamas are under popular.
The true origin is less colorful. At the end of the 19th century, as popular unrest was threatening the czarist regime in Russia, the secret police of the czar — known as the Okhrana the forerunner to the KGB - — opened a branch in Paris with the hope of securing a Franco-Russian alliance. The head of this section, Pierre Ivanovitch Ratchkovsky, foiled bombing attempts that he had masterminded himself, had personal foes assassinated, wrote letters denouncing so-called revolutionaries, and published anonymous pamphlets that he would then use as proof of anti-czarist activity that needed to be curbed.
The Protocols gives a taste of his imagination. He was looking for a scapegoat in order to calm down Russian unrest against the czar in the s.
The Jews came in handy, since anti-Semitism was widespread in Russia, and conspiracy theories involving Jews were blossoming at the time. Indeed, another paradigmatic claim of Jewish conspiracy occurred in France in with the Dreyfus Affair.
Ratchkovsky, who was later unmasked as the author of pseudo-revolutionary pamphlets and forced to return to Russia, fabricated the Protocols in or in Paris. The editor of the journal, Krutschevan, a well-known anti-Semitic leader in Russia, was the organizer of the recent pogrom government-orchestrated attack on Jews and Jewish property in Kishinev.
Like in all subsequent editions of the Protocols, there is no mention of the author or the origin of the manuscript. The czar and his advisors were impressed by the content of the text, though it was quickly understood to be a forgery. However, it did not deter the Orthodox Church and other institutions from distributing it throughout the Russian Empire and beyond.
The plotters are portrayed as poisonous snakes, spiders weaving their webs, and wolves ready to devour Christian sheep. The reporter revealed that the Protocols did not originate from a mysterious Jewish source and included sections plagiarized from a book written in by a Frenchman, Maurice Joly, attacking Napoleon III and his policies. A closer look at the Protocols casts further doubt on its authenticity. There is a large part devoted to the situation in France at the end of the 19th century, the time and place where the Protocols were written.
But none of them touch on the real issue, the root problem. The current conflict stretches all the way back to the animosity between Sarah and Hagar described in the first book of the Bible. To understand the political and cultural realities, however, you really don't have to look much further than the aftermath of World War I. When the war ended, the Palestinian territories, national home of the Palestinian people for centuries, fell under the mandate of Great Britain. And the British government had an unusual notion for the area, which it stated in the Balfour Declaration of "His Majesty's Government view with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people.
Clashes between Arabs and Jews were inevitable. Israel became a state in However, the Palestinian territories remained just that — nonsovereign territories. Without a constitution to maintain some semblance of order, religious law becomes the highest authority.
And when everyone is free to interpret and enforce the law as he sees fit, chaos ensues. To the outside world, the Middle Eastern conflict is simply a tug-of-war over a small stretch of land. But the real problem is that no one yet has understood the real problem. And as a result, negotiators from Camp David to Oslo confidently continue to splint the arms and legs of a cardiac patient.
Please understand, I did not write this book because I think I'm smarter or wiser than the great thinkers of the age. I am not. But I believe that God has given me a unique perspective by placing me on multiple sides of an apparently insoluble conflict. My life has been partitioned like the crazy little piece of real estate on the Mediterranean known as Israel by some, Palestine by others, and the occupied territories by still others.
My purpose in the pages that follow is to set the record straight on some key events, lay bare some secrets, and if all goes well, leave you with hope that the impossible can be accomplished. Chapter One — Captured — I steered my little white Subaru around a blind corner on one of the narrow roads that led to the main highway outside the West Bank city of Ramallah.
Stepping lightly on the brake, I slowly approached one of the innumerable checkpoints that dot the roads running to and from Jerusalem. Stop the car!
Without warning, six Israeli soldiers jumped out of the bushes and blocked my car, each man carrying a machine gun, and each gun pointed directly at my head. Panic welled up in my throat. I stopped the car and threw the keys through the open window. Get out! I barely had time to cover my head before the beating began. But even as I tried to protect my face, the heavy boots of the soldiers quickly found other targets: ribs, kidneys, back, neck, skull.
Two of the men dragged me to my feet and pulled me to the checkpoint, where I was forced onto my knees behind a cement barricade.
My hands were bound behind my back with a sharp-edged plastic zip tie that was cinched much too tight.
Somebody blindfolded me and shoved me into the back of a jeep onto the floor. Fear mingled with anger as I wondered where they were taking me and how long I would be gone. I was barely eighteen years old and only a few weeks away from my final high school exams. What was going to happen to me? After a fairly short drive, the jeep slowed to a halt. A soldier pulled me from the back and removed my blindfold.
Squinting in the bright sunlight, I realized that we were at Ofer Army Base.
An Israeli defense base, Ofer was one of the largest and most secure military facilities in the West Bank. As we moved toward the main building, we passed by several armored tanks, which were shrouded by canvas tarps. The monstrous mounds had always intrigued me whenever I had seen them from outside the gates.
They looked like huge, oversized boulders. Once inside the building, we were met by a doctor who gave me a quick once-over, apparently to make sure I was fit to withstand interrogation.
I must have passed because, within minutes, the handcuffs and blindfold were replaced, and I was shoved back into the jeep. As I tried to contort my body so that it would fit into the small area usually reserved for people's feet, one beefy soldier put his boot squarely on my hip and pressed the muzzle of his M16 assault rifle into my chest. The hot reek of petrol fumes saturated the floor of the vehicle and forced my throat closed. Whenever I tried to adjust my cramped position, the soldier jabbed the gun barrel deeper into my chest.
Without warning, a searing pain shot through my body and made my toes clench. It was as if a rocket were exploding in my skull.
The force of the blow had come from the front seat, and I realized that one of the soldiers must have used his rifle butt to hit me in the head. Before I had time to protect myself, however, he hit me again, harder this time and in the eye.
I tried to move out of reach but the soldier who had been using me for a footstool dragged me upright.
But I couldn't help it. Each time his comrade hit me, I involuntarily recoiled from the impact.