Oriana
http://direland.typepad.com/direland/2006/09/letter_from_rom.html
Letter from Rome: ORIANA FALLACI–THE ENJOYMENT OF HATE
The following was written for this blog by DIRELAND’s Rome
correspondent, Judy Harris, a veteran expat journalist and a former
Italy staffer for the Wall Street Journal and TIME magazine:
[…]
In recent years, Fallaci became an obsessive, xenophobic racist,
producing three short, incendiary post-9/11 books — rwo of them,
“The Rage and the Pride” and “The Force of Reason,” which she
translated into idiosyncratic English by herself (in the past she’d
had extremely mercurial relations with her translators) and a third,
“The Apocalypse,” published in Europe, that also included a lengthy
self-interview. The books have been best-sellers in Italy; and
together sold four million copies (a reflection of the rise in fear
and hatred of dark-skinned immigrants on the peninsula.) Her books
were so rabidly racist that even Christopher Hitchens (who constantly
harps on the dangers of “Islamofascism”) wrote (in The Atlantic) that
The Rage and the Pride was “a sort of primer in how not to write
about Islam.”
Part of her fantasy world was her vulgarly describing, post 9/11, the
Islamic world as composed of men putting their butts into the air
five times a day, and rabbity women tossing off babies endlessly
(”Muslims breed like rats.”. “I don’t want to see a minaret every few
yards in Giotto’s Pisa.”) Fallaci (right) also had little use for
Mexican immigrants: “If you put a pistol against my head and ask
which I think is worse, Muslims or Mexicans, I’d have to think a
moment, then I’d say the Muslims because they’ve broken my balls.”
She snarled that the presence of Islamic butcher shops in Cavour has
transformed the “exquisite city” into a “filthy kasbah.” Her paranoid
worldview led her to ask whether all Islamic immigrants to the West
had their transport paid by “some Osama bin Laden for the mere
purpose of establishing the Reverse Crusade’s settlements and better
organizing Islamic terrorism.”
A notorious homophobe who excoriated gay people as “devoured … by
the wrath of being half and half,” she also opposed gay marriage by
saying, “they’d like everybody to be like them.” Sometimes she
combined her homophobia and her Islamophobia (“In the same way that
the Muslims would like us all to become Muslims, they [the “gay
lobby”] would like us all to become homosexuals”). In an interview
with Robert Scheer for Playboy, she carried on about her distaste for
gays: “I’m not crazy about them, the homosexuals. You see them here
in New York, for instance, moving like this [makes a mincing
gesture], exhibiting their homosexuality. It disturbs me. It’s… I
don’t know… I just can’t stand them.” She then likens them to “the
Mafia or the Communist Party.”
Fallaci was paranoid about Jews — for example, she said, “I am angry
at the Jews for many things… If you want to take the example of
America, how they hold the power, the economical power in so many
ways, and the press and the other kind of stuff… I never realized how
it happened and they came to control the media to that point. Why?”
That rant of Fallaci’s reeks of classic anti-Semitism. Fallaci’s
racist disdaign for anything in the Third World in her later years
led her to characterize the United Nations as “a Mafia of cheaters
and the underdevleoped.”
[…]
Wall Street Journal - September 16, 2006
La Fallaci By TUNKU VARADARAJAN
NEW YORK — Even as Oriana Fallaci breathed her last through lungs
marinaded in enough nicotine to sink a ship (leave alone a birdlike
creature who weighed no more than 80 pounds at best, pearl necklace
included), protests rumbled in the Muslim world over a recent
utterance by Pope Benedict XVI in which he faulted the prophet,
Muhammad, for exhorting his followers to spread Islam by the sword.
Effigies of the pope have been torched by mobs, although the
irruption has also included unintended drollery; a spokeswoman for
the Musharraf dispensation in Pakistan observed yesterday that
“Anyone who describes Islam as a religion as intolerant encourages
violence.”
Once more, the West has collided with the Muslim world; and once
more, it is the West that is scrambling to soothe “the hurt.”
Already, the Vatican has issued a statement that “it was certainly
not the intention of the Holy Father to . . . offend the
sensibilities of Muslim faithful.” Everyone, on tenterhooks, now
waits to see if the pope himself will apologize (although the quote
in question is something even the silkiest apologizer couldn’t
possibly get around). So it is tempting to believe that, on Thursday
night, Ms. Fallaci — peering through her hospital window at this
latest circus of pieties and outrage — simply said to herself, “I
really can’t take this any longer. I’m outta here.”
Oriana Fallaci was the toughest nut, the primordial female ballbuster
journalist. Her reputation was made through a series of innovatively
intrusive, relentlessly probing interviews, in which she took on –
and bested — some of the most prominent male politicians of the last
third of the 20th century. She was not always the nicest gal, as I
found in my experience as her editor for two monumental op-ed pieces
that she wrote for this page in 2003 (”The Soliloquy of Dakel Abbas”
and “The Rage, the Pride and the Doubt”). In fact, she was, by some
considerable distance, the most difficult, exasperating and
intransigent author I have ever worked with. She was also, by some
distance, the most exhilarating, and the most perfectionist.
“La Fallaci,” as she liked to call herself — yes, immodestly; but
Italian divas don’t do self-deprecation — became in her last years a
fierce, even apocalyptic, critic of Islam. She feared the
unassimilated — and, she believed, unassimilable — Muslim
immigrants in the West, and she feared them to distraction. Above
all, she despised Europe’s political and cultural elites who were
responsible — in her view — for turning Europe into “a colony of
Islam.” In a Spenglerian interview for this page last June, she told
me: “The moment you give up your principles, and your values . . .
the moment you laugh at those principles, and those values, you are
dead, your culture is dead, your civilization is dead. Period.”
She was part Cassandra, part Cordelia — though only part, as La
Fallaci, while blunt of speech, had none of the natural mildness of
Lear’s youngest daughter. She could be charming, however, and
surprisingly gentle, as I once discovered. I had gone to see her, in
March 2003, at her townhouse on the Upper East Side — she loved New
York, and lived here willingly even before an indictment for
“vilifying Islam,” issued by an Italian judge, made it impossible for
her to live without fear of arrest in her native Tuscany — and I had
taken my four-year-old boy with me. I was late, and she chided me,
her voice deep and gruff, etched with the havoc of a lifetime of
cigarettes. Her illnesses had taken their toll on her appearance, and
the effect of it all — a scolding face not in its first bloom, an
assertive voice that could be mistaken for a hectoring one — put my
son in such a panic that he hid behind my leg and started to cry. The
sight of this so melted her that she changed, in an instant, from
aggressor to angel, taking the boy by the hand and speaking to him in
strange Italian juvenilia. Together, hand in hand, they went up the
stairs and straight to a cupboard from where she pulled a small gold-
wrapped box — exquisite, expensive — of chocolates. These she gave
to my son — now putty in her hands — and the crisis passed. He sat
in a corner of her living room, beside a life-size bronze statue of a
large dog, and proceeded to eat the entire box (of six chocolates)
with immense satisfaction. (I noted later that they had been filled
with cognac.)
Ultimately, it has to be said that her fear of Islam, and of Muslims,
unhinged her. Or, more accurately, disconcerted her to the point
where she became unable to distinguish the incendiary from the
provocative. An expert diagnostician she may have been, but her
bedside manner — her constant references to Muslim immigrants as
“invaders,” to Europe as “Eurabia” — undermined her ability to
achieve the goal she sought, which was to awaken the West to the very
real dangers of cultural conflict in its midst.
Here’s an illustration of what I mean, from a letter she wrote to me
in March of this year. (I have left what she described as her
“Fallaci English” unedited.) “In the speech I gave at the Italian
consulate in New York to accept one of the four golden medals I have
received in the last two months, I told that I had drawn a cartoon on
the Prophet and his nine wives including the 9 year old one and his
sixteen concubines including the she-camel. But I had not published
it because I had not been able to draw well the she-camel. (True).
The author of the booklet which asks the Moslems to eliminate me in
accord with four Suras of the Koran even sued me . . . Meaning now in
Italy they even appeal to the Italian law to incriminate an Italian
citizen for a ‘vilifying’ cartoon that nobody has seen.”
This is acid, bitter, marvelously funny. Oriana Fallaci was very
brave. Perhaps a little too brave. But now is not the time to judge
her by proportions.
Mr. Varadarajan is editorial features editor of The Wall Street Journal.