NASSER'S NEW CAPITAL VANISHES

“Know what,” Nasser beamed to his military chief, “I need to change my Capital City from Cairo.”

“But where will you build a new Capital City, Gamal?” Amer asked wrinkling the negligible space between eyebrows and the hairline.

"Anywhere but not Cairo," he said with eyes that had a far off look. "But what do you have against Cairo?"

"It is too ancient and far from the Aqsa mosque for prayers," Nasser said scowling his face like someone who is doing deep thinking.

"But where do you intend to ...?"Amer did not finish the question.

“I was thinking of grabbing the delightful Tel Aviv from those Hebrews?” Nasser said. “It is cool, well built, and near the Al Aqsa Mosque. It is ideal for my prayers.”

“Have you looked at what it might take to grab the city, Gamal?” Amer looked at his chief with lips twisted in mild reproach.

“Of course I have, Amer?” the president lifted his dark caterpillar-like eyebrows to glare at his military chief with dark eyes. "Would you see any obstacles in my way?"

“With so many traitors in the air force,” the defense chief ground the words out turning his face like someone who wants to be asked for an opinion, "I would be surprised if you shot down even one Israeli jet."

“What traitors?” Nasser roared completely galled by any suggestion of dissent in his new United Arab Republic, a dream come true. “I thought we got rid of….” His speech was cut short by an aide who came to whisper into his ear urgently.

“A phone call sir,” a presidential aide was trying to put the handset into the president’s hand.

“Who is it?” Nasser growled as he glared at the handset with extreme distaste. He wrinkled his handsome features into the grim face of an angry Mussolini.

“The new leader in Syria, sir,” the aide smiled at the president. He knew that the information was the good news the president wanted to hear. It was. The angry mask dropped suddenly to be replaced by a sparkling smile.

“Oh, this is great!”Nasser yelped in exultation. His tight smiling lips broadened into a rare roar of laughter. He hurriedly grabbed the handset and bellowed into the mouthpiece; “don’t tell me you are afraid of the throne, Jadid?”

‘Not at all,” Jadid cried on the other side, “I wanted to thank you for the support.”

“Don’t mention it, my brother,” Nasser waved an airy hand. “Now we can reshape the Middle East back to the way it would have pleased the Pharaohs.”

“Yes Gamal, I am with you all the way,” Jadid howled like a dog, he was swallowing some champagne. “Unity between our brother nations was the reason for evicting the old man.”

“ That means you will attend the meeting this Friday, won’t you?” Nasser started. “It is time the Zionist enclave was painted red with Hebrew blood.”

“Even if my mother dies,” Jadid made a solemn pledge, “I will be there with you, my brother.”

The meeting referred to was held in Cairo three days later, on 1st June 1967. In attendance were a number of friends; King Hussein of Jordan, The Soviet ambassador, Jadid, and a few other notable Arab potentates. Nasser was the chairman.

“Comrades, I have a terrible decision to make,” Nasser spoke like someone facing a life decision. "And I need your unequivocal support."

‘What is the decision, Gamal?” king Hussein massaged his goatee like a man proposing a quick one to a woman whom he knows belongs to another man.

“My capital city is poorly planned,” Nasser started elaborating. “I need another city as my residence, a city that bristles with splendor.”

“Why not make Alexandria the capital city?” King Hussein asked with an indulgent eye. He knew that being Nasser’s birthplace, Alexandria would be a natural choice.

“No, Alexandria does not have the glamour that I want,” Nasser disagreed. "I want a cool town, with modern structures and good farmland.”

“But Egypt is a desert, you don’t have any town with the conditions you are specifying, Gamal,” Jadid spoke to his friend.

“I was looking beyond Egypt,” Nasser growled now angry that none of them could think outside the box.

“Perhaps you want to put your Capital in Siberia?” that was the soviet diplomat talking in jests. He was drawling his speech like a Russian learning English.

“Hahahahahah!”The other delegates broke into a burst of thunderous laughter which angered the host.

“I didn’t call you here to insult me, Dimitry, did I?” Nasser roared angrily. He glared at the diplomat with a tensed up face. The jugular vein stood out like a nylon rope. “I will speak to your …”

“You tell us yourself where you want to build your Capital.” the diplomat was not scared. Nasser was mistaken if he thought harassment would be effective against a wily Georgian. He had many options. The west was anxious to receive high profile defectors like him. Anticipating trouble that can erupt any time, he had already met a Norwegian emissary at a beach resort on the Red Sea.

“I was thinking of taking Tel Aviv as my new capital,” Nasser said it like a teacher revealing a new formula to pupils. "Tel Aviv is beautifully built, it would be suitable for my new Capital .”

The statement left the room quiet for ten seconds as the brain computers went berserk analyzing the new data. The Soviet ambassador was the first to regain composure, being more accustomed to dealing with mentally sick men. He looked at his host the way a mother looks at a child who is showing disquieting signs of insanity.

“What will you do with the Jews living in Israel?” he blew his nose into a hunk and glared at his host. “Ask them to leave the country because you want there city to be your capital, right?”

“Kill them all,” Nasser said without hesitation. His eyes sparkled like stars on a moonless night, a man possessed by a powerful demon.

“Kill three million people in order to get yourself a Capital?” a lady BBC reporter was horrified. The horror she felt made her forget that she was just there to record the proceedings.

“Three million Jews can make you squeal,” Nasser said like a man whose brain was corroded by the Heineken he was drinking like tap water. “Hitler was lucky; at least he had six million to kill. I wish Allah would give me eleven million.”

“I agree with Gamal,” Jadid spoke emphatically. “No one needs this Zionist pest around here and the earlier we wipe it out the better for everyone.”

“But genocide is not the answer,” the Soviet ambassador was disgusted by this brutality planned in advance like a science practical exam. He was wise enough to know that the west would not sit idle while another madman slaughtered Jews with hideous cruelty. They would intervene on the side of Israel. And to save face, the Soviet Union would be forced to jump in, leading to World War Three, which no one needed.

"But the USA won't accept the killing of Jews just like that," the BBC reporter was back again. She failed to stomach the horror. "Especially with the Jewish lobby..."

"No one asked for your opinion, woman," Nasser roared like a hungry lion watching a hyena fleeing with a leg of meat. "Besides your America is being whipped by Viet Cong guerillas wearing sandals in South East Asia."

"The plan to kill so many...." the Soviet ambassador was cut short by the host.

“I believe we can't be debating one thing the whole week,” Nasser cut into the ambassador’s lethargical contributions. “I will start by blocking all Israeli shipping through the Tiran Straits until they starve to death.”

A month later, Nasser woke up a disappointed man. He yelled at an aide, an urgent slash of his square-shaped face indicated that all was not well. Two days before the whole squadron of MIG-17s were shot down by Israel over the Red Sea in a one-sided dogfight. “Put me through to the kremlin. There is something very urgent.”

The aide bowed down in obeisance and hurriedly rushed to get the landline. Behind, Nasser walked to and fro on the deep Egyptian carpet, becoming increasingly exasperated. The events were moving too slowly for his clock. He didn’t like it. The Israelis proved to be very stubborn; after weeks of blocking all shipping; they were not coming to surrender, why?

“Here is the phone sir,” the aide said and retreated into the shadows.

“Yes comrade Nasser,” Brezhnev roared on the other side, the feminine dimples making him look like a decomposing pumpkin. He was a happy man; Communism was on the offensive on many fronts. The most exciting part was that the Americans were pinned down in Vietnam in an endless war which was also polarizing public opinion in Uncle Sam's backyard. “I know you want to talk about weapons.”

“You are a mind reader, comrade Brezhnev,” Nasser also roared trying to imitate the other man. “This Zionist cancer needs surgery urgently. They shot down a squadron of my planes.”

“I already know about that, my good comrade,” the Kremlin chief said this time a bit more cautiously. He was not briefed by his ambassador who took Nasser’s ratings as mere talk. “Our satellites see everything. But why did you send untrained pilots? They flew into the sidewinder missiles like blind birds.”

"The pilots are not to blame, "Nasser chewed the words in anger. "The Israeli planes were more advanced."

"My planes are inferior, is that it?" Brezhnev had breathing problems but he controlled the disgusting frustration. "Than what do you want from the Soviet Union?"

“I am invading Israel soon. I need planes, the latest MIGs, the ones that mesmerized the whole world at the Paris air show.” Nasser howled. “Give me those wonderful birds.”

“What about the remaining MIG-17s, East Germany delivered over two hundred,” Brezhnev said. He was now a worried man who was wise enough to know that Israel had experienced pilots. The inexperienced Egyptians would be shot out of the sky without any chance against the Phantom fighter bombers. Bingo! All the delightful MIG-21s blown out of the sky like a child popping balloons. And worse, everyone will be squealing like dying rats; Soviet equipment is outdated bra… bra….unless…

“No, I want the latest to control the sky against Israel,” Nasser was a stubborn negotiator.

“But a pilot needs at least six years training to handle the sophisticated MIG 21s, especially in a dog fight against experienced pilots,” Brezhnev tried to advise the overconfident despot whose vision went no further than his nose.

“But your pilots are doing strange aerial acrobatics with those planes,” Nasser yelled into the mouthpiece. “What can stop mine from doing the same?”

 “The pilots you are referring to started training at ten years of age,” Brezhnev said. “They are now in their late twenties. I hope that tells you how much experience they have in handling those planes.”

“Decide fast, comrade. My pilots are good, some are even better than yours,” Nasser tried using a bullying device. “The Chinese …..”

 “You don’t need the Chinese in this,” Brezhnev was frantic. Egypt was a strong foothold in the Middle East for prestige and strategy. It was not just a toe hold like Cuba where he was not allowed to station game-changing nuclear weapons. A Chinese presence in the Middle East was intolerable, something that would wipe out the propaganda advantage he was currently enjoying against the Americans.

“Than give me the weapons I need, won’t you?” the Egyptian man exploded rudely.

“Alright! Alright, Comrade Nasser, the Czech pilots will fly five squadrons of the MIG-21s to Egypt in the next few days,” Brezhnev talked like a man short on oxygen.

That evening Nasser was roaring in a peal of hoarse laughter throwing down the free Heineken, courtesy of the recently nationalized brewery. A BBC reporter cornered him. No, in fact, it was he who cornered the innocent reporter. Inevitably the discussion worked it's way back to the Middle East where Nasser was the emerging champion. He hoped she would talk about the MIG-21s.

“The playscript is good, isn’t it?” the reporter asked turning an indulgent eye to the emperor. “All the pieces are falling in place.”

“Yes, as always, I only watch good western films,” Nasser answered having missed the point. His eyes surveyed the English girl in a satin dress; she was too thin for his other tastes. “Clint Eastwood is a truly good actor.”

“I was referring to the unfolding events in the Middle East, sir,” the young woman corrected the emperor. Her lacquered nails indulgently slapping the emperor’s hand. “You have the Israelis pinned down, haven’t you?”

“Oh, I see!”Nasser roared like a hungry dog, he downed the Heineken in one gulp before bending his head towards the girl. “But wait and see the actual development within the next few days. The map of this region will change completely to something no one has seen before.”

“Really!”The reporter rolled her eyes hoping to drain more information from this garrulous man. “What exactly are we expecting Mr. President?”

“Just for your ears,” Nasser brought his lips close to the young lady’s ear. However; the lady thought the king wanted a kiss. Closing her eyes, she drew the ear away and brought her lips closer instead. Her heart galloped wildly against her small chest as she waited for Nasser’s thin lips to smack hers in a delicious ‘coup’.

Nasser saw the girl throw her lips forward, a bit too close to his. And her eyes were closed; he realized quickly that a terrible minx snare was in the making. Pulling away angrily, he whispered in tones; “I am going to bury these Zionist infidels in a missile attack, the whole world will see.”

“But Mr. President, do you have the ability to ….,” the girl was recovering from the failed ‘coup’, and her question this time lacked the soft innuendos of a scheming minx. It was a brutal take it or leave it. Her question was cut short by an angry outburst from her host, the most misbegotten nationalist Egypt had.

“Of course, woman, I have the ability,” Nasser roared dripping some saliva. He glared at the reporter like someone looking at a troublesome child. While rolling his tiny pupils in anger, he pursed his lips like a teacher warning an errant pupil as his brain sought the appropriate word for a reply. Everybody treated him like an invincible man, who was this tiny shapeless woman to doubt his invincibility?

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Meanwhile in Israel:

“Intelligence reports indicate that Egypt will attack us any time very soon,” Ariel Sharon warned the Prime Minister. “And indications are pointing to a possible genocide this time.”

“This time it will be touch and go,” the Prime Minister spoke with a worried face. “We will have to use our toys. I believe they are ready, aren't they?”

“The toys are ready,” Moshe Dayan put in. "But ..."

"But what?" the Prime Minister cut him short. "If the situation is that dire we just have to use them don't we?"

“The military brass is worried about a possible radioactive fallout," Moshe Dayan looked at the woman as if calculating the value of human life in her mind. "It may engulf the entire Middle East and pollute the environment for decades.”

“ What options do we have for now?” the Prime Minister queried. Her face was showing contours of fear. "Can we survive without the toys?"

“We can survive," it was Ariel Sharon flipping through some pages in a dark book. "All we need is a hard-hitting preemptive strike to take out the Egyptian Airforce,” Ariel Sharon said.

“What are the chances of such a plan working?”

“Hundred percent if it is done with good timing..”

“Why do you say so?” the Prime Minister was shocked. “You already have a plan, don't you? Did you anticipate this sort of thing way before?”

“Nasser thinks that we will sit down and wait for him to finish his gory dancing on our bellies,” Ariel Sharon explained the strategy as presented to him by the BBC reporter. “If we hit him first, a very hard blow before he sees it coming, I am sure he will be forced to stand down, a very demoralized man.”

“What of the Soviet Union?” the Prime Minister asked. “Won’t they intervene to help there blue-eyed boy like in fifty-six?”

“This is our only chance,” Ariel Sharon said quickly, “Besides now Britain has the nukes. I will be very surprised if they will sit quietly in the face of there enemy enjoying the show at her expense like in fifty-six.”

.............................................................................................................................................................................The war lasted six days only. The three friends were shocked by the destruction their countries suffered at the hands of Israel. In addition to that, they suffered heavy territorial losses that changed the map of the Middle East completely.

Nasser woke up to the sound of wailing in the streets of Cairo. The BBC radio on his Table reported that the entire Egyptian army was wiped put in an Israeli air raid. Furthermore, it said the entire Egyptian Air force was destroyed on the ground. He was still trying to understand what was happening when Amer burst into his palace, his face was unwashed and his hair was unrumpled like feathers of a bird soaked by rain.

“Gamal! Gamal!” he was shouting as his bare feet raced towards the President.

Amer's sudden appearance alarmed Nasser greatly. He rose from bed in dark pants and immediately started running towards a tunnel that would take him to the Red Sea. There a boat would take him to Yemen or anywhere else as long as he remained a free man. “Mamaaa! This is a coup,” he wailed as he saw visions of his soldiers coming to capture him. But his wife cornered him before he reached too far.

“It is Amer,” she said rolling her eyes like a movie actress, “hear him out.”

"How do you know?" Nasser yelled like a child in distress. "Maybe you are also a traitress, woman," he shouted as he lunged forward into the unmarked door.

However, he could not open it without a key. She had taken the key. Quickly, he changed direction and struggled to enter the space under the bed. Only the head went in but the whole body remained in a struggle.

He jerked when his wife touched him; "My lord, stop crying..."The cool tone his wife used somehow calmed him down.

“Yes, Amer, where are we now?”He was trembling all over, but he struggled to cool down. His wide owl- sized eyes looked at his defense chief like someone looking at the angel of death.

“T..he He…brews! They have killed all the soldiers…,” Amer was stammering like a child learning how to talk.

This time Nasser gained a bit of courage. At least it was not a coup. There was nothing worse than a coup. Soldiers die all the time. Anyone killing soldiers leaving his throne safe was not a problem. It was his turn to berate his defense minister.

"Yes Israel has attacked, so what?" he growled. "Why come here of all places?"

"I thought you should know, Gamal," Amer was surprised by the president who was also his boyhood friend.

"I already know...." Nasser was saying but broke off when the phone buzzed. It was a call from Jadid;

“Nasser! Nasser! Nasser! Oh sorry, Gamal!” he shouted into the mouthpiece.

"What is it, Jadid?” Nasser spoke into the mouthpiece working hard to sound normal.

“The BBC reported that your army and air force have been wiped out by the Hebrews, is that true?”

“Which air force?” Nasser laughed. “My air force repelled the Hebrews when they tried to attack. My latest MIG-21 jets shot down all their antiquated warplanes. Right now as I am speaking my army is following there retreating soldiers to Tel Aviv.”

“Boys! Boys!”Jadid turned to his generals who were old enough to be his parents. “Let's attack Israel now,” he shouted. "Maybe we can occupy those luscious farmlands and help our brother Nasser."

The ill-prepared Syrian army lumbered forward to attack Israel through rough terrain. The elite Israeli Airforce launched a disastrous retaliation in which they captured the priceless Golan Heights.

When Nasser finally admitted the loss, he was a broken man. He could not hide the disgraceful rout any longer.

To his dismay, the same lady BBC reporter, jubilant this time, again twisted her thin body gaily as she cornered him. This time she was merciless, doing the interview with relish.

“Mr. President…...” she started. She was staring at him with the hard cruel eyes of a cobra. They were fully packed with hate.

"Don’t Mr. President me,” Nasser roared angrily. “What do you want from me? Why are you following me everywhere?”

“You look devastated with the result of the recent war, Mr. President …,” she persisted with a hearty laugh that echoed in the corridors. “What should the world expect from you after this war that lasted only six days?”

“Expect anything,” Nasser said angrily as he looked the other way to hide the sobbing eyes.

"Egypt has lost the entire Sinai Peninsula, a region the size of France and Britain put together," the reporter continued reciting the events of the war. "The map of the Middle East has changed completely, and you the President can't say anything, right?"

“I have resigned,” Nasser pushed the reporter out of his way. "Ask the new president those questions."

“But why should you resign now when the whole nation needs your guidance in shifting to a new capital city at Tel Aviv, sir?”She was following him as he walked trying to avoid her. She was as tenacious as a cockroach.

"I don't know anything about any capital city," Nasser howled in embarrassment.

"You talked of a new capital city, that dream can't just vanish like that sir," she was still plunging the knife deeper. "Tell us more about it."

A call from Jadid saved Nasser further embarrassment from the reporter. He hurriedly entered the office and shut the door.

“Gamal, my brother, my whole army has been wiped out,” he said sadly. "I was only saved by the Iraqis. It is so shameful."

Nasser replied; “Jadid my brother, they have taken half my country. Everyone is so angry that the least I can expect is soldiers toppling my government.”

“These Hebrews are so merciless as if they are not the chosen children of God "Jadid complained. "They have grabbed the entire Golan Heights from us.”

“It was a terrible misadventure, my brother,” Nasser said. “I wish we had respected the Hebrew's right to exist as a nation. This is the worst disgrace in my whole life.”

Nasser dropped his head like a withered plant and walked drunkenly like an old man trying to leave the office. He never heard the reporter trying to renew her failed interview.No one knew he had a heart condition. Her mouth yanked agape as she watched the big man collapse helplessly in the corridors. That saved him from the BBC.