“Nobody knows when the blitz will be?”
“Allah Karim, Abu Abdel Hafiz! Only the Transitional Council knows. At least I hope somebody knows when this wretched offensive will be!”
I knew Hamid’s outburst wasn’t directed at me. His boy was stationed at Ajdabiya with a group of insurgents, and he would take part in the fight for Brega once the offensive began. Brega was a meat grinder. In a civil war with no end in sight, it had already changed hands four times.
We puffed our cigarettes in silence. I fixed my gaze on Hamid’s face. It was wrinkled with worry. He was just fifty, but he appeared much older when the thought of his son crossed his mind. Then the wrinkles creased deeper across his face: out of worry for their boys, fathers all over Libya were aging like this. Before the uprising, Hamid had been a doctor, but with his good English, he became a driver to foreign journalists during the conflict, along with serving on the Transitional Council. We had met in Benghazi, quite by accident, after the rocket bombardments.
“I apologize that I can’t take you directly to Tobruk, Abu Abdel Hafiz,” he said, regaining his composure. He had been calling me Abu Abdel Hafiz since I told him that I had named my son Hafiz. We had been sitting in his car when Gaddafi’s sharpshooters began to fire on us in Ajdabiya, and it was then that we became friends. People bond easier in war. Nobody wants to die next to a stranger.
“As long as you take me, no problem. I’m not rushing anywhere. And don’t worry about your boy. It will be alright.”
“Inshallah. But if he dies, it will be for a just cause. God loves his martyrs.”
“But you don’t want him to die, do you?”
“Of course not. I am his father. But God’s ways are unfathomable. If God wills it, he will die as a martyr, and of course I also fear this.”
We turned off the paved road. The earth was red and damp, and the sun was so blindingly bright we could hardly see the ruins of Cyrene. The sunshine spilled from the hills and onto the ancient statues, columns, and ruined stone houses.
“We are going to Shahat, it’s close now,” said Hamid. “You can see a shahid burial.”
“One of your relatives?”
“No. They asked me to make an entrance in the register of the dead before the burial. I am a doctor, so it is something I can do.”
“Where are the doctors of the town?”
“At the front, like all the other men. Just the old and wounded stayed behind.”
“Why do you need a registry of the dead?”
“Because if we prevail, the new government will remember the martyrs of the revolution. Having the paperwork will help.”
At the checkpoint where the street began, the guards recognized Hamid’s car and waved us on. We drove between the whitewashed houses and pulled up in front of a two-story house. In the yard stood a tent made of dark linen. From speakers rose the sound of devotional music. In front of the tent stood an older, gray-haired man. Next to him was a young man of perhaps twenty.
“Let’s go and congratulate the father,” said Hamid, killing the ignition.
“Won’t I be disturbing him?”
“Of course not! You are bringing the news of his son to the world.”
The tent was almost full with people sitting on plastic chairs. A picture was positioned in the front: a portrait of the martyr, I guessed, though I couldn’t make it out so well. Two men stepped up to the tent before us, but before they went in, each clasped the old man’s hand and said, “Congratulations on your son.”
“Ahmed Bakush, your son is already with the angels,” said Hamid in Arabic, when we made it to the tent.
“Alhamdulillah,” answered the old man. “It is a great honor for us.”
He held his hand out to me. “You must be the journalist. Ahlen.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking his hand and shaking it, then involuntarily offering my hand to the young man as well.
“Khalid Bakush,” said the boy. He stood there looking downcast, his eyes red with sleeplessness. He had short black hair, his skin was light brown, and his eyes were also brown. He was striking, most certainly well liked among the local women.
“You can be proud of your brother, Khalid. Pray that God grants you as much courage as he had,” said Hamid, turning to the boy.
“Yes, I am proud,” came the choked response as the boy hung his head.
“Where is the Shahid?” asked Hamid.
“Inside. Hurry, we are waiting for you to begin the burial,” said the older man.
“Okay, but we can’t stay for the ceremony. We have to get back to Tobruk and find a car to Salloum.”
More pallbearers arrived. Hamid went back to the car and retrieved his attaché case from the trunk.
“Can I go in with you?” I asked as we made our way to the house.
“Come, if you want.”
Hamid knocked loudly to signal we were entering and that the women should clear out. The inside of the house was set in gloom, the shades drawn tight. A tile stairway led to the upper level. After a search in the darkness, Hamid found the lamp.
It was a sparsely furnished room, with three mattresses centered on a Persian carpet. The boy was laid out on one of them. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, his body torn and bloodied in fatigues that looked gritted over with sand. His skin was gray, as if he had been dead for days. His eyes were closed. I stood speechless at the door. The boy was a spitting image of the one whom I had met outside the tent.
“You didn’t mention they were twins.”
“Indeed, they are. Muhammad was older by just a few minutes. Both are nineteen. Now please give me a hand.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Undress him and examine the wounds.”
Hamid stepped up to the corpse, knelt beside it on the rug, and began to unbutton his fatigues. The boy’s face was dirty, and his skin and hair were encrusted with sand.
“Don’t think the parents are barbarians because they didn’t wash or change their martyr’s clothing,” said Hamid. He finally finished unbuttoning the jacket, the material coming unstuck from the wounds with a smacking sound. The ripe stench of congealed blood wafted across the room. The boy’s chest was bullet-pocked and smeared with blood.
“In accordance with the Hadith, the shahid gets buried in the same place and in the same clothing in which his life was taken,” he said. With clinical eyes he looked over the boy’s chest. He opened his attaché case and withdrew a form and a fountain pen. He touched the tip of the pen to one of the bullet wounds. I counted three small red craters, each capped with blood.
“Yes, it’s a 7.62 size round,” said Hamid.
“How do you know?”
“The tip of my pen is the same size as a 7.62 round. This is the entrance wound. If you compare it to the pen, you can establish what kind of bullet it was. If the wound is smaller than the pen, then a 9 mm shot was used, something like a pistol or machine gun. If bigger, then a 50 was used. It must be said that if you find a 50, you won’t have to measure it, because the body will be ripped apart. A 50 really tears apart the body. I do it this way because in Islam, it is a sin to cut up a martyr. The pen method is the only way we can establish just how he met his end.”
He began to fill out the form.
“The paper concerning his internal organs, I won’t bother with,” he said.
“Do you know how it happened?” I asked.
“Three days earlier there was a tank attack by Gaddafi’s men in Brega. Muhammad and his group took to a ditch while the tanks advanced toward the city. According to Khalid’s account, they lay petrified in the ditch because the tank had spotted them and began to fire. Nobody made a move except for Muhammad. It is obvious that between the two brothers, he was the more courageous. Now help me turn him over, please.”
We stood, lifted the corpse, and turned him on to his stomach. The body was stiff. The shirt was just tatters on his back; the rounds had torn his skin to shreds where the bullet had e
xited. Hamid began to write again.
“And?”
“Well, the wounds definitely show that Muhammad fought like a true mujahid. They only had one RPG; he jumped up and shot it at the tank, taking out its wheels. The tank returned fire, of course, but by then the others had already retreated.”
“He might have lived if he had been wearing a vest.”
“The mujahideen don’t wear them.”
“Why not?”
“It slows them down.”
“That’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid. A bulletproof vest weighs thirty pounds. Plus, every mujahideen hopes to be taken by God.”
“And because of this they are willing to do stupid things?”
“No. Just willing to make sacrifices.”
“Why?”
“Because the Prophet, peace be upon him, taught us that he who makes a sacrifice for the just cause and loses his life will go immediately to Paradise.”
“Were both brothers mujahideen?”
“Yes. They both asked their father to allow them to follow the call of the Jihad. Muhammad was the more fortunate. He is already with God. Khalid brought the body home. He didn’t stop at the Ajdabiya front, but came straight here.”
“But you said before that he should be buried where he fell.”
“Yes, but it’s not so strict. It is more important that we hold the ground. If Gaddafi’s soldiers break through again, they will desecrate the graves. That’s why Khalid brought the body home. Now help me turn him back.”
We flipped the body over. It wasn’t an easy job to dress him again, because the buttons were slippery with blood.
“It’s a big honor for their family. Ahmed Bakush should be very proud of his older boy. The whole of Libya should be as well. He lived and died according to Islam. Come on, let’s wash our hands.”
We stood and headed downstairs. The sink was on the ground floor.
“Now what will happen?”
“Now the men will come in. They’ll sew him into white linen, and carry him on their shoulders to the graveyard. There is already an open grave waiting. We needn’t stick around for this, because we should get to Tobruk before sundown, and you need to find a car going to Salloum.”
As I was washing with lavender-smelling soap, I heard shouting coming from outside. We went to the door. A large crowd stood on the street, the men shaking their fists in the air. A few people in the crowd began to shove and push, and the women in the procession wailed loudly.
“Get in the car and wait,” said Hamid, putting the key in my hand. I sat in the car and watched Hamid disappear into the crowd. I turned on the radio. The patriotic songs of Free Libya murmured forth, and then the Transitional Council’s spokesperson came on and announced that the revolutionary army’s offensive to retake Brega had begun; currently the rebels were engaged in fighting in the city’s outer districts. It was a quarter hour before Hamid returned, walking to the car with quick footsteps. He opened the door and sat.
“Okay, let’s go,” said Hamid, turning off the radio. Hamid gave the car some gas, and the wheels began to turn. We left the crowd behind and drove away, turning past the checkpoint to the main road. We drove for a while in silence. He looked somehow pained.
“What was the commotion out there?” I asked, finally breaking the quiet.
“Khalid, the younger brother, shot himself.”
“What?”
“Yes, he did. It’s the most disgusting sin. You go to hell for it.”
“Does this happen often?”
“Not at all. It is forbidden in Islam.”
We were back on the serpentine main road. The sun was blazing by now and the air was balmy. Above us, Cyrene’s ancient rocks shone on the hillside like white teeth in a skull.
Somewhere on the Border
The Gaza border crossing was out in the desert. Low brown hills rose on the horizon, the air above them appearing to quiver with the wind-blown sands. On the Palestinian side there stood a lone café, built with one side open. People went there to escape the heat.
It was summer. It had been sweltering and dry in the city, but the desert was even hotter. More than a hundred people were waiting to cross the border into Egypt. The café’s one plastic table couldn’t accommodate everybody, so those who didn’t get a seat leaned against the bullet-ridden wall, waiting, listlessly watching the grimy ceiling fan churning the hot air.
I sat at the table inside with Marwan. I had already been waiting sixteen hours for them to open the border so I could return to Egypt. Because of the blockade, things like this were a bureaucratic nightmare.
For six years now Israel had kept the Gaza Strip under closure by land, water, and air. The only reason there wasn’t famine was because hundreds of tunnels ran under the border, through which goods from Egypt were smuggled in. The trip through a tunnel lasted an hour, cost a hundred dollars, and you could die there if a rocket from Israel landed. But the legal route was time consuming; nobody was surprised if they had to wait four or five days.
“Another coffee?” I asked Marwan and set the empty plastic bottle I had been playing with back on the table.
“We can have another.”
“Itnen ahwa sadaa,” I called out to the waiter, who nodded, then shuffled back to the unit’s grimy kitchen. I marveled at how dirty his feet were. But in the café everything was filthy, myself included. It was because of the dust, the fine desert sand in the air. It stuck to your skin and mixed with your sweat to darken your clothing. Marwan was watching the crowd gather by the steel gate. They solemnly pleaded with machine-gun-toting Hamas soldiers, but the gates weren’t being opened for anybody.
“You know, I was thinking, you don’t really speak Arabic,” said Marwan.
“Then what do I speak?”
“Egyptian.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“It’s not a problem. It’s just not Arabic.”
“Of course it’s Arabic. There are only minor phonetic differences.”
“Then it’s not Arabic. Palestinian isn’t real Arabic either.”
“So what is real Arabic?”
“The Koran. That’s Arabic. The rest are just dialects.”
The waiter brought our coffee and set it on the table, along with small glasses of water. Bits of rust were floating in the water. Without a thought, Marwan tossed his back, and then lit a cigarette.
“The Hamas officer said he would come here with your passport to tell you when you can cross.”
“Great.”
“Did you hide the cassettes?”
“Yep. They’re in my underwear.”
“Good. They won’t frisk you, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried.”
“It’s good material, right? I mean, it’s worth a lot of money.”
“Yes, it’s good material.”
I leaned back in my chair. I was beginning to sweat through my shirt. I felt the cassettes pressing against my skin. On the tapes men told of how family members of the Hamas government were being maimed or killed.
It really was good material, and we had worked hard to get it. Marwan had arranged all the interviews in secret, under the cover of night. He worked with striking resolve, fearlessly. If we messed up, Hamas would execute him without a second thought. I pulled out a cigarette and lit up, the smoke feeling no hotter than the air.
“This is the worst, this waiting,” I said.
“We can always take the tunnels. Then you can say in Egypt that you lost your passport. That way we can go together.”
“I thought we talked about this, Marwan. I can’t go by the tunnel, because I didn’t come by the tunnel. I can’t risk it if they turn me away in Egypt.”
“I know, but I’ll miss you, brother.”
“One week, Marwan. It’s nothing. I will speak with the consul, who will write a letter that will get you permission to leave. Then I’ll come pick you up in Arish.”
“And if he doesn’t send the
letter?”
“He will. He’s a friend of mine.”
“It would be better to go with you.”
“It would make me happier too, but it’s not possible. You just need to wait a week. Then we will go together and you will work for me as my cameraman. We’ll see the Sudanese refugee camps. We’ll earn tons of money.”
“I don’t care about money.”
“I know.”
“I just want to go with you from this godforsaken Gaza. It’s the devil’s paradise. Cross the border and wait at Rafah. I’ll take the tunnel. Then we will go together to Cairo.”
“And what will you do without papers? You’ll be shipped right back.” I said this louder than I should have. The others at our table turned toward us. “One week, Marwan. Just a week,” I continued, more quietly. “But we’ve already been over this.”
“Okay. I’ll stay and keep my head down.”
“You said there wouldn’t be trouble. If there will be trouble, I won’t leave you here.”
“Hamas will definitely want to talk with me, because they knew I was with you.”
“So what will you do?”
“I’ll stay out of sight with my relatives in Khan Yunis. It’s no problem as long as the tapes aren’t played on TV while I’m here. They won’t be, right?”
“Of course not.”
“And you’ll come back in a week? No matter what, you will come, right?”
“We already discussed this. I’ll come get you in a week. I don’t know why we are talking about this again.”
“Don’t be angry. It’s because of the heat. It makes a person nervous. Shall we drink something, brother?”
“No, I’ve had enough of this café already.”
“I’ll bring a water.”
“Fine.”
He stood and went to the rear part of the café, where the waiter was setting drinks on a tray. Sweat broke out on my brow and dripped into my eyes. I took out a tissue and wiped my face. I thought about how every conflict is the same, how the regions may change, but the way you spend your time is always the same. This is what war’s about: waiting. You wait for something to happen. You wait in a hotel room, in a café, you wait on the front line, by the fire of a camp, and you do all this as though you have a chance of understanding what is going on. But you don’t. If something does happen, it happens too fast for you to get it. The only thing you understand is that you are waiting again. That’s your work, to convey the private hell of others, as though you understand it or as though it has anything to do with you.
The Devil Is a Black Dog Page 11
