Page 2 What do I feel for the kamikaze that died with them? No respect. No pity. No, not even pity. I, who in every case, end up with giving in to pity. I have always found kamikaze unlikable, that is, those that suicide to kill others, starting with those Japanese of WWII. I never considered them par to the Italian patriot, Pietro Micca, who in order to block the arrival of enemy troops, ignited the ammunition storage and died in the explosion at the Citadel in Turin. I have never considered them soldiers, and even less do I consider them martyrs or heroes, as Mr. Arafat, hollering and spitting saliva, defined them to me in 1972. (That is when I interviewed him in Amman, where his Marshals trained the terrorists of the Baader-Meinhof). I considered them fatuous and nothing else. Fatuous because instead of searching for glory by means of the movies or politics or sport, they seek it in the death of themselves and others. A death that, instead of an Oscar or a Minister’s seat or a trophy, will bring them (they believe) admiration. And, in the case of those that pray to Allah, a place in the Heaven described in the Coran: "the Heaven where heroes screw the virgins (Uri)". I bet that they are also physically fatuous. I’m looking at the photo of two kamikaze of whom I spoke in my “Insciallah”: a romance novel that begins with the destruction of the American base (over 400 dead) and the French base ( over 350 dead) in Beirut. They had these photos taken before they went to die, and before dieing they had been to the barber shop. Look at what a gorgeous hair cut. What creamed mustaches, groomed little beard, flirtatious sideburns… Eh! Who knows how Mr. Arafat would fry if he heard me. You know that between him and I there is little or no love lost. He has never forgiven me neither for the heated differences of opinion that we had during that encounter nor for my judgement of him expressed in my book “Interview with History”. As for me, I have never forgiven him anything. Including the fact that an Italian journalist, imprudently introducing himself as “my friend” found himself with a gun pointed at his heart. Therefore, we don’t speak anymore. It’s a shame. Because if I were to meet him again, I would scream in his face who the martyrs and heroes are. I would scream: Illustrious Mr. Arafat, the martyrs are the passengers of the four hijacked planes that were transformed into human bombs. Among them the four year old child that disintegrated in the second tower. Illustrious Mr. Arafat, the martyrs are the employees that worked in the two towers and at the Pentagon. Illustrious Mr. Arafat, the martyrs are the firemen who died trying to save them. And do you know who are the heroes? The passengers of the flights that should have landed on the White House and that instead crashed in a Pennsylvania countryside because they rebelled. For them, yes there should be a Paradise, Illustrious Mr. Arafat. The problem is that now you are the perpetual Head of State. You are acting like a Monarch. You visit the Pope, affirm that you do not like terrorism, send your condolences to Bush. In your chameleon ability of inconsistency, you would be capable of replying that I am right. But let’s change topic. I am very ill, it is known, and talking with the Arafats I get a fever.