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Politics : The Truth About Islam -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Cage Rattler who wrote (11801)	4/20/2008 10:22:06 AM
From: DeplorableIrredeemableRedneck	Respond to of 20106

Out of Africa and Back Again. A Taste of Militant Islam. My name is Deborah Simon. I am an American. In 1967 when I was 5 years old my family was evacuated out of Tripoli, Libya, North Africa during the political unrest that followed the Six-Day Arab-Israeli War. Forty years later Islamofascism has followed me home to my own country, America. I am not running again! It is time to fight and I will not stop until we win! Here is my story. I was born in West Germany. My father was in the American Air Force and stationed there where he met my mother, an immigrant from Prussia. She spoke Hebrew and German. Her mother was Jewish. My sister Erika and I spoke German and English. Our first tour was to Tripoli, Libya, North Africa in 1967. The very city, state and country where in 1986 President Reagan launched an air strike against Muammar Qaddafi in retaliation for his numerous terrorist acts. My earliest memories of North Africa were beautiful Tripoli, Libya, the Mediterranean Sea where I learned to swim, the camel rides, the souks (village markets) where we loved to buy exotic foods and trinkets and home furnishings. And the fairs held by the military base on the beach by the sea where all were welcome. We lived outside the base and we loved the drive along the Mediterranean Sea every day to the school on Wheelus Air Force Base. Then came the Arab-Israeli Six-day war in 1967. It brought immediate anti-American sentiment throughout Libya and this brought on not so fond memories -- all Libyan Jews were forced to leave the country. I remember once my sister Erika and I walking downtown with my mother. Muslims riding by on their bicycles began spitting at us and hitting my mother so hard it almost knocked her down. Her “crime”? She was 'Western' and was wearing a dress with no sleeves. I will never forget how afraid we all were, all of us crying and asking “why do they hate us?” Out of fear we stayed out of sight after that. No more visiting the souks that I loved so much or going to the Mediterranean Sea. Soon after that the U.S. embassy in Libya was attacked, and all American families were strongly urged to evacuate. My father called to tell my mother to get to the airport on Wheelus Air Force Base. He told my mother that it was urgent to leave right away, that we were being evacuated and not to pack anything except to grab his attaché case of important papers. We begged our mother to let us bring our “dollies” but we were told we could bring nothing. My sister and I hid our 'dollies' under our beds to keep them safe and cried our eyes out. We left with only the clothes on our backs. So, my sister and mother and I loaded into that little red Volkswagen bug along with the neighbor lady Emma and her two small children Stedman and Lena. We were almost there when we were shot at by Muslims. Thank God Arab security rode up on horses and stopped them, for I would not be telling my story today if not for them. I remember that I kept crying and asking my mother what was going on. She kept screaming at me to keep my head down and to keep the other children's heads down too. She was holding up my dad’s attaché case to the window thinking it would somehow shield us. I am not positive but I am sure attaché cases were not bulletproof back then. My father made sure we were on the second plane evacuated out of North Africa to Madrid, Spain that fateful day. He was beside himself -- he didn't know when or if he would see us again. After take off, the lady sitting behind us on the plane was so upset she stood up and got sick all over my mother. With no clothes to change into my mom lived in those clothes the whole trip. She had only a bag of hair rollers in her hand. From Madrid, Spain we went to Albany, Georgia, where we spent several months before my parents made a decision for us to go back to Africa. Returning to a now unfriendly country in 1968 was a very hard decision for my parents. We had been separated from my father for 9 months and we had to weigh the risks. Things had calmed down a little. This time we lived on the base for obvious security reasons. We very seldom ventured off the base. When we did go out my mother would tie pacifiers around our necks with string to make us look like babies. We would cry in protest, saying “we’re not babies.” One day, in 1969 we were caught in Qaddafi's motorcade in our little red Volkswagen. Just when we thought things were getting safer, the day we go out there's a revolution and a military coup! Qaddafi had recently staged a successful coup against the Libyan government. It was 110-115 degrees outside. We tried to roll the windows up but we were not fast enough. Raging Muslims spit on my little sister before we could get the windows up. They were rocking our car and shouting at us. We made it out of there and back to the base by the sheer grace of God. Again we asked, “Why do they hate us? Why would they want to hurt little girls?” Soon after, we all left North Africa for good. There is so much more to this story, but to this day my father does not like to talk about it. In fact, he breaks down in tears whenever one of us brings it up. Let me end with this: This was my first taste of Islamofascism, what I now know to be the hatred by radical Muslims towards anyone who will not worship Allah or be enslaved by their cruelty and oppression. Those they cannot dominate they will kill.