The Book of Disappearance

by Ibtisam Azem

  “But Nadeen, if everyone leaves, who will change things? Their situation is not worse than blacks, or Native Americans, in the US. Nevertheless, they try to change things.”

  “Alaa, darling, spare me your naiveté. Native Americans are almost gone and the blacks are still suffering. You know what? You are right. We shouldn’t leave, but I can’t anymore. If you want, you can leave Tel Aviv and go to al-Lid to work with these kids. But, please don’t pontificate, because I’m really tired of slogans.”

  I didn’t want to defend myself or what I do, so I told her that it was a complicated subject and we’ll agree to disagree. She insisted on coming by the next day to take me to Haifa, so I told her we’d resume our argument then.

  I spent most of last week at my parents’ house. Mother is not doing so well. She’s sick. The doctor says she’s depressed. She says that she’s just sick and the doctor is an idiot. I felt that she needed me to be by her side. But let me tell you how we escaped death yesterday.

  Nadeen came in her old Volkswagen Golf. My mother frowned upon my going out with her. She thought that she had designs on me, especially since she was a divorcée. I tried to explain to my mother that I saw her by accident and neither of us was interested in a relationship. We were like siblings. But mother didn’t get it.

  I am going on and on. When I write in this red notebook I feel that you are here, sitting and listening to me. It is still difficult for me to call your departure “death.” This word carries the sense of eternal loss. Anyway, we left Jaffa and were heading to Haifa. We didn’t take the express highway, because Nadeen wanted to stop by Tel Aviv University to drop off books to a friend of hers there. It’s never a straightforward trip with her. We always end up making unplanned stops to buy something, or see someone. We sat at the cafeteria to have a coffee about an hour after we’d left Jaffa. Mother called, but I didn’t answer. She kept calling. I got worried so I answered. Her voice was shaky. She said that a suicide bomber had detonated his car at the Beit Lid intersection. Had we gone directly to Haifa we would’ve been at the intersection around the time of the bombing. Were it not for Nadeen’s random decisions, our lives, or deaths, would have intersected with that man’s. They said on the news that he was a father of five from the Galilee.

  It seems that I have dodged death more than once. Do you remember the year I had to live part of the time in Jerusalem for work? There were many suicide operations. Cell phones were not widely used back then. I didn’t have one. But I would know that I had escaped death when the landline kept ringing in the early morning. I would hear my mother’s terrified voice when I picked up. She used to call to make sure I was still asleep. I always missed the early morning bus and death would miss me. I hated working as a cameraman those days. Having to hear the chants of “Mavat la‘Aravim!” (Death to Arabs!). The jarring sound of that chant still resounds in my head. Sometimes I would be looking into the mirror and I would sarcastically repeat these chants. As if trying to drive away the fear that nests in my memory.

  I was never that close to death. Maybe when we are born in such a place, on a cradle of disasters, we always search for riveting stories about surviving life and death. Because “normal” stories don’t resemble us. We no longer see ourselves in our stories—the ones in which we tend to our boredom. So we search for ourselves elsewhere, so we may resemble our images in news stories and novels. Why did I just switch to writing in the plural? Everything around me is fragmented.

  Tata, I miss you . . . a lot!

  Ariel turned the page and felt uncomfortable that Alaa was not honest with him the previous night. He didn’t say that he was tired or bored. Why did he lie and say that he had to go to work today? It was the last page. Ariel looked at his watch and realized he had to go back to his apartment and write his article.

  He understood now why Alaa always talked about his grandmother and rarely mentioned his mother. But why did he lie? Their conversation the night before was normal. They didn’t talk about politics. Was it just Alaa’s need for solitude? Ariel felt a lump in his throat. He closed the red notebook and kept it in his lap. He turned on the lamp to his right. The veiled person’s eyes in the painting on the wall across from him glistened as they gazed at him. It was strange, he thought, that a painting could unsettle him. He grabbed the red notebook and got up to go to his apartment.

  He left the light on.

  18

  Ariel

  He felt sluggish climbing the ten steps separating the two apartments. A breeze from the balcony door he’d left open caressed his face as soon as he entered. He went to the kitchen to make coffee.

  He sat before the small brown round Italian table. He lifted the white cup, bringing it close to his nose to draw in the coffee’s aroma. He opened a new document on his laptop and typed his name, the city, and the date.

  The cursor kept blinking. He moved the chair closer to the table and tried to sit properly. The doctor had advised him to do that after suffering severe back pain. He pulled the drawer and took out the special towelette to clean the screen. He will postpone listening to music until later. He needs to focus now. He took a deep breath. The cursor is still blinking.

  It’s best to start with the title. That makes it easier. He typed “Where did they go?” but he deleted it right away. It’s not appropriate for a newspaper article, not the one he wrote for. The editors liked his column. It had a sizable readership and generated debate at times. The newspaper he wrote for was midrange. It had only three offices outside the US: in Tel Aviv, Brussels, and Hong Kong. But it was well known, and he was its sole correspondent in the country. His office was tiny and dim, so he preferred to work at his apartment sometimes.

  He left the title, the blank page, and the chair to light his first cigarette of the day. He doesn’t smoke a lot; three cigarettes per day, if any. He went out to the balcony and stood there watching pedestrians and buses. The latter seemed to have calibrated arrival and departure times better than earlier that day.

  He saw a woman pacing back and forth inside the bus stop. She appeared tense and kept looking at her watch. The glass had been broken for more than a month now, but the municipality had yet to fix it. One of the four plastic seats was broken as well. He felt as if the atmosphere around her was growing tense as well. Why does she keep looking at her watch? It will not hasten the arrival of the bus. He, too, looked at his watch. It was two thirty in the afternoon.

  Waiting. Yes! That’s the best way to begin his column. Now he has a beginning. He finished his cigarette in a hurry and went back inside.

  19

  Ariel

  Tel Aviv—Ariel Levy

  Waiting reigns in Tel Aviv as it faces the most dangerous challenge since independence. The city’s streets are full of waiting and anticipation. The question on everyone’s mind is: What is happening? And perhaps the other most important question is: Who knows what is happening?

  The government spokesman, Yair Kanun, has held two press conferences so far. The first was at eleven this morning, followed by a second one two hours later. There was nothing new in either. He didn’t add to what the media had reported since the morning. It seems that the objective of the press conferences was psychological rather than to provide any information about what is taking place. As if Kanun wanted to reassure Israelis, and the rest of the world, that we are still fine and alive, and that the Israeli government and security forces are in control. The second press conference was attended by Yigal Goldman, the official spokesperson of the IDF. Both men stressed several points.

  The first was an internal message of reassurance for Israelis. The second was a message to our allies abroad to say that all is under control. The third was to enemy states that are watching. The overarching message was that “our people are fine.”

  It reminds me of the song that was broadcast on state TV in 1991, after Saddam Hussein fired Scud missiles on Tel Aviv and its environs. After the news, they played Ofra Haza’s “Alive.”

  The so
ng had reached second place in the Eurovision contest in Germany in 1983.

  But beyond songs, tactics, and soon-to-be-forgotten press statements, what do we actually know so far? There is no trace of Palestinians in the country. This sentence has been repeated like a broken record since this morning. Is this conceivable? Can we believe that the Palestinians disappeared? Without a drop of blood? What about Palestinians in the diaspora and in the camps? The news indicates that they are still there, but does this mean they will start crawling toward us?

  Is the government and the IDF responsible for their disappearance? If the army is involved, can we imagine that such a bold step would have been taken without the knowledge of the American administration? I don’t think this speculation holds any water. I don’t think the Palestinians have been annihilated. These are accusations leveled by some organizations, Arab governments, and Palestinian factions abroad. The goal seems to be to calm their constituencies. Moreover, pointing fingers at Israelis and holding them responsible for whatever ill befalls Palestinians is something to which Israelis are accustomed. This doesn’t mean that the government or security forces were not aware of what was being planned. But it is highly unlikely that they were involved in planning it. We are at the outset of our search and one might find a trace. Accusations and questions fly and there are yet to be any clear answers.

  Perhaps the Palestinians have disappeared, and that’s all there is to it. A listener called a radio station this morning to express his anger at the attention this event is getting. He called on everyone to go out to the street to celebrate “that this problem disappeared on its own. It is a divine miracle.” Only a few crazed extremists responded to his call. The rest of the Israelis are in a state of anticipation.

  At any rate, the great majority of Israelis are not that interested in the daily lives of Palestinians. Israelis want peace of mind, but they also want security, and that is their chief concern. This is quite understandable if we consider the racism, persecution, and killing this people have suffered, and the wars this relatively young nation has had to fight. All this doesn’t mean that the majority will be satisfied if the IDF, or state institutions, committed an unethical act against the Palestinians.

  Another theory holds the other side, i.e., Palestinians, or perhaps Arabs, responsible for the disappearance. It assumes that the Palestinians have started a general strike. But the problem in this theory is that the strike was not announced beforehand, as is customary. Moreover, there are usually protests and statements declaring the strike’s demands. None of this happened. More importantly, in taking part in a strike, even if not going to work or going outside to public places, one still has to be somewhere. And Palestinians are neither at home, nor anywhere else. The police and IDF have raided houses in many neighborhoods and have not found a single Palestinian in the country as of now.

  The search continues in full swing in the Galilee forests, Jerusalem, and Judea and Samaria. In addition to the reconnaissance missions of the air force, police and army units are conducting a comprehensive sweep of every inch in Israel. So the various scenarios about the disappearance of the Palestinians have yet to offer a fruitful, or even logical, answer.

  A source in the army (who spoke on condition of anonymity) said, “It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that the forty-eight hours following the first mass disappearance of Arabs will determine the direction the state will take and its steps in the future.”

  So, let us wait out the remaining thirty hours to see what they may bring. Waiting is hellish, but it is the only option.

  Ariel read his article twice. He revised some sentences and changed the word order here and there. Then he logged into his e-mail and wrote a short message to Matthew:

  Dear Matthew,

  Here is the article. I’ll send another one as soon as I have any new information. I will try to interview some representatives from the army and government. I’m still waiting for confirmation from their press offices. Will let you know later. Let me know if you have any comments on the piece.

  More soon

  Ariel

  He turned up the volume on his radio so as not to miss any breaking news. He made sure that his ringer and breaking news notifications on his cell were both loud enough. He felt the urge to read Alaa’s notebook.

  20

  Alaa

  Has my heart become numb? What does it mean that someone’s heart becomes numb? How? Does it become numb when one stops posing questions? Maybe my heart has withered? Have their hearts withered? How could we walk the same path, and look at the same sea, yet see something completely different?

  I look at my old photographs to see the person I was twenty years ago. I recognize myself and see that my photographs resemble me. But I don’t see myself. The older I get, the more I look more like my father. He has aged a lot this past year. I must tell you something important. He is going to stop working as a surgeon. How shall I say it? He is still working, but his illness exhausts him. His eyesight is very weak and there is no remedy. The doctor told him that he will be completely blind in two to three years. He’s changed a lot. You know how he doesn’t like to rely on anyone. He stays silent a lot. Yes, it’s not that he speaks so little. He stays silent. He resembles a cactus. A cactus with no fruit, just full of thorns.

  I don’t know him well. I told you once that I grew up like an orphan. You were very upset when I said that. But my father was always busy with work. Do you know that most of my memories with him are beautiful, because I didn’t know him that well? He was rarely at home. Shuttling from one surgery to the next. I thought he was a butcher. How else could I explain his obsession with surgeries? My mother, on the other hand, was busy with everything in the house and around it: people, neighbors, and even dust.

  Yesterday marked twenty days since they bombed Gaza. That’s what I initially wanted to say, but didn’t want to start with it. They were pulling corpses out of the rubble as if they were dolls. They pull, but the corpses refuse to come out of the debris. They were covered with dust and blood. I had a strong urge to go and wipe the dust off myself. Maybe because I wanted to see the faces clearly. I say “bombed Gaza” and not “declared war on it,” because “war” sounds lighter. “War” was a big word when I was young. But I grew bigger and it grew smaller. There are so many wars around us we’ve gotten used to them. I never experienced bombing and that’s why it always seemed severe and hard. There is an absurd repetition in bombing. When we were kids we used to play “War Started in . . .” We used to draw a circle and divide it according to the number of players. We gave each part the name of a country. We would often choose names like Lebanon, Palestine, Iraq, and Egypt. No one ever chose Saudi Arabia or Morocco. One of us would then hold a branch and say, “The war started in . . . Lebanon,” and then throw the branch away from the person who chose the name of that country, and that person would have to catch the others. I hated that game. Not because it involved war, but because I never liked running after someone and catching them. Did you use to play it too? I don’t remember that someone taught me how to play it, or any other game. As if these games grew up with me. What types of games did you play when you were a kid? I don’t remember you telling us much about your childhood. Except a few sentences in passing. How come I never realized that before? Weren’t you a child once? You were a youth, a young woman, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, and a seamstress. But you were never a child.

  Forget about games and childhood, and let’s go back to bombing. As I mentioned, they bombed Gaza. They bombed them with airplanes and bombs, and what else? My heart is numb. Maybe my heart has withered and the hearts of those they bombed have become numb. I looked for you yesterday. I went out to the streets, the sea, and to that spot where I found you. I stood there for a while, hoping that something would pass by indicating that there is life after death. But you weren’t there. How can I say what I want to say to you? Father. He is gone as well. Yes. He left three days ago. My mother called me in the morning
crying. “You have to come. Your father is very sick.”

  I took a taxi and went home. Dr. Abed, the one you called a chatterbox, was there. Baba is gone, Tata. He died before I got to know him well.

  The truth is he committed suicide. But we didn’t tell anyone, because suicide is shameful. We didn’t tell anyone. His death seemed normal after all these days of bombing Gaza.

  I looked for you and didn’t find you. I wanted to tell you that they bombed Gaza and that Baba committed suicide.

  I went toward the al-Bahr Mosque and couldn’t find you. I didn’t find you.

  Baba committed suicide and they bombed Gaza for the twentieth day.

  Baba’s suicide was trivial after all these days of them bombing Gaza.

  21

  Alaa

  The houses on Rothschild Street, where I live, line up like a column of soldiers. Since I was born, Tel Aviv’s houses have been washed up in the city’s whiteness, or vice versa. There are things that are born all at once. A building is memory. Cities and places without old buildings have no memory. Maybe I say this because I am from an old city. Bedouins will see memory in other places. What matters is that I am the son of an ill-fated city. Jaffa is my ill-fated city. But what about cities that are born all at once? Are there such cities?

  Tel Aviv is full of Bauhaus architecture. Its memory is buildings and houses washed in whiteness. Memory is a choice. Memory is gray. That’s what Ariel says when we discuss this subject. Lies, I say. There is no gray memory. There are flashes that come in one burst and are as clear as a sword’s blade. Either black or white. There is no gray in between. But white and black come in shades. Gray is what is confusing, and we confuse what we want to confuse. Didn’t I say, time and again, that there is a fissure in my memory? Your memory, which inhabits mine, has a fissure. The fissure doesn’t mean obscurity. The fissure is pain.