28
Jerusalem, Israel. 12 noon.
The malevolent forces of chaos gathered above the Old City as hatred and rage boiled over in the midday summer heat. The crowd started to jostle one other as they walked briskly down El Wad HaGai street towards the Western Wall, the shouting sporadic, not yet a chant.
Avi Kabede, al-Hirbaa, pulled the hood of his jacket up to shield his face as he didn’t want to appear in any media reports of this event. He stayed at the edge of the crowd, instant messaging with key extremists in his team who were among the throng of right-wing extremist Jews. Technology meant that he could direct the mayhem without being part of it. He knew that they wouldn’t notice a Falasha anyway, and none of the men had seen his face, they had only received his money and directions vi
