Thomas Wictor

I spent the day preparing to write a post on Palestinian female combatants. Now I don’t have the energy. When you immerse yourself in a culture that will never hit bottom, it saps your will. I’ll write the post tomorrow. You’ll be sickened. As always, I have the evidence.

Israelis, you need to demand that your government and armed forces do a much better job of dispelling the myths and correcting the lies. Tomorrow I’ll prove to you that at least a third of the Palestinian women killed during Operation Protective Edge were combatants. You’ll never get this kind of analysis from anybody else. It’s because they’re too afraid of being wrong.

I’ve had my fill of cowardice. Someone explain to me the morality of letting a depraved enemy kick your rear end in the PR department over and over, until the world has everything backwards. There’s no excuse for the piss-poor job Israel does defending itself in the arena of public discourse. People are all overjoyed because the Israelis allegedly kept the combatant-to-civilian death ratio at one to one, which is the best anyone has done in the modern era.

Hogwash.

Palestinians use children and women as fighters. The real combatant-to-civilian death ratio was about four to one. I don’t care what your think tanks and spokespeople say. They wrong, and you’re getting screwed because of it.

Israeli soldiers have written to me about having to kill women and children who were armed with explosives, assault rifles, rocket-propelled grenades, and machine guns. It went without saying that I would never—under any circumstances—reveal their names.

It could be that my share of trauma has hardened my heart. I wouldn’t be happy to kill women and children, but when the enemy expects you to play by the rules while he breaks them all, I think the decision has been taken out of your hands. Most things are binary: Either you want to defend your country and defeat the enemy, or you don’t.

One of the greatest war novels ever written is called Death is Lighter than a Feather, by David Westheimer. The premise is that the US never invented the atomic bomb and had to invade the Japanese home islands. What makes the book so brilliant is that it doesn’t follow any particular character all the way through. It’s more like a massive collection of short stories, but each one is so rich that you lose yourself in the narrative. Instead of being disappointed that a great character makes such a short appearance, you’re stunned that the many hundreds of people in the story are all utterly engrossing.

When I lived in Japan from 1985 to 1991, I met lots of veterans of World War II. Every single one regretted losing the war. They mouthed all sorts of platitudes about peace, but I used to speak fluent Japanese, so we could really get into it. There was a racial component to the war, and not in the direction you’ve been told. The Japanese were and are the most racist people on earth. The name of their country is Nihon, which means “origin of the sun.”

These are not people with an inferiority complex.

In World War II they hated the Chinese, Koreans, Filipinos, Burmese, Indians, Dutch, British, Australians, New Zealanders, and Americans. That’s why they committed so many atrocities.

All you whining, blubbering cretins who accuse the US of fighting an exterminationist war against the Japanese, watch this newsreel. Pay close attention to what happens at 1:40.

Awfully decent of those horrible racists, wasn’t it?

When I was in Japan, World War II veterans would invariably tell me that if they’d had the industrial might of the US, they would’ve beaten us, and the world would be a better place.

Sure. Read up on Unit 731. They dissected people alive, with no anesthetic. The German submarine U-234 was carrying uranium to Japan when the Nazis surrendered on May 7, 1945. Historians disagree, but I’ve read that the Japanese wanted to use the uranium in dirty bombs that they would drop on American cities from seaplane bombers launched by their giant submarine aircraft carriers.

Officially, the two Japanese naval officers on board U-234 committed suicide after the German skipper announced that he was going to surrender to the Americans. I’ve heard, however, that the Germans fired the two Japanese out of the torpedo tubes. That’s a much more satisfying ending.

In Japan I met an old man who was trained as a suicide bomber. He was to stand on a cliff overlooking a bay on the island of Kyushu, and when the American ships steamed in, he was to jump off and aim for the smokestack. If he timed it right, he’d live long enough to detonate his bomb deep in the bowels of the ship.

This was after the Japanese surrender.

He never received his bomb. When I asked him if he would’ve blown himself up even after Japan had lost the war, he laughed and said, “Hell yes!”

Back to Death is Lighter than a Feather.

There’s a scene in which a Sherman tank platoon has landed on a Japanese beach and gone inland.

The tank platoon is attacked by tiny, hunchbacked figures covered in weeds.

“What the hell are they?” a tank commander yells. “Are they using midgets?”

Then one of the figures explodes.

“They’re little kids!” the machine gunner screams. “Holy Christ, they’re just little kids! What do we do?”

“Kill them!” the commander shouts. So the tanks machine gun the child suicide bombers until they’re all dead.

After you read my post tomorrow, hopefully you’ll never again feel even the tiniest bit of guilt about the fate of the Palestinians. They belong to the most thanatoid culture I’ve come across. Believe them: They love death.

When necessary, give them all the death they want. And more.