|Zusammenfassung: Robert Fisk, englischer Journalist, Spezialist für Nahostfragen, hatte mehrfach im Sudan und Afghanistan Osama Bin Laden interviewt. Zu Beginn des amerikanischen Angriffs auf Afghanistan im Herbst 2001 versucht er noch einmal von Pakistan aus über die Grenze zu gelangen, um Bin Laden ein weiteres Mal zu interviewen. Kurz hinter der Grenze gerät er unter die Massen von Afghanen, einfache Menschen, keine Talibankämpfer, die nach schrecklichen Erlebnissen – amerikanische Bomben haben ihre Häuser zerstört, ihre Frauen und Kinder in Stücke gerissen – über die Grenze flüchten wollen. Zorn und Wut richten sich auf den einzigen Weißen. Die Menschen versuchen, Robert Fisk zu lynchen. Er schlägt um sich und versucht, blutüberströmt zu flüchten. Seine Rettung verdankt er aber einigen aufrechten Muslimen.|
Auszug aus: Robert Fisk, The Great War for Civilization – The Conquest of the Middle East, London, Fourth Estate, 2005, S. 1078.
|«||I was back in the middle of the road but could not see. I brought my hands to my eyes and with my fingers I tried to scrape the gooey stuff out. It made a kind of sucking sound but I began to see again and realised that I was crying and weeping and that the tears were cleaning my eyes of blood. What had I done I kept asking myself? I had been hurting and punching and attacking Afghans refugees, the very poor people I had been writing about for so long, the very dispossessed, mutilated people whom my own country – among others – was killing, along with the Taliban just across the border. God spare me, I thought. I think I actually said it. The men whose families our bombers were killing were now my enemies too.
Then something quite remarkable happened. A man walked up to me, very calmly, and took me by the arm. I couldn’t see him quite well for all the blood that was running into my eyes, but he was dressed in a kind of robe and wore a turban and had a white-grey beard. And he led me away from the crowd. I looked over my shoulder. There were now a hundred men behind me and a few stone skittered along the road, but they were not aimed at me – presumably to avoid hitting the stranger. He was like an Old Testament figure or some Bible story, a Muslim man – perhaps a mullah in the village – who was trying to save my life. Her pushed me into the back of a police truck. But the policemen did not move. They were terrified. ‚Help me‘ I kept shouting through the tiny window at the back of their cab. My hands leaving streams of blood down the glass. They drove a few metres and stopped until the tall man spoke to them again. Then they drove another 300 metres.
And there, beside the road, was a Red Cross – Red Crescent convoy. The crowd were still behind us, but two of the medical attendants pulled me behind one of their vehicles, poured water on my hands and face and began pushing bandages onto my head and face and the back of my head. ‚Lie down and we’ll cover you with a blanket so they can’t see you.‘ One of them said. They were both Muslims, Bangladeshis, and their names should be recorded because they were good men: Mohamed Abdul Halim and Skider Mokkades Ahmed. I lay on the floor, groaning and aware that I might live.
|Hoffnungsgeschichte eingebracht von Wilhelm Wille||28.11.2007|
|Eine Geschichte gegen das Klischee vom gewaltbereiten Muslim.|