The Shahid's Widow

by Danny Bar

  “Did they give you any details about the attack itself?” asked Amos.

  “No, all they said was that the Zionists had never seen an attack of such a scale and that Jamil was the one who would carry it out, the one who was responsible for the attack in Tel Aviv.”

  “Did they tell you Amar’s full name?”

  “No. Maybe it’s just a codename,” said Sniper, “but I’ll check it out with him.”

  “I’m counting on you. Yalla, ya habibi, get going!”

  At the appointed time, Sniper knocked on the door of Amar’s safe house and called out his name.

  The door opened a crack.

  “Who wants to see him?” a suspicious voice was heard from the other end.

  “The Sheikh had sent me to you,” said Sniper firmly and pushed his way inside.

  “Who are you?” the other man insisted and tried to block his way.

  “Open up quickly, before the whole neighborhood comes out.”

  “What’s the password?” Amar insisted.

  Sniper quickly looked both ways, then whispered the password.

  Only then did Amar open the door to admit him. “I’m sorry, they told me to be careful, because everyone is a spy for those damned Jews nowadays.”

  “And that is what you think of me?” Sniper scolded him.

  “No, of course not,” Amar panicked.

  “From now on, I’m the only one you get instructions from. Understand? Don’t trust anyone. Nowadays, you can’t even trust your own blood, not even your brothers… Allah curse those Zionists for bringing such troubles upon our heads!”

  Amar looked at him like a reprimanded student.

  “We still have a lot of work to do. I see that you are still just a young foal; I’ll need to teach you everything so you’ll be ready for the operation.”

  “I am under your guidance,” Amar told him naively.

  “Bravo! Let’s have some tea, it was a long drive here,” Sniper smiled at him and sat in the only chair in the room. Amar went to the corner and placed the sooty kettle on a small stove.

  “You’re not from around here!” said “Sniper.”

  “How do you know?”

  “By your accent.”

  “Right, I come from the Shati refugee camp in Gaza.”

  “And do you have a family there?”

  “Yes, I come from the al Shitawi family, everyone knows it, we are three brothers.”

  “That’s it?” Sniper teased him.

  “Yes, but I also have seven sisters.”

  “You look like a student.”

  Amar laughed, “Who can possibly sit down and study with everything that’s happening around us?”

  “So what is it that you do?”

  “I work with my father. He’s a fisherman, but the Israelis forbid us to get far from the shore, so we won’t smuggle weapons via the sea; that’s it, no way to make a living since then.”

  “The day will come, insha’allah, when we will remove their burden from over our necks.”

  “I will not live to see that day,” said Amar sadly.

  “Why did you ever think of doing an esteshhad?”

  “Our house is small, there’s no room to put down your head and think. It felt like I was in prison. The only place in which I could find some peace was the mosque. I began to go to and pray every day. The Imam saw that I was always on my own and asked me to stay after the prayer. Once all the congregants went home, he took me to a back room and started talking to me about our duty as Muslims to fight the Jews. At the end of the meeting, he offered that I perform esteshhad.”

  “And you agreed?” asked Sniper

  “No. I didn’t. I told him that I had to help my father provide for the family.”

  “So what happened, why are you here?” Sniper was curious to learn.

  “The Imam wouldn’t give up. In the beginning, he spoke of how sweet a fate I will have in heaven after my death, and even spoke of the virgins waiting for me there. But I did not care about that, all I cared about was my family.”

  “You are a good kid,” Sniper told him fondly.

  Amar smiled sadly, “But then the Imam promised that my family would gain everyone’s respect after I die, and be awarded with lots of money. I immediately agreed.”

  “And you are not afraid to die?”

  “A wet man does not fear the rain. I am afraid of nothing, not even death,” said Amar and looked at Sniper with his child’s eyes, “Allah is the only one who decides a man’s destiny, whatever was written for him shall come to pass. We control nothing.”

  “You are right, but if it were up to me, your only chance of becoming a Shahid was if you drowned yourself in the sea of Gaza,” Sniper laughed and clapped Amar’s shoulder. He pitied the youth. In his heart, he cursed the Imam for taking an innocent soul and sending it to its death.

  “Yalla, we have to get going,” said Sniper and stood.

  “What about the tea?” asked Amar, still holding the kettle in his hand.

  “Some other time, it’s getting late.”

  “All right,” said Amar disappointedly. He placed the kettle back on the stove and turned towards the door.

  “No, wait. I’ll leave first. Wait five minutes and come after me.”

  Amar nodded. Then he lingered a while, gathered his few belongings and left to meet Sniper, who waited for him inside an old car parked on the main street.

  It was a short ride, at the end of which Amar found himself on a hill overlooking the entire area. At the top of the hill was the grave of a Sheikh – a small stone structure capped by a round dome. The two got out of the car and walked towards a small cave, so small, in fact, that Amar had noticed it only when they were standing beside the entrance.

  “Here,” Sniper pointed at the place, “you have food and water, and you mustn’t leave the place. I will come here to meet you. If you see people, get inside. Careful, ya Amar, you mustn’t be seen by anyone.”

  Amar embraced Sniper then accompanied him to his car. Once its lights had vanished beyond the wadi, he felt loneliness and fear overtaking him. This was not how had imagined the promised esteshhad. In his mind’s eye, he saw people eager to serve him in his last days and doing his every bidding, for he was fulfilling God’s will as his messenger in the Jihad, the holy war against the Jews. Instead, he found himself in a damp and cold cave, probably used by shepherds as a shelter from the rain.

  Amar huddled in the corner of the cave, covered himself with a wool blanket Sniper had left him, tried to fall asleep but couldn’t. Each time tiredness had overtaken him, the howling of jackals roaming nearby woke him up with a start. Finally, he decided to stay awake and wait for daylight to redeem him from the night’s suffering.

  12

  As was her habit during the past few days, Yasmina left the factory gates and headed for the butcher shop. She had not noticed the person standing in front of her until he blocked her way with his body. His sneakers were familiar, she smiled and raised her eyes until they fell on the golden bristles of his beard.

  “Sabah al Yasmin”, a morning full of jasmine,” he greeted her with a smile, “I just happened to be in the area,” he gracefully lied, and she didn’t care at all.

  “How are you?” Yasmina asked while nervously looking sideways.

  “Praise be to Allah, where are you going?” he asked her.

  “To buy pills for Issam’s father,” now it was her turn to lie.

  “Where is the pharmacy?”

  “Just here, to the right.”

  “I’ll wait for you.

  “No, no. I have to go back to the factory in half an hour,” she tried to evade him.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get there on time,” he promised and tried to start walking with her to the pharmacy.

  “No,” she recoi
led, “wait for me here,” she told him and quickly took off.

  He went back to the car and waited for her until she emerged from the pharmacy, shielding the bag with her body. He opened the door, inviting her in.

  “Where to?” she asked while sitting beside him.

  “Let’s go and have some cold almond milk.”

  “When I was little, my father used to take me to the market and buy almond milk for me,” she told him with excitement, “I can still feel its taste on my lips.”

  Yasmina had managed to drink just a small sip when Khalil snatched the glass from her hand and placed it on his lips, “And now the taste of your lips is on mine,” he laughed and returned the glass to her.

  “Shame on you,” she said with relish.

  The conversation flowed, half an hour quickly passed, and it seemed as if the two were not in any hurry to end it.

  “I will come again tomorrow,” he told her when he parked his car not far from the factory.

  “All right. I will tell my friends that I am going to Hebron to buy some clothes.”

  Before she got out, Khalil gently touched Yasmina’s hand.

  A flush rose to her cheeks, “Khalil!” she gracefully scolded him and exited the vehicle.

  “Yasmina,” he cried out with a whisper and drove off with a smile on his face.

  The pleasant feeling that accompanied her while walking down the narrow path leading to her house quickly transformed into one of melancholy once she remembered Jamil. No one was home and she hurried to get into bed before he would arrive. Occasionally, she woke up in a fright and glanced at her wristwatch. Late at night, the sound of a howling dog put an end to her hopes. The knocking on the door that followed left no room for doubt. This time, she hurried to turn off the light in the yard and admit him inside before Issam’s parents would notice.

  “Did anyone look for me?” he asked her roughly.

  “Who else knows that you’re here?” she wondered.

  “Ayed knows. He needs to send me a newspaper.”

  “Listen, this whole business with Ayed is starting to be dangerous. People will start asking questions.” she said dryly, but Jamil ignored her words.

  “The pistol, I will leave it here inside the empty water jug in the yard and take the Kalashnikov. I won’t be back in the next two days, there are things I need to attend to.”

  Just go! Go and don’t ever come back, she prayed in her heart, but knew that her joy at his departure was too early. A sharp pain began to crawl down her stomach. She decided to stay awake until morning, then she would rise and get ready for work. The darkness that blanketed the house and Jamil’s silence turned her decision into an impossibility, and Jamil realized that. He lay on the mattress, smoking one cigarette after another, as if he had all the time in the world, and waited. He watched Yasmina struggling to stay awake and knew that she would not be able to do so. Like a predator, he patiently lay in waiting until tiredness had gotten the better of her and Yasmina closed her eyes.

  It was only then that he rose, put out his cigarette and took off his clothes.

  As if from a bad dream, Yasmina felt his naked body on hers. She lay down unmoving, as frozen as a statue, as he kissed her neck and sunk his lips in it. Yasmina bit her own lips until they turned bloody, a barrier to stop her cries of pain and humiliation. Jamil rolled up her dress, spread her legs by force and tried to penetrate her. The still body lying beneath him had merely served to inflame his passion. He turned her on her stomach and tried to penetrate her unmoving body again, raged and cursed, but remained unsuccessful. His body repeatedly slapped against her back, until a shiver passed through it and he suddenly stopped. Yasmina knew that he had climaxed. It was only then that she opened her eyes and hurried to the water jug in the yard. The smell of his body clung to hers and made Yasmina nauseous. With quick, strong movements, she scrubbed her body with a rough loofah sponge and did not stop until her entire body reddened and stung. Then she washed it with the cold water. She remained seated in the yard, wrapped in nothing but a towel. Her breath was short and quick, her body trembled uncontrollably.

  Then she suddenly hurled the scrubbing sponge at the wall, cursing Jamil’s mother. Tears finally came and washed her cheeks.

  Just before dawn, Jamil woke up and sat down to write:

  “Peace be upon you and Allah’s mercy and blessings,

  I am going to kill Abu Ghazall and permanently remove him from our way.

  I am in urgent need of four grenades and two Kalashnikov rifles.

  Please place them for me in the usual dead letter box and inform me once they are in place.

  Brother Shafiq.”

  After leaving the letter in Yasmina’s hands, he quickly left the house, continued to the fields, crossed the wadi and disappeared into the mountains.

  In the morning, Yasmina was unable to hide her suffering from her factory coworkers. Her eyes, red and puffy from crying, the paleness of her face, her aching, hunched body. They all easily noticed it.

  Their attempts to draw her out and make her talk had all proven unsuccessful; she withdrew into herself and did not even sit with them to eat the breakfast they had brought in their bags.

  Impatiently, she waited for four o’clock to come. As soon as The Magic Flute arrived, she rushed inside his car.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Bethlehem.”

  “I haven’t eaten anything since morning,” she apologized.

  “Then let’s go to a restaurant,” he suggested.

  “But people will talk…” she began to protest and he hurried to hush her: “People from your village don’t go to such places, Yasmina. They are farmers, they save what little money they have to buy another sack of rice or a tin of olive oil.”

  The Magic Flute stopped next to Johnny the Christian’s restaurant on the main road leading to the Church of the Nativity and parked his vehicle. When they stood outside the car, he softly placed his hand on her shoulder and led her inside. Johnny, the chef, welcomed them. His mustache curled at the edges just like Hercule Poirot’s. They sat down and Khalil ordered the restaurant’s famous kebab patties, renown among Arab cuisine enthusiasts throughout the area.

  Johnny took a piece of lamb, mixed it with pine nuts and parsley and right before Yasmina’s baffled eyes turned it into a sort of paste. He did the same with the tomato, onion and parsley that momentarily rested whole on the cutting board, then transformed them into a salad the likes of which Yasmina had never eaten.

  “It’s even better than the salad my father used to prepare in the summer from the tomatoes he’d grown in the yard,” she whispered into Khalil’s ear.

  Khalil enjoyed Yasmina’s compliment as if he was the one who had prepared the salad with his own hands.

  “To the last time I was in Bethlehem was many years ago, on a school trip,” Yasmina laughed embarrassedly.

  “You can consider yourself lucky. I know women in my village who’ve never even left it.”

  “Never?” she marveled.

  “Imprisoned in their own homes,” he told her sadly.

  “A bitter destiny that I don’t intend to share,” Yasmina said angrily.

  Khalil gave her a long look and said nothing. After a long silence, he ordered the check.

  On the way back to the car, Khalil sent his hand and grabbed Yasmina’s.

  “Ya Khalil… people will talk…” she snatched her hand in panic and drew away. Close to the Church of the Nativity, they stopped to buy a knafeh pastry with rosewater and drink a glass of mint lemonade.

  After dropping her off in a dark corner next to her house, he lingered before calling his handler, struggling to translate the emotions that flooded him into a dry intelligence report.

  Abu Ghazall will wait, he thought. After all, he was the one who “stirred the pot,” Khalil laughed and postponed
the telephone call for the morning.

  “Well…?” Abu Ghazall asked him impatiently and The Magic Flute gave him a brief summary of the meeting, trying to hide his excitement, and said that they had scheduled to meet on the following day.

  Abu Ghazall seemed pleased to hear that, “Don’t be hasty. These things ripen best like grapes in a vineyard. Let them take in the cold, drink their fill of water and then their time will come. They are not to be rushed.”

  The sun began to slowly climb over the tops of the Moab Mountains beyond the Jordan River and its first rays found Amar sitting on a hill in Ras al Hawa. At night, he slept a fitful sleep, his nerves completely frayed. In the morning, he happily left the cave and stretched his legs a bit by taking a brief walk to the Sheikh’s domed grave and back. Only the sound of a cough coming from the bottom of the wadi chased him back into the cave.

  “Amar!”

  “Sabah el kheir,” Amar welcomed Sniper heartily.

  “Good morning, replied Sniper and placed a bag on the ground. He spread a towel on the floor and placed on it some pita bread, green onions and “La vache qui rit” triangles, the most popular cheese in the West Bank. Then he sat on a stone and looked at Amar while the latter ate. Poor child, he thought to himself, another sucker falling for the clerics’ false promises. He won’t even know they were false when the time comes. Sniper was suddenly filled with rage and hurled the water bottle on the ground.

  Amar was startled and lunged from his place, “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing, everything’s all right,” Sniper calmed him.

  “There, I’m finished,” said Amar and wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Today we will learn to shoot,” Sniper told him and took out a 9 mm from his bag.

  Amar’s eyes brightened. He took the pistol from “”Sniper’s hands and felt it with the tips of his fingers.

  “From now on, it will be attached to you like a woman,” said “Sniper.”

  “A woman?” Amar laughed embarrassedly, “I’ve never been with a woman.”

  “And would you like to be?” Sniper glanced at him.