False Witness by Dorothy Uhnak Read Free Book Online Page A

both black and white, were rumored to be getting edgy.
    When this affair ended, the entertainer returned to the Coast, ordered a new wardrobe of expensive but subdued clothing, to be worn minus the gold chains, and resumed his temporarily abandoned career. Sanderalee took off her dashiki, had her hair straightened back to normal and moved in another direction: that of outspoken political observer.
    In point of fact, Sanderalee’s political savvy was very shallow and could not stand the test of intelligent interrogation. That makes more astonishing the fact of her tremendous popularity not only with the public, who loved her fresh, daring, what-the-hell-do-I-care attitude, but the lineup of eager potential guests who ranged from Secretary of State to hopeful candidates for the state assembly. An appearance on Sanderalee’s Let’s Take a Stand, 11:15 to midnight, five nights a week, guaranteed more public exposure and more followup press and weekly magazine coverage than any publicist could possibly arrange.
    During the last six to eight months, Sanderalee’s interests had veered sharply toward a fascination with terrorism as a viable weapon against intolerable conditions of life affecting vast numbers of people.
    Her guide, instructor, mentor, was a fully qualified Ph.D. in Education: Dr. Regg Morris, a highly visible, clearly vocal, outspokenly determined advocate of the aims, policies and methods of the PLO. Although he kept carefully in the background, and was glimpsed only rarely on the subsequent TV special, it was public knowledge that the force behind Sanderalee Dawson’s highly publicized, filmed, photographed, magazined and editorialized trip into Arafat-land had been set up, guided, managed and arranged by Dr. Regg Morris.
    On her ninety-minute TV special, Search for Peace in the Mid-East, we were treated to the sight of Sanderalee Dawson, radiant in the hot dusty sunlight, carelessly dressed in her chic Ralph Lauren western outfits, dancing and gun-waving joyously with Arafat and his band of forty machine-gun–armed thieves; slinging an unwelcome, unholy arm around semiveiled women, probably damning them forever into unimaginable hells for being photographed over and over again with this strangely vibrant, highly excited American woman with pale green eyes. Willing male teachers, grinning boyishly—they were mostly teenagers—instructed her in marksmanship and helped her to sight her automatic rifle. Painted on the targets were the familiar, graspingly evil, large-nosed, Zionist-Jew thugs, and as she fired her weapon, jumping with the kick to her shoulder, as she slaughtered the enemy of the peoples, there was great joy among the Palestinians.
    On the basis of her ten-day visit, spent hopping, dancing, shooting, embracing, cheering, being photographed touching and singing with groups of dirty little children with runny noses, and seething at the refusal of the Israeli government to grant her status other than that of a visiting tourist or working journalist (she felt herself to be an ambassador-at-large, at least), Sanderalee Dawson was metamorphosed into a full-bodied, strong-voiced advocate of Palestinian rights.
    She sat and listened, indifferently, to representatives of our government explaining the delicate situation, the balance of rights, emotions, the quiet, unpublicized talks that were continuously going on; the Camp David accords; the tremendous difficulties and subtleties involved. Finally her eyes hardened into glass that sparkled with passion and fury at her startled guest as she reverted to Sanderalee-perfect, bell-ringing oratory that by its force and delivery, if not by its content, devastated her victim. She managed it all with a superb sense of timing. After all, the television studio was her home ground and she knew how to get the final word in, the unanswerable accusation, the cutting remark that destroyed all that had gone before. As soon as the cameras were off, a good-natured, smiling,