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Auch Muslime lieben ihre Feinde
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.
Robert Fisk, The Great War for Civilization -
The Conquest of the Middle East, London, Fourth Estate,
2005, S. 1078.
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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.
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|Hoffnungsgeschichte eingebracht von Wilhelm Wille||28.11.2007|
Eine Geschichte gegen das Klischee vom gewaltbereiten Muslim.