Code Talkers: The Language of Terrorist Attacks

The ‘Code Talkers’ were Native Americans who volunteered in the United States Military during World War Two, serving as telegramme communications specialists. Their code was never broken — that is to say, once the war had ceased, no one continued trying to decipher their code.

This handful of Natives amounted to a mere few dozen souls who’d based their dots and dashes on their native tongue.

They wrote in the way they thought.
This, no White Man was capable of deciphering.

Government Surveillance Will Not Protect Us from Terror Attacks

I’m reminded of a man I once knew.

Yes, we knew each other in the biblical sense of course, but that meaning was so much deeper for us. He: a nomad opressed by Whites. Me: a White-Skinned uncovering my nomadic Blood. Over the years we began to know each other on deeper leves.

Safely nestled between the Egyptian cotton sheets of my bed, we would speak to one other. Safely walking the streets of Berlin, we could be seen side by side only by humans we could also see. Only recognized by other humans who noticed our pinkie fingers casually intertwined.

In Berlin, there were no security cameras, there were no monitoring devices, there were not even turnstile gates to admit us onto the subway.

That was then.
This, is now.

The years passed, the bed sheets changed, the classes in my university became more challenging.

I began to know more of his mind. That is, I began to know more of his habits and actions and ways of thinking.

I understood the way he thought.
Therefore, I could understand the way he spoke.

Sometimes, his verbal words would leave his lips unfiltered. They would escape as if vapor, destined to be free and released from holding within one’s body. His words wouldn’t make logical sense. They didn’t add up mathematically. The verbs didn’t match the subjects. The adjectives were in the wrong places.

And yet, I listened.

If one has peace in one’s soul, one is able to listen.

I would listen, and absorb his melodious words, drawn in damp breath in an almost inaudibly painted whisper.

I drank them in without conclusion. I observed them without Ego, without trying to ‘know’ or what is more acurately labelled ‘mind-labelling and categorizing’. I would simply lay there in his arms, watching the moonlight reflect off the dewdrops on the leaves of the tree outside my window. I would simply observe, and listen, and make sense of his words later.

It was many, many words later when I realized what was meant.

There must be much talking and much exchanging before it can be known which fighting party is the terrorist.


[to be continued, perhaps, at a later date]

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