in contrast all right wing birdshits are terrorists and pedos for AZNgirls (and sometimes boys)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4426419&forum_id=2#39465272)

Dial Mumbai for Murder

By Dorothy Rabinowitz

Updated Nov. 13, 2009 12:01 am ET

The 10 young Pakistani men who reached Mumbai in a fishing boat last Nov. 26, and proceeded, methodically, on their mission of mass murder and the destruction of that Indian city's most famous landmarks, had been told the world would remember them.

As it turned out, it was the one promise made by their handler—safe in Pakistan as he directed them, via cellphone, while they killed 170 people and wounded more than 300—that they could count on. They would be remembered—not, of course, because of their great deeds this day, or because they were warriors whom God had chosen for the struggle between Islam and nonbelievers, as their handler is regularly heard telling them, but because of the extraordinary circumstances that made it possible to overhear their conversations during every step of their blood-drenched rampage. It's that fact that distinguishes "Terror in Mumbai" (Thursday, 8-9:05 p.m. EST, on HBO) from every other film on terrorism ever made: the thing that accounts for the singular, soul-chilling intimacy of its picture of the youthful killers going about their work, and of the silken-voiced handler urging them on with assurances that they are now "very close to heaven." "Inshallah" these enlistees in Lashkar-e-Taiba, or the Army of the Righteous, prayerfully reply, if ever more uncertainly.

The attackers, with their cellphones, backpacks and supplies of nuts and raisins, came from the poorest provinces—a fact doubtless seen as support for the filmmakers' small end note suggesting that terrorism would decline if we helped to end poverty. A comforting faith, that—though one that flies in the face of what we know about the centrality of radical Islam as the driving force for terrorism. Virtually all of the 9/11 terrorists were well-to-do or middle class; none were impoverished. Mohammed Atta's father was a lawyer, and the rest of the plotters in the Hamburg cells were, like him, educated. They all had in common one other thing—their commitment to the precepts of radical Islam.

"Pray that God will accept my martyrdom," the enlistees in this mission fearfully tell their handler as they move in for the slaughter, shooting at close range every man, woman and child they can in the designated target areas. These would include Mumbai's main railway station, packed with travelers; the city's two most famous hotels, the Taj Mahal and the Oberoi; the popular Leopold Café; and a Jewish center. For good measure, they had left bombs in the taxis they'd taken, set to detonate later. The aim of this war against infidels was, explains the handler, to make the world take note.

This was why, he informed the enlistees in tones grown less silken as the attacks progressed, they had to act with more speed. Though the assailants had entered the exclusive Taj Mahal and murdered the guests they could find, they had not yet set the hotel ablaze. They had to do that at once—soak the carpets in alcohol and set them on fire—so that he, and the rest of the world, could see it on their television sets. The handler in Pakistan, who has up to now managed a delicate tonal balance between the inspirational and the supportive, grows distinctly irascible. In these scenes, unparalleled for their multiple ironies, the chief terrorist and his agents become, as invariably happens in films focused on the perpetrators, better known to us, by far, than the victims; except that in this case knowledge and intimacy only serve to magnify the rage the film is likely to provoke at these protagonists and their like-minded allies around the world.

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There's ample cause for that emotion, both in the video surveillance footage that captures the terrorists in action and in the testimony of those who survived. It will be hard to forget the young boy who survived the Victoria Terminal attack that left him without his mother—or his wondering, bitter question: Why did the attackers have to kill so many people? It is this film's great distinction that it provides, in those recorded conversations, answers that are unbearably clear.

Those recordings were made possible only because the Indian Secret Service—which had earlier infiltrated the Lashkar group—had handed out a bunch of cellphone SIM cards. By a miraculous stroke of fortune, Indian intelligence was able—the night of the attack—to track down three of their SIM cards being used by the terrorists, and to listen in on the calls.

Some of the conversations teeter on the edge of farce—as when the handler demands action from a dawdling gunman. "And throw some grenades, my brother,"' he tells the terrorist making his way down the grand hallway of one of the hotels. "How hard can it be to throw a few grenades?"

But the Pakistani, from a village, has been hypnotized by the splendor of the rooms. "They have computers with 30-inch screens . . . it's amazing, huge windows . . . it's got two kitchens, a bath, and a little shop."

"Start the fire," the controller urges. "That's the important thing."

There's not a moment in this stunning film—directed by Dan Reed, narrated by Mumbai-born Fareed Zakaria—that doesn't leave one rapt with wonder at its revelatory powers, and wanting more.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=4426419&forum_id=2#39465334)