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I’ve made a decision. I have homeys, peeps, boys. Call them a brotherhood. They’re on the payroll in seventeen intelligence networks worldwide. It should be nineteen, but my penetration inroads have, on occasion, met with limited success. The immediate assumption is CIA, British Intel, and the like. Well, maybe. But maybe not. We don’t always have to be talking countries here, do we? I mean, I know it’s a cheap play on homonyms, but the subject of the piece you’re reading, so far, is intelligence, is it not? I far prefer the genuine layer of spies on the prize, the street word on the world’s street.

Sometimes you’ve got to spread the cash in your own back yard, which reminds me, "Payyusss ta da Nans an geezas hu woz kins n’ quins on da way. Dey rule da SotWes Staines Massive. Toppa. fJo~yamma."

Now that’s what you call an obscure shout out, don’t you think? I’ll center it some for you. Forget London. Any Americans who read this might even be so naïve as to think that street gangs were actually invented in Los Angeles. Word, y’all. Ice Cube just did a sequel. I’m not so sure that ‘Keepin’ it real’ is a viable part of the equation any longer, are you? Leave that noise be. Let’s do it right. Let’s give it an international flavor, shall we? Sometimes you’ve got to spread the cash all over the back alleys of the world in order to be the kind of tourist who probably won’t appear on the travel brochure. Good Lord, I’m a gay man and it’s all I can do to choke back a derogatory reference against my own people when I see a EuroDisney poster.

My decision? I’m ready to go big time. I’m ready to get my name high up on a couple of serious watch lists. Scotland Yard, Langley, Quantico, are you ready for me? Here we go. I think I have some information you may find interesting.

Ahmed got on my account ledger back in 1998. I was in Damascus, a city I fell in love with after my first ten minutes walking the streets, a city I continue to visit at least a half dozen times a year to this very day. I was sipping bootlegged whiskey in a chipped up plaster mug outside of what was technically a coffee shop when Ahmed spotted an odd looking white man sweating through a button down business shirt and an undone bow tie. It was at this point, I’ve always assumed, that he decided to make me his mark for the afternoon. The great thing about a Syrian shakedown is the local culture. You get company for the day. There’s none of this, "I need money for the bus that’s coming in two minutes," nonsense. So Ahmed sat with me, and the hustle was underway. We talked for about an hour or two, ordering more and more of the whiskey that was made to look like espresso. I always offered to pay. He always waved his hand and said, "No problem," and then proceeded to let me pay. I never quite figured this out, but it didn’t matter. He was a great host. We chatted about anything and everything—soccer, the 15% rate of delivery success one could expect from the Lebanese postal service, our favorite brand of cigarettes, why the best Middle Eastern girl-on-girl videos all came from Jordan, etc. It was all typical guy stuff for the most part. I politely endured the video phase of the conversation. When in Rome.

Too much whiskey later, he figured out that I was a wealthy, disenchanted political radical. It might have been the part where I said, "You know, Ahmed, I’m quite rich, and I’m a political radical." I’m not sure, but that could have been the give away. The espresso had taken over at that point, so it’s hard to say. His approach to me changed instantly, though. I moved from a simple mark to a project. He popped the question, "Have you ever been to Gaza City?"

"No," I replied, "I haven’t worked up the nerve for something like that."

"I could take you there. I’m Palestinian, you know."

Five more mugs, three days, a thousand dollars, and one of Ahmed’s forged passports later, we were in the heart of what I can only refer to as the barrage. Gaza smacks you like a testosterone drip with the spout set on full stream. If you don’t take a breath before hitting the street, you’ll hyperventilate in ten seconds. Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore never flinching next to detonating shells, declaring the beach safe for surfing? That’s nothing compared to what you’ll witness in a five minute span on Hatah Square. Mix a dozen blotters of your best Marin County product along with about seven boxes of extra strength Vivarin. Dissolve it all into a triple shot at Starbucks, and maybe you’ll get an idea. To this day, it haunts me. It takes a lot for me to say, "I’ll never go back." I never have. And I never will.

I’m off the subject, sort of. The lists. I need to get on them.

One didn’t need Sigmund Freud in order to figure out that there was an ulterior motive lurking behind all of this. From the second I emerged with Ahmed from the cab, it was fairly obvious that he was going to take me somewhere. I concluded that the healthy amount of cash I had on hand gave me enough street cred to work my way out of whatever corkscrew of human manipulation was waiting. There’s something mighty enticing about the words, "There’s more where that came from." At least I hoped. Then I realized that my checkbook was in the breast pocket of the jacket I was wearing. I began to sweat profusely. Where were we going? It occurred to me as we entered the brightly lit back room of a bustling corner restaurant that Ahmed might be setting me up for a hostage situation, but then it was too late.

There I was, standing in the midst of a blind man surrounded by an imposing cadre of well armed, adoring, wholly-loyal, black masked patriots. At least that was the word Ahmed used in his translation. The blind man raised both his hands with a smile upon hearing my name announced. My arrival apparently wasn’t a surprise. He offered me tea. I accepted. He invited me to sit with him on the matted floor. I slowly knelt while also receiving a cup from one of the so called patriots. Once at eye level I noticed his legs as they were defined by his draped white robe. It was fairly clear that he had no use of them. The atrophy of years and years had taken a heavy toll. His left thigh quite honestly looked more like a small child’s arm as it jutted through a tiny slit in the fabric.

He spoke. Ahmed translated, "Ahmed is a good man to bring you here. The two of us, we have the same name. Some say this makes me favor him." Everyone laughed. I nervously joined, clearly not hip to Palestinian militant humor.

And so, it came to pass that I had my second long afternoon chat in a week with a man named Ahmed. The details of the talk aren’t important. Truth be told, I won’t write about them because I feel a loyalty. It’s a loyalty that doesn’t really attach to the specific cause pursued by these men. It’s a loyalty to commitment, their commitment. At the time I had very little idea what I was doing when I willingly wrote him a check for five thousand dollars. There was the lingering paranoia of not returning to London in one piece, but there was never a threat, never a hint of extortion in the air. There was only a presence, a pervading feeling of neck-hair raising awe that circulated around this man as he spoke in a language I didn’t understand. Cult of personality need not be intelligible. I learned this lesson on that day. In the years that followed I’ve been forced to visit and revisit a profound level of guilt while, at the same time, finding only a cowardly hollowness when attempting to summon the will to return to Gaza. The Passover suicide bombing, busloads of innocent civilians, schoolchildren.

Sometimes, I don’t sleep well.

When Sheik Ahmed Yassin’s frail body was vaporized on Monday by an Israeli helicopter-launched missile, I knew it was time to square the score on my own account. Prime Minister Sharon and his rubber stamp cabinet certainly don’t need the money, but I went ahead and wrote them a check for $5,000 American, plus six years worth of interest. Like a two faced corporate campaign contributor, I’m doubling down and getting in bed with both sides. The first donation was a mistake. I am Hamas. I have blood on my hands. This is my reality, and I cannot undo it for all the money in the world. The second and most recent endowment, while largely symbolic, is a weak attempt at spiritual divestment. I want out. Will this do?

Probably not.

The United States lists Hamas as a terrorist organization. In this piece, I formally submit my confession. A little less than six years ago, I voluntarily and knowingly gave financial support to this group. I do not sanction their methods, but I understand their cause. I can say the same for their adversaries, the only difference being that, in the latter case, my financial support is far larger, and I’m not referring to my most recent mid-five figure contribution. Over the course of the past thirty years, I’ve paid an estimated 30 million dollars in income tax to the United States government, a certain portion of which has most certainly ended up in weapon form under the mindful care of an Israeli soldier or two. Perhaps I purchased the arming system for the missile that terminated the man who offered me tea on that nerve-wrapped day in Gaza City. The blood on my hands knows no affiliation. It has no border.

I put the ball in John Ashcroft’s court. I’m returning to the United States on Friday, April 2^nd. I’ll be in San Antonio, Texas, for the NCAA Basketball Tournament’s Final Four. My attorney will be with me. I’m hoping to avoid Guantanamo Bay. I wouldn’t mind being put on a watch list, though.

Faraday Jesus O’Bannion, who is willing to supply any and all potential prison enemies with thousands and thousands of cigarettes, picked St. Joseph’s to defeat Duke in the NCAA Basketball Tournament. He can be reached at [email protected].