True friendship is libelous. True to my word, I am publishing this piece. Maybe it will reinvigorate my dead passion for blogging. Or maybe Ben’s work will, as usual, be the only thing anyone reads on here. Regardless, this sarcastic Brit never disappoints.
(Just in case you doubt our bond, here is a picture of the two of us on the top of a mountain in palestine. Clear love)
P.S. Ben, WordPress wants me to correct all your pretentious British spelling
“I Would Publish It in a Heartbeat”
The laugh was nonchalant, dismissive. The kind of laugh you give when you hear something so ridiculous that the only justifiable reaction is to be amused. It came in May 2011 when, on the steps of an apartment building in Nablus, Palestine, I said my goodbyes to one Sara Fitouri – a fiery young Coloradan who had, over the previous 3 months, become my friend, confidant and drinking partner. Having already exchanged a parting hug upstairs, away from the watchful eyes of a conservative society that wouldn’t have approved of such an embrace, I expressed a solemn desire that we not simply become two friends who never saw each other again. That we make an effort to stay in contact and meet again in the not-too-distant future. That’s when I heard the laugh. At the time I interpreted it optimistically, I believed it was a forthright and cocky assertion of Sara’s assurance that we had simply become too good friends, shared too many fun and crazy times to never see each other again. But hindsight provides an illuminating truth. Sara was determined to avoid me forevermore and that laugh was simply a rejection of my heartfelt au revoir.
You see, dear, wonderful readers, Sara abandoned me. Like a celebrity with a political cause she was more than happy to completely forget about me the moment I ceased to have any immediate impact on her life. I remained in Palestine for a further 2 years. Sara spoke of visiting but never did. “Not to worry” thought I, “I shall make this whole meet up a lot easier for her. I shall visit her home country”. And so I did. Twice. For months at a time. I found it a strange yet captivating place where my British sensibilities were assaulted with the ferocity of a drunken hillbilly at a gay wedding. Earl Grey tea seemed to be harder to locate than WMD in an illegally invaded Middle Eastern State and the locals seemed to have as much respect for environmental protection as they did for their Latino servants (though they insist on the term “employee”). I travelled far and wide through the assortment of bizarre little enclaves you call States and awaited that magical moment when Sara and I would meet again, sit around a bar room table, reminisce on the old times and see if we couldn’t finally hit that magical 21 shots mark before she passed out again in an undignified heap. Alas, Sara refused to find me wandering, lost, through the wasteland of her home nation. Her argument when presented with this fact can be simply boiled down to “You didn’t turn up exactly at my front door”. I weep for the friendship we built in that chaotic Nabulsi apartment as she so insists on eroding it with her indifference.
Not to be deterred, for there are many, many negative things about me and one of the very tamest is that I’m a stubborn idiot, I decided to search for Sara in her other home. Packing my bags with bad clothes, worse Arabic and the hope of a reunion with an old friend I picked myself up and moved to Libya. That’s right, dear reader, with Sara was refusing to move the hundred metres or so from her house to my location in Florida (I may have misjudged the scale somewhat, please understand that I’m no cartographer and, coming from a tiny island nation as I do, I’m used to things being infinitely closer to each other than is often the case across the pond) I did the only I thing I could do and relocated to sunny, post-revolution, militia-strewn Libya. I endured months of gun battles, RPG fire, sniper danger and general chaos in the hope that at last we would be able to reunite, catch up and lend some value to the idea that perhaps ours was a friendship worth saving. Had Sara chosen not to visit me I could have understood it. After all, Libya was and is a country fraught with violent danger. But Sara, this cold hearted monster of fraternal rejection couldn’t be satisfied with merely avoiding me. Oh no, she waited until mere months after I had finally departed North Africa to publicly announce via facebook that she would now prepare to visit. Enough! I snapped into life, utilising the comments section of that most vapidly 21st century website to complain of her despicable behaviour. Casting my mind back years I threatened to follow up my previous guest posts on her blog, reminding her of a vow she had made to publish any future rantings I might throw her way.
“I would publish it in a heartbeat”. She replied. Just remember those words, Sara, as I attempt to paint a picture with the words that follow.
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls and anyone who self identifies as any gender or none I present to you the real Sara Fitouri. The story behind the fierce freedom fighter and warrior for social justice you may know. I feel it is my duty to use this electronic space to publish the truth so that the mask may slip once and for all and we may all pass judgement on this web of lies she has served to create.
Sara Fitouri was born in 1946 as Theodore Robert Cowell. After a violent childhood which began to reveal her twisted and sinister nature she went on to kidnap, rape and kill over 30 victims as the infamous serial killer Ted Bundy.
After she took advantage of the low level of competence and intelligence amongst law enforcement officials to secretly escape from prison leaving some poor, confused and learning disabled stooge (whose only desire in life was to be kind to animals and paint beautiful pictures) in her place to fry in the electric chair Sara spent some years trawling the strip clubs, illegal casinos and low rent brothels of Colorado, eventually selling enough crack cocaine to disadvantaged urban youths to secure the funds for the cosmetic surgery necessary to reinvent her life.
At some point in the early nineties Sara abandoned her previously nihilistic ideology and found something to believe in. She dedicated herself wholly to her new cause and became a passionate advocate and activist. Through her work as President of the Republican Friends of Israel group she was eventually asked to become a secret operative for Shin Bet and worked on many missions to ensure the arrest, torture and occasional murder of innocent Palestinians in a variety of locations. Her commanding officer at the time remarked that he had never seen someone take such a sickening, almost sexual pleasure in the suffering of others.
She graduated from regional injustice to global and eventually found herself making large amounts of money from a series of financial interests in Congolese coltan mining, Indonesian palm oil, numerous weapons manufacturers and Goldman Sachs. Her investment company, Fitouri Holdings Ltd. operate with the unofficial motto “If the money doesn’t taste of blood, we’re not making it in the right way”.
Finally, Sara’s proclivity for illegal dog fights, sexual perversion and unprovoked attacks on the homeless and vulnerable have seen her arrested dozens of times. She owes her freedom only to her immorally gotten gains and the fact that the American justice system doesn’t send rich people to prison.
If some of this seems a little farfetched or even demonstrably false to you, dear reader, then I am genuinely upset at your lack of faith in my honesty. I assure you these facts are well researched and entirely true and I stick by them unequivocally. And if Sara has any objection to any of the content then as a seasoned law student and soon to be qualified lawyer I am sure she is aware of how she can lay her claim to libel through the appropriate channels. I am sure she is also aware that, due to the antiquated and unique legal system we operate here, the UK is considered the “libel capital of the world” (New York Times, 2009).
You see where I am going with this, dear reader. For now Sara has but two options, considering her publicly stated and verifiable promise to publish this article. Once published she can either accept the truth of every word written herein, her silence speaking a thousand words and her reputation destroyed forever. Or she can be drawn, like a litigious moth to my libellous flame to that London courtroom to clear her name of such accusations. And there she shall find me in the defendants box (do defendants have a box? Or a stand? I don’t know, I’m not a lawyer and whenever I appear in court I refuse to do it sober so my memory is drawing a blank. In any case, I’ll be there) appearing as some kind of British, able bodied Oscar Pistoriu-types character and I shall have my reunion at last. A forced, adversarial reunion, admittedly but as has already been mentioned I am a stubborn idiot and so I’ll take that over none at all.
Your move, Sara.