“I’m sorry it took so long. They went through my documents with a fine-toothed comb.”
“You used your Canadian passport,” Rachel said accusingly.
“That’s right. I couldn’t find my Israeli one. It took a while to sort things out but it’s no big deal. You both look well.”
“We can talk as we drive,” Rachel said. “If we don’t leave now, the traffic will be terrible.”
Avi took his father’s bag. As the three of them strode towards the parking lot entrance, his father started asking questions: how was school, was she getting cold feet, was their mother okay, had Avi met Phil Matthews?
When they walked by the exit for the buses, where the Golani soldiers were milling about, a shadow crossed Mr. Greenbaum’s features; just as suddenly he smiled and resumed the conversation.
It had never been so clear before: when one factored out his family, he had no business being there.
Chapter Twelve
MAY 20, 2006 (SATURDAY): 2:30 P.M.
“We’ll be ready in a moment. I’m just testing this equipment. Hello, hello, one two three.”
Moussa suppressed his nervousness. Why was he nervous? He was seated in the living room, his mother was nearby, and Douad was sitting upstairs on the roof, smoking no doubt and throwing crumbs to some pigeons. And Phil Matthews seemed unusually kind, as did the interpreter accompanying him, a scrawny guy from a West Bank village with a crazy accent.
It was the idea of being recorded that he didn’t like. When he spoke into the recorder, his voice would be broken into digitalized signals, which would be carried as a WAV file to a studio in Canada and played across the country, from one coast to the other. Would he, Moussa Shakir, be heard in the mountains, or the forests with the grizzly bears, or an Eskimo igloo? They had Eskimos in Canada, right? How strange that people lived in structures of snow. Unless these stories were exaggerations, as happens when people discuss cultures that are strange to them. The Eskimos maybe thought he slept in a tent and traveled by camel and ate nothing but dates, whereas his favourite food was hamburgers and French fries.
“Alright, let’s start,” Phil Matthews said. “For the record, you are Moussa Shakir and you live on Al-Wad Road in East Jerusalem. Your family has lived here for many generations and owns a store in the nearby shuk.”
“That’s correct,” Moussa said, once the Daffawiyya had translated these words, most of which he’d understood already.
“Okay. Tell us Moussa. Do you have any hobbies and what’s your favourite movie?”
“I like studying mathematics. And my favourite movie is The Lord of the Rings. The last segment in the trilogy is the best, in my opinion. And I love playing soccer.”
“You play against an Israeli team, don’t you?”
“Yes. We have played each other twice. Soccer is something we share in common. And just wait until the World Cup starts. We’ll be glued to the TV.”
“We do the same in Canada with our hockey playoffs.”
While Moussa liked Phil Matthews, he was different from the people knew. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. He seemed like someone who was used to his freedom, who could roam the world without fearing the police, who assumed that when he smiled at someone, he would be smiled at in return. While attractive, such behaviour was childish, naive. In fact, Moussa doubted strongly this man could grasp the situation here: he could sympathize with one side or the other, but he could never understand the stakes involved or come up with a workable solution. He couldn’t feel anger so what did he know?
But Moussa wasn’t angry either so who was he to fault this man?
The Daffawiyya was a different matter. The lines on his face and the bags around his eyes revealed that this place was no mystery to him. He also wore a look of envy. He envied Moussa his place in Jerusalem. He envied him his Israeli status and access to services like everyone else and his ID card that allowed him to roam about freely and his removal from the West Bank’s hardships, with Israeli troops always interfering. “If you think you have it rough,” his look suggested, “you have no idea how lucky you are.”
The interpreter was angry. He could do what men were expected to do, easily.
“… Let’s get back to your taste in movies,” Phil Matthews said, “Lord of the Rings is an interesting choice. Can you tell me why you like it so much?”
“Because it describes a situation that is black and white. And good ends up defeating evil.”
“I see. Do you feel it symbolizes your struggle here?”
“Sometimes. I often think the eye of Sauron is watching.”
“We should note, for our radio audience, that your father is in prison right now.”
“That’s correct.”
“And he was arrested because he was helping terrorists?”
“He imports produce from all over the West Bank. Explosives were found in a sack of flour.”
“Was he aware of them?”
“No. Well, it’s hard to say. Some say yes — the Israeli police for example. Others say no — my mother and my relatives. And some say he had no choice in the matter. If he’d refused to smuggle these explosives in, some dangerous people would have been very angry.”
“I see. I must say you sound very calm. Still… when the Israelis jailed your father, would say they were protecting themselves?”
“I understand they need protection. But we have needs too. We need our freedom badly, for example.”
“How aren’t you free? I mean, when you compare yourself to an Israeli teen — I interviewed a teen last week — what is he permitted that you can’t have?”
Moussa considered Matthews closely. This question of freedom was a difficult topic and wasn’t just a matter of Arab versus Jew. From the TV shows and movies he’d watched, he thought Westerners were free in a way he didn’t agree with. It was one thing to be free to control your own land, to follow your customs, or to travel without roadblocks; it was quite another to act solely for yourself, to ignore the constraints of tradition and family, and for men and women to mix freely together.
When he saw TV shows about men getting drunk, or cursing foully, or parading tattoos, he always wondered how these people could behave so badly. Why weren’t they arrested by the police or, at least, upbraided by their family? But family for such people was a problem, too. These hoodlums never had parents or siblings, or if they did, they lived in a separate world, and never sent home money or phoned to say hi or expressed their respect for the parents who’d raised them.
But the greatest puzzle was their treatment of women. Moussa knew a few Arab women who had gone to university, but none would ever wander on her own or live by herself or have boyfriends.… Boyfriends! For a woman to behave like the rock star Madonna, to bare her face and legs and midriff, was disgusting, crazy, and shameful. How could her father or brothers allow it? Did these westerners have no sense of irdh? Was this the freedom Phil Matthews intended, the freedom to behave like animals and madmen?
But then again who was he to speak? He couldn’t do what men must do and his notion of irdh was artificial.
“He can travel without showing his papers,” he answered instead. “He never gets delayed at checkpoints. He can live where he wants, do what he wants, and work at any job he’s been trained to perform. His children will be citizens and the state will support him. These are freedoms I cannot take for granted.”
“How well do you know Israelis? Do you have any Jewish friends, for example?”
“None.” Moussa almost laughed. The idea of a Jewish friend struck him as absurd.
“There aren’t any Jews in your school?”
“Why would Jews attend my school? We are all Palestinian. Let the Jews attend their schools and let us stick to ours.”
“When you hear the word ‘Jew,’ how do you fee
l?”
“I feel … surprised. They are fearful that we are plotting against them.”
“Are you plotting against them?”
“Me?” He laughed, secretly pleased. Perhaps Phil Matthews saw some element that made him uneasy. “No. I’m not plotting.”
“But some people are.”
“You mean the suicide bombers?”
“Yes.”
“They are very angry. But such anger is destructive.”
“So you disapprove of them?”
“Yes, I disapprove.” That was true but he envied them too. To feel such anger! All one’s doubts would disappear!
“Okay. But tell me. If you could speak to Prime Minister Olmert, what advice would you give? What could he do to bring about peace?”
“That’s simple. I would tell him to stop meddling and to return our land, starting with my jadda’s farm in Deir Yassin.”
“Your grandmother is from Deir Yassin?”
“Yes. She lived through the massacre. She was twelve years old.”
“Do you think the Prime Minister would follow your advice?”
“Why should the strong give in to the weak?”
“So what’s the solution?
Moussa shook his head. Had Phil Matthews never heard of incompleteness, Kurt Gödel’s theory in mathematics? It said there are true statements about the natural numbers that can’t be proven using the rules of the system. Similarly peace between the Jews and Arabs, while undeniably “true,” could never be “proven” or brought into being. In other words, Phil Matthews was dreaming if he felt there was a solution out there, unless it was one of unspeakable violence. While decent enough, he wasn’t clued in.
“The solution,” he said, “is to do what men do or to live somewhere else.”
“And what do men do?” Phil Matthews was leaning forward with interest.
“They take offense when offense is given.”
“I see. Very interesting.” Phil Matthews consulted his watch then glanced at the interpreter. “I’m afraid that’s all the time I have. But I’d like to see you again, if that’s okay. There are still a few issues I would love to discuss.”
“I will consult my family but it should be fine.”
As the interpreter packed the equipment up, Mr. Matthews stood and shook Moussa’s hand. He then approached the door and left, followed closely by the Daffawiyya. Moussa walked after them and watched them enter a car. When they started the engine and pulled away, both Matthews and the interpreter waved at him.
The exhaust hung in the air a few seconds then vanished completely. It seemed to symbolize Mr. Matthews himself: having asked his questions and done his bit for global justice, he was off and running to a brand new story. Truly he was from a different world.
Perhaps Moussa should have asked if he could come along.
Chapter Thirteen
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Kol hakevod Erez!”
Avi hated Feinberg, his phys. ed. teacher. Even if the guy was only trying to help, he was bully, a maniac, an out-and-out sadist. He loved making them jog five klicks. He liked to watch them strain at weights, fifty kilos, sixty, as much as they could handle. And he grinned when he asked for push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, crunches, curls, and squats. And now he was beaming as he watched them climb to their deaths.
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Kol hakevod Ilan!”
Feinberg had been a navy man once. He’d often describe an evacuation drill that his unit had been put through as part of their training. They’d been stationed on a cargo ship that carried tanks and artillery by sea. He and the rest of the crew were equipped with life vests, heavy knapsacks, and their M-16s. They lined up on the ship’s top deck — it stood eight storeys above the water — where a platform led from the center deck to the stern’s bulwark and beyond. At a signal from his officer — “one tough bird,” Feinberg liked to say — each soldier was ordered to tear up the platform, jump as far as he possibly could, and crash into the water below. If he survived the collision, he had to swim his way to shore, return to the ship, and repeat the procedure.
And now he was exposing the class to a version of this hell.
He’d driven them to Hebrew U. Leading them to its Olympic-sized pool, with a number of duffel bags in hand, he took them over to the diving platforms and ordered them to strip down to their bathing suits. Several students emptied the bags, revealing full army uniforms, complete with heavy combat boots. There were also knapsacks stuffed full of junk: each one weighed maybe fifteen kilos. And to make things even more authentic, he’d brought along five disabled M-16s. How much did death weigh? Each gun was twice as heavy as that.
Their task was clear. In an attempt to capture the “drama” he’d been put through, Feinberg wanted them to dress in uniform, shoulder the equipment, and climb up to the highest diving platform. Once there, they would plunge into the pool below: a wrenching drop of “only” ten metres, as a way of achieving “mastery of self.” He really was a sadist, Feinberg.
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Kol hakevod Yakovi!”
Dov and Itamar were ahead of him now. Like them, Avi was dressed in a sopping wet uniform (it had been used already by someone else) and was cradling one of the M-16s, whose dripping metal was cool against his palms. His stomach was tied in knots; his temples ached. He had always been a terrible swimmer, detested diving, and was scared of heights.
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Kol hakevod Dov!”
Itamar then him. He told himself how much he hated Feinberg, not only because he really did hate him, but because this hate would keep his fears from breaking loose. Feinberg, Avi thought. So, he’d served with distinction in the navy? Big deal. Does that give him the right to torture students? Torture is against the Geneva Convention! Feinberg will go to jail if he’s not careful. Look at him, with his muscles and killer’s stare. Has he ever really killed someone? Or is that just a façade to disguise his own weakness? Hah! That’s it! Feinberg is torturing us to hide his own fear, the goddamn chicken…!
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Kol hakevod Itamar!”
Feinberg’s hand was on his back, pushing him. Avi looked straight at him and realized the guy was no chicken. He’d stared down death and was asking them to do the same. “Don’t let me down,” he warned curtly, as his brawny arm propelled Avi upwards. Avi slung his gun over his shoulder and started to climb.
The first three metres were easy enough. The rungs were slippery beneath his boots, but he was moving quickly and cleared them in seconds.
“Go Avi!” Ilan shouted from nearby.
His rifle slipped and he had to sling it back. And the knapsack too was cutting into his shoulders. Just how many rungs had he climbed? It was best not to dwell on it and better not to look around, although it was clear he was high since the voices below were growing more distant.
His fear was coming hard at him now. It was like a hungry wolf that had been penned in a cage — no, a cardboard box. Its canines had punctured one side already and within a minute, even less, it would have broken out. There. Its head was visible and its jaws were gaping and its teeth were clacking together like shears. It wanted to feed on something juicy, his composure, his dignity, his self-respect….
He started humming “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To.” He was thinking of books and TV shows and movies (comedies, not action thrillers) anything to distract him from the insanity of that moment. And it was working. The wolf was slowly beating a retreat.
“Go Avi!” Ilan cried from ten miles off.
The last three metres were next to impossible. He was panting, there was water dripping everywhere, and he almost lost his footing. The smell of chlorine was overpowering and his uniform, knapsack, combat roofs, and rifle were pulling him down, to the cold, hard tiles, to disgrace and failure. His fe
ar was back, but not as a wolf: it had assumed the guise of a skinny girl. Her dress was frilly, her arms were toothpicks, her knees were knobby, and her head was turned away; she wouldn’t dare look a stranger in the face. Just as Avi was thinking he could tolerate this kind of fear, the girl whispered, in a high-pitched tone, This is how they’ll see you. When they strip away your exterior, you’ll be left with this, the true Avi Greenbaum.
He blanched. Her fingers were tightening round his ankles, undermining his drive to continue. She was giggling and singing and prattling nonsense. He started humming to drown her out: “Hatikvah,” the national anthem. Part of him wanted to scream with laughter.
“Go Avi!” Ilan cried again from the far side of the universe.
There. He made it. His lungs were heaving and he was sweating like a rat but he was at the top, he had cleared the last rung. And the nasty female brat was gone, like the wolf before her.
But now came the difficult part. He knew he shouldn’t look down, but did anyway and the sight wasn’t pretty. The ground was so incredibly remote. He couldn’t jump, only an idiot would. If he didn’t break his neck on landing, he would batter his intestines and die a slow, painful death.
His fear was back. Only now it wasn’t a wolf or girl, but an old-fashioned, Hassidic Jew: he was dressed in black with an oversized shtreimel. He was stooped and cringing and wheezing slightly. And if a Nazi directed him to enter the “showers,” he’d go obligingly and not lift a finger. He looked at Avi and said, Just climb down.
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!” the voices started up from below.
He yelled at the Hassid that he was an Israeli, and Israelis were nothing like the shtetl Jews. They’d built a country and won five wars and made the desert bloom.
“Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!” the voices persisted. They were like clubs and bludgeons in their attempt to make him jump.
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