Coop Scoop: My Time in the 1973 War With Sadat, Amin and the PLO.

Presenting: Reporter's War Stories #1

By Marc Cooper

November 17, 2023

A couple of weeks ago I let my readers know that I was going to start periodically re-publishing some of my collected and adventurous notes culled from 50 years of global reporting. They are my Reporter’s War Stories. I’ve long said that given the persistent and general ignorance of the public, given that the truths we publish rarely eclipse the lies and superstitions, a journalism career is mostly good for the reporters themselves collecting bizarre dinner table stories. So here we go!

What better place to start this week than in the Middle East 50 years ago almost to the day. To cover the Yom Kippur War in 1973 I was in Libya, Egypt, the Sinai desert and Beirut running into quite a cast of characters: from Anwar Sadat to Idi Amin to confidantes of Yasser Arafat. There’s a lot of weird and funny stuff in this account so read slowly and carefully.

Let me know after you read this if you want me to periodically publish more career-based anecdotes.

Part 1: GETTING THERE: The Benghazi Express

In November 1973, when the Yom Kippur War broke out, I was 22 years old and had no possessions. I had left everything behind two months earlier after I escaped from Pinochet's Chile and his bloody coup. I had been the translator to the Salvador Allende, the democratic president who was overthrown.

My home was in L.A. but I was living out of a suitcase in NYC since I left Chile. I had produced a full-length radio doc for public radio station WBAI and was also on a speaking tour on behalf of political prisoners in Chile.

After a day speaking at Rutgers, I got a call from the radio station to come back to NY ASAP. The Yom Kippur War had broken out and they were sending a reporter to Israel. Would I want to go Egypt?

Why not?

Mind you, these were the days before FedEx. So I had to take an early morning flight from JFK to LAX just to pick up my passport and some clothes and that same night took a return red-eye flight back to JFK. I got to Manhattan just in time to get a "special visa" from the Egyptian Embassy (who thought WBAI a friendly media source). I got back to the station and slept on the station couch until 6 pm and after packing up a radio recording field kit I headed back out to JFK, hitting that airport for the 3rd time in 24 hrs.

I boarded a night flight to Paris (the Cairo airport was closed and planned to get to Egypt via land through Libya).

I hit Paris at about 6 am (beyond exhausted) and not only did I not speak a word of French, but also couldn't figure out how to use the public phone at the airport terminal where the bus dropped me.  With some help, I got a hold of my pal, the great departed Polish exile writer, Daniel Singer, and he came to pick me up.

This was now early Friday morning and I had a flight booked for Sunday to Tripoli. But on the cusp of the weekend, I only had this one day to pick up my visa for Libya (the Egyptians in NYC gave me a letter requesting it).  After a quick croissant chez Daniel, I hopped in a taxi and in Spanish (the closest I could come to French) and asked to be taken to the Libyan Embassy.

I got there and the doors were closed. It was Friday! A holy day.  I pounded on the oak doors on the street and some guy opened it and yelled at me and slammed it in my face. From there I found the Egyptian Embassy (which was open) and the Ambassador himself called the Libyans who told him to send me back on over. On my second attempt, the Libyans were courteous and gracious and gave me another sort of special visa that, I swear, took up two pages with Arabic handwriting and stamps in my passport.

Back to Daniel's where we shot the breeze for an hour and then I slept for 19 hours.

Sunday morning I boarded a flight from Paris, via Malta, and landed in the Libyan capital of Tripoli. My mission: immediately board a connecting flight to the eastern town of Benghazi and from there rent a taxi to take the 18 hour ride across the Sahara and enter Egypt by land.  This was known as The Benghazi Express.

Problem was, thanks to Col. Khadafy, all foreign languages had been banned for official use including in the international airport. In short, I hadn't a clue how to find my connecting flight as all signage was only in Arabic.

After a half-hour of bumbling around, sweating like a pig in a leather jacket and packing a whole lot of radio stuff, I got into what I thought was the line. Exhausted, stressed and somewhat spooked, I tossed all my stuff on the floor and exhaled out loud, "Shit!"

A portly, well-dressed gentleman -- about 50 years old--standing in front og me immediately turned around and said to me with a thick Arab accent: "You speak English?"

Hell, yes!  I latched onto him and made him my instant friend and to my great relief he was an Egyptian also heading out on the same flight as me to Benghazi and also wanting to rent a taxi to Cairo. Talk about good luck!  He was a wealthy travel agent, just returning from Acapulco. Ibrahim Gazarhim was The Greatest Man on Earth at that moment. And he was clearly ready to adopt me and was even happier that I would split the cost of the taxi across the Sahara to Egypt with him.

A few hours later we were airborne on an Air Libya flight, winging toward Benghazi and accompanied on board for the first and only time in my life with bona fide barnyard animals -- I kid you not. (Pun intended).

We did get off to a bit of a bumpy start, however, in our budding friendship. As I swirled some sort of whiskey he had brought on board ,he asked me the usual stuff you ask a new friend. I lied like hell. Let me be clear that I never found Arabs to be anti-Semitic, even during the coming weeks I spent in Egypt and Lebanon.  But I wasn't taking any chances.

I told him Ibrahim I was of Italian origin (and did not disclose that my mom’s maiden name was a very Jewish Sosnovsky.

"So, do you speak any Arabic?" he asked me.

"Not really," I answered. "You know, just a few words. Like inshalla. And Shalom-aleichem"

"Shalom-aleichem?"He excitedly sputtered. "That's Hebrew! Hebrew! You mean salaam-alechem ,no? Are you a Jew?"

Damn, I immediately remembered I was drawing upon my 1st grade Hebrew tutoring. So I did what most reporters do. I lied some more."Oh, no, no, no. I protested. You know, the Zionist control of the media is so strong in America that I just got confused."

Ibrahim bought that B.S. and I took a deep breath and another swig of booze. As a goat wandered the 737 aisle I closed my eyes and tried to take a nap. Instead, I suddenly wondered to myself if Arabs were circumcised too? Or would I have to be extra careful and modest when I peed?

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By nightfall, we were in Benghazi, having dinner at the ritzy Omar Khayyam Hotel. We would have a coffee, Ibrahim told me, and then he would negotiate ourselves a car. Again, I almost blew the whole thing as, with my coffee, I lit up a Marlboro only to be nearly lynched by the wait staff who reminded me we were in the middle of Ramadan -- and NO smoking, habibi.

By 10 p.m. that night, literally in some dark alley, Ibrahim contracted us a car and a driver. A black Tunisian guest worker would motor us across the Sahara for a nifty fee of $900 in 1973 dollars. Cool.  As long as I just had to sit there and let Ibrahim do the talking, I was ready to ride in the backseat and float.

The driver had to say goodbye to his family and pick up supplies and whatever and at 1 a.m. sharp I was officially on The Benghazi Express headed to the expanse of the Sahara and eventually Cairo.

I gassed with Ibrahim for a couple of hours after we started rolling and then fell into a deep, deep sleep. I was awakened early in the morning when we hit a traffic jam (!) in the middle of the friggin' desert at the Libyan-Egyptian border.  Ibrahim, who had earlier checked out my passport, asked me for it again and ordered the driver to pass the long line of cars in front of us on the sandy shoulder and go to the front of the line. Apparently, the Egyptians had declared me some sort of VIP on my visa and we buzzed right through the border.

I fell back asleep. And was awakened some hours later when Ibrahim started screaming at the top of his lungs at our clearly exhausted driver who had pulled off the side of the road on the outskirts of Alexandria.I didn't understand a word but sort of got the drift when Ibrahim bitch slapped the poor driver. "Fucking nigger!" Ibrahim said to me in English, showing off his own particular knowledge of American culture. "He wants to take a nap!" he said. "I told him to keep going and get us to Cairo right away or I would take him to the police."

Rather stunned, it occurred to me that Egypt had some way to go when it came to basic human rights but that this was not the moment to debate it.

Around 8 p.m. —19 hours after we left Benghazi— we rolled into the driveway of the Cairo Hilton Nile and it felt like paradise. Ibrahim told me he was going home and to come visit him in a few days.

I checked in to the Hilton just as a cease-fire was called. That was good, it would make war reporting a bit easier if the war actually stopped for a bit.  After I filled out the hotel forms, I figured I owed my employers a brief radio report. I figured I could do a short dispatch on the mood in blacked-out Cairo as the cease-fire was called.

As the clerk handed me a room key, I asked for a phone call to be placed to New York so I could file my brief report before having a couple of Singapore Slings and turning in for some much needed sleep.

I turned over the phone number and the hotel clerk said to me. "Would you like the call transferred to your room or here in the lobby, sir?"

"In my room, please," I answered.

"Excellent," said the clerk.  "The call should come in 48 to 72 hours. We will let you know."

"Um, excuse me," I said, feeling my heart race."I'm a journalist. A radio reporter. This is an urgent call."

"Oh, of course," said the clerk. "A press priority call?"

"Yes! Press priority."

"Very well, sir. My pleasure. Press priority call,"said the clerk. "In that case, it will be 24-36 hours. We will notify you."

Just as I was about to panic, I saw a recognizable face staring at me across the lobby. The Dutch radio reporter, Anton Foek, a pal of mine from Chile was smiling and walking toward me! For the second time in two days I was about to saved from my own ignorance by a chance meeting.

Or so I thought.

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Part II -- The Censors & Idi Amin

Kind of a bullshitter

To make a very long story short, Anton told me how to get around the phone problem. Basically, we had to book time on Radio Cairo's satellite system and broadcast our stories from their studios to an IT&T uplink in New York.  Problem was, to get studio time, you had to have an "approved" stamp on your script from government censors.  The censors were up on the second floor of a ratty, steamy, fluorescent and unmarked building. You simply got in a taxi and said "censors" and you got taken there.

Now, these censors were a pretty ineffective crew because as far as I could make out, they didn't speak much or any English and could hardly read it. And anyway, when we got to the studio to broadcast no one really paid much attention to what we said.

Our travel was totally limited in any case and we far from the front lines so we had little of value. That is, until Idi Amin showed up in Cairo and we were hustled to a joint press conference with him and Anwar Sadat.  Idi was a jolly old fellow and full of fun -- and bullshit.  He pledged the support of 5,000 Nigerian soldiers -- who never showed up. But even more fun, he had an "explanation" as to why the Egyptian Army's advance to take back more than small strip of the Sinai Desert had been halted. The Israelis, he revealed, had deployed the use of "battlefield nuclear weapons." Man, this was history! Scoop! Stop press!

Like a scene out an old black-and-white movie, all of us reporters rushed out to report his big scoop of an allegation.  Three times that night I wrote a different script and three times the censor crossed it out. Clearly they had been told to just look for the words "Idi" and "nuclear." No dice.  I tried to transmit the story anyway. but this time the government put some thug in the director's booth and he pulled the plug and wagged his finger if those magic words crossed our lips.

Part III: The Swatztikas, Getting Lost and Getting Strafed.

After some days of being cooped up by our "hosts," not allowed to really leave the Nile Hilton and do an interview unless first approved by the Egyptian army. we journos staged a rebellion and demanded that the government press office take us on a tour of the front. Anyway, there was a cease fire in place so it should be no big deal. 

Great, Meet us at 7:00 a.m. tomorroq and you're on was the answer.

So, about a dozen of us reporters duly gathered at the Hilton at the appointed hour and the Egyptian Army piled us into a caravan of Russian jeeps. We were told that before we went to the front, we would visit a special training camp to see how President Sadat's call to train and arm a massive civilian militia was underway.

Awesome.

Turned out that the special camp was actually inside the very posh Giza Country Club so, like Keystone Kops, our Army escorts drove us through a rolling lawn full of wealthy and lazing  Egyptians sitting in the sun, sipping on drinks and taking naps with their bellies turned toward the sun. In the middle of a war.

When we got to the race track inside the country club, the real dog and pony show was awaiting us.  The army had assembled about 20 teenagers in ragtag olive greens and, using, dummy wooden rifles, were undergoing "training." Two of these kids had inked swatztikas onto their soft combat hats and the Egyptian PR idiots running the show didn't seem to think it made any difference.  Not a great move.

From there it was a bumpy ride to Ismalia, the point where we crossed the Suez Canal and landed on  the west bank of the Sinai, territory freshly captured from the Israelis whose Bar-Lev line fortifications had been over run by the Egyptians in the first hours of the war. The good part is that

The Great Marshall Frady

along the way I made great friends with a reporter who turned out to become sort of my life mentor -- the sorely missed Marshall Frady (in a coming installment I will detail how we spent 57 days together on my honeymoon financed by Playboy magazine.)

Then, two of the most bizarre happenings in my career took place.  A mile or two into the sand dunes of the Sinai, our Army caravan stopped to rest and take some water.  Some guy in a button-down striped shirt who was this or that European bureau chief from the Washington Post looked down at his watch and excitedly said: "Great! It's noon straight up," and taking out a large transistor short wave radio from a knapsack, said: "We can tune into the BBC and hear what's going on at the front."

That's when Marshall became my best friend. With his usual Faulknerian flourish and his deep Baptist baritone, he exclaimed: 'We're at the front you fucking idiot!"

Marshall didn't know just how right he was going to be.

The Egyptian Army piled us back into the jeeps and off we went back into the barren Sinai dunes. Now, most reports were saying that the Egyptians had taken back like a 5-6 mile strip of the Sinai. Though, Cairo was falsely claiming more like 15 or 20 miles. So they thought they would fudge with us and it soon

The scenic Sinai

became clear they were driving us around in some sort of looping circle, to make it seem they had more deeply penetrated into the Sinai.

But things went wrong.  Our driver got pretty agitated and the chatter on the radio among the other drivers got awful nervous sounding. Some Brit riding shotgun with us could understand a bit of Arabic and turned around to Marshall and me and said: "I do think these chaps have gotten lost."

No sooner had he said that, we all screeched to a halt. The drivers piled out and in the middle of the desert and started pointing around, looking at maps and and arguing with each other.  As the debate dragged on, we got hot and cramped in the jeep and along with everyone else we decided to get out and stretch our legs.

We clambered up a few feet to to the top of the dune we were parked on and our eyes settled on a vast valley in front of us. Oh yes, one other detail. There was also a brown line of troops and equipment in the sand about 400 yards in front of us and....a blue and white Israeli flag. The IDF front lines.

We were lost alright. And the Egyptians had driven us right into the cease-fire No Man's Land.

Our escorts figured out the same thing and started motioning and yelling at us to hurry up. "Yella! Yella!"

They grabbed us and pushed us to take cover underneath the jeeps (!) and within seconds an Israeli jet roared toward us, swooped down, and fired a burst of warning shots about 50 meters to our side. I wanted to open my shirt and flash the Mogen David I had left back at home. Either that or die painlessly. Before the Israelis came back for the real thing, the Egyptians packed us all up and tore ass back down the dune and back toward the canal.

All I wanted was to get back alive to one of those chaise lounges at the Giza Country Club.

We, indeed, made it back alive. And, the censors didn't let us report that we had violated the cease fire zone.

Nice.

The next morning, the news wire said Henry K was coming to town to begin shuttle diplomacy.  The airport had re-opened and I thought this was my cue to get out of Cairo. Once you've met Idi Amin who needs Henry Kissinger?

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Part IV: Beirut and Lunch with the Highjackers

Beirut before the deluge.

As Kissinger arrived, I left, taking a Middle East Air flight from Cairo to Beirut to report on the Palestinian side of the issue. It was paradise back then, three years before the devastating civil war. A taste of Paris. I lodged in the sumptuous St Georges Hotel on the seafront in Beirut, intoxicated by the salt, the sun, the sea and the general good life of Lebanon.

I met up there with legendary and now departed American radical activist Paul Jacobs and he handed me over some good contacts with the Palestinians.  God forbid it should be with your run-of-the-mill PLO types. Nope, instead I got hooked up with the radical and Marxist Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, the PLFP, the most radical faction among the Pals.

I made some calls from my hotel and I was told by someone I had no idea whose name was to be in front of my hotel at noon and to describe what I would be wearing. "We will have some lunch," I was told.

So there and hour or so later, in my black leather coat and a brown briefcase that held my recording equipment. And the appointed hour a big black sedan with darked out windows and two polite young Pals, one with curly red hair, ushered me into the back seat.  For my own security, they requested I put on blindfold.

Why certainly?  "We have a nice lunch waiting for you," I was told.

After about 15 mins. we pulled to a stop and still blindfolded I was led down a flight of stairs to a subterranean office.  Once inside, the blinds were removed and a glass of tea was waiting for me, also  a plate

with some creamy hummus,  olives, chicken and pita bread. Very thoughtful.

Sitting across from me, all ready to have his interview taped by me was one Bassam-Abu-Sharif, Beirut rep of the PFLP and later on, first deputy to Yasser Arafat.

Bassam was perfectly pleasant, if a tad uptight. An Israeli letter bomb sent to him a year or two before had exploded in his hands and melted most of his face. He also lost four fingers, went deaf in one ear and and lost sight in one eye. Time magazine in its infinite subtlety dubbed him "The Face of Terror." Behind his right shoulder in the corner stood a 3 foot hight Israeli missile shell with U.S. markings on it. As we munched and lunched and chatted, he never took his hand off of a loaded .45 semi- automatic that sat on his desk. Not a measure taken against me. But just in case someone from the Mossad should try to interrupt us before lunch was consumed.

On the wall behind him was a giant stop action picture of a British airliner that his group had blown up on the ground a few years earlier after highjacking it.  I don't have the photo but do have a pic of the planes before they were popped apart and while they sat in the desert for several weeks.

Boom. And boom.

The whole strange incident is explained here.

The whole interview was pleasant enough, though I did beg off from staying for dessert. Somewhere around here I still have the cassette interview so hopefully I will get around to digitizing and podcasting it.

I was blindfolded on the way and politely motored back to the hotel. Some years later, in the mid-to-late 80's, Bassam's politics moderated quite a bit and he became a chief spokesman for Yasser Arafat and the more moderate Al Fatah.  I spoke to him several times by phone when the PLO was based in Tunisia trying to get Yasser to sit for a Playboy interview. But no dice.

After that interview, I was ready to head back to Paris and drink some fine wine with Daniel Singer, smoke some Gitanes and decompress for a few days in the cafes along St. Germaine. Which is exactly what I did.

But the ghastly image of Abu Sharif's burned and melted face continued to haunt my dreams.

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