The army was calling up more and more troops. Until he’d fallen sick — under-cooked chicken was to blame — Dan might’ve been be added to their number. Never had under-cooked chicken been greeted so warmly.
He was still five minutes away from home. He was hurrying past the field where his team had played the Arabs when he paused at an unusual sight. The hangar that he’d skirted so many times before, that stood between his street and the field and was locked day and night, in summer and winter? For the first time ever its gates stood open. Not just the gate facing the field, but the one on his street as well.
He hesitated briefly. Should he…? If a place was locked, people liked it that way — and by people he meant the state authorities. But he was in a rush: what if Dan wanted water but was too weak to stand? The hangar was all of eighty metres long and could be crossed in a matter of thirty seconds. Besides, if anyone had seriously wanted to keep people out, they wouldn’t have kept the gates wide open and would certainly have posted no trespassing signs. Yet there wasn’t a single sign in sight and the guards on duty seemed to have excused themselves. Even though his fear was warning him not to, Avi thrust it aside and ducked inside the structure.
It was only after a dozen steps that he started wondering what its purpose was. The answer seemed easy enough: it was a depot for surplus public buses. It did surprise him a bit: he would have thought any such depot would be near the station on Jaffa Road; and, through all the time he’d lived in Musrara, he’d never seen a bus leave or enter this depot. Maybe they travelled late at night, unless there was a tunnel he wasn’t aware of.
He paused to study a bus more closely. It wasn’t operational: it was missing its front doors. Was it undergoing repair perhaps…? Yes. So the place wasn’t a depot but more a garage: that explained why the next bus over was dented in front. Well, not dented so much as brutally hammered, as if someone had….
His blood froze. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be that.
But the evidence was indisputable: that’s what it was.
This wasn’t a depot. It was a bus graveyard. There were over thirty buses, and each had suffered its share of violence. Some were riddled with bullet holes; others were dented from the outside in, most likely by a vehicle that had acted as a battering ram. And then there was a third class. The buses in this group verged on the obscene. Their outsides had been hammered open by what must have been a giant filled with implacable rage. The seats, poles, and windows had been reduced to tangles of indecipherable matter, as if the giant had crumpled them in his meaty fists. Still not satisfied with the destruction wrought, the giant had belched gas over the fixtures, struck a match, and set the mess ablaze, so that everything was charred and melted together.
Avi had to remind himself to breathe. The remnants of these vehicles were bad enough, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the passengers who’d been seated inside. If brute matter could be so viciously altered, imagine the effect on the helpless victims. Their skin, their bones, their organs, their beauty, their talents, their prospects: all were gone, all had dissolved, all had vanished in a flash of rage that murderers had confused with the will of God.
He was shaking. He was sweating. His breath wouldn’t come. And the buses, they were closing in. He could have sworn they’d somehow inched themselves closer. Yes, a headlight flashed. A phantom horn sounded. Figures were waving from the smashed-out windows and had something they wanted to share with him. They wanted to grab him and shake him senseless, as a way of impressing him with the weight of their losses, the sweetness and innocence that they’d been robbed of, and all because they had ridden a bus.
“Alright!” he yelled. “I understand.” But this wasn’t nearly enough for the buses: their engines started and their outlines inched closer. The toxic fumes from their phantom engines wafted about him and cut off his air.
“I’ll do better!” he cried. “I won’t let you down!”
With this promise made, he took to his heels. He escaped the hangar and was breathing freely and rubbing his ears. He was trying to hear the sounds around him, but the only noise confronting him was a thunderous explosion and the cries of people dying.
“You’re very quiet. Is something wrong?”
“Nothing. Can I get you something? Soup? A sandwich?”
“Don’t mention food! The mere thought of it will send me running to the bathroom. Although … I could maybe handle some juice.”
“Don’t move. I’ll get it for you.”
“I’m not going anywhere. And I wonder how this game will end. I suspect they’re headed for a kick off.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll get that juice.”
“There’s a glass of it beside my bed.”
“Sure.”
Avi walked into his brother’s room. He got the juice and was about to leave when he spied the M-16 in the closet. Exhaling sharply, he put the juice back down. He lifted the rifle, surprised to discover that it was lighter than before. He approached the window and peered outside. A man was on a bench reading the paper; he was wearing earphones. Avi raised the gun and brought this man within its sights.
If an officer informed him that this man was a threat? If he were told this man was strapped with explosives or armed with a gun that he would use in the ongoing efforts to attack the Jewish state? If the officer ordered him to kill on sight? And if he knew, before he squeezed the trigger, that some mother’s son was going to die and he, Avi Greenbaum, would be the source of her grieving. Would he pull the trigger? Would he?
Without a moment’s hesitation.
Chapter Twenty-One
JULY 6, 2006 (THURSDAY): 11:25 A.M.
“Alright, that’s everything. We can start when you’re ready.”
Phil Matthews looked up from his equipment and smiled. When he had phoned a week earlier and asked if they could meet, Avi hadn’t been enthusiastic. What use would another interview serve? Phil Matthews wanted to ask him questions, but he was starting to think that no answers existed, that one could talk and nothing would change. For him, at least, there was only one issue: was he ready to do what men do? He was finally confident the answer was yes.
It didn’t help that there was feedback from their last talk together. Some comments had been positive, most of which had come from Jews. Half had been neutral: refusing to condemn one side or the other, these listeners had stated the obvious truth that peace was more attractive than war. And then there’d been the remaining quarter (and a lot of these had come from Jews as well). In a word, these critics were brutal. They claimed he was spouting propaganda, that he was willfully blind to his government’s crimes, that he was consuming resources that belonged to the Arabs, and that the CBC shouldn’t play such twaddle since it only served to legitimize Israeli aggression. As if these Canadian “experts” knew better than the Israelis themselves.
“Shall we begin?” Phil Matthews asked.
“Sure.”
“Great. I’m here with Avi Greenbaum again, in his apartment outside Jerusalem’s Old City. We spoke seven weeks ago and I’ve returned to ask a second round of questions. Before we get to them, would you like to respond to our listeners’ comments?”
“Not really.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” Phil Matthews was surprised.
“Because they don’t know what they’re talking about. When they speak of propaganda, they don’t know how our media works. When they say I’m blind to the situation, which is comical to say the least, they’re claiming to have a better view of the facts, never mind that they live halfway across the world. And when they say I have no right to the land, I guess I should ask them what they’re doing in Canada — unless they’re all Aboriginals, that is.”
“I see.… Can we talk about developments since I spoke to you last?”
“Sure. My sister got married — the wedding was great. My father came
to visit, but he couldn’t stay long. I went to England with my classmates where our orchestra came in third in a youth orchestra competition. I finished school with pretty good grades and I believe I actually learned a lot this year, especially these last two weeks. And the World Cup series has been intense so far. And there you have it.”
“What do you make of events in Gaza?”
Avi almost smiled here. When Phil Matthews had asked him what was new, he didn’t want to know about this normal stuff; he’d been angling for something a little more compelling, whether friends he knew had either killed or been killed. That’s what the country meant to people: their story wasn’t about love and family, the rewards of hard work, or the pleasure of music, priorities that lay at the heart of their activities. No, the story they were interested in had death at its core.
“Let me see. Hamas hit us, so we hit back at them. They hit us again, so we returned the favour. They hit us a third time, so we sent in our jets. We don’t like it. They don’t like it. The UN has also voiced its disapproval. And there you have it. What else is new?”
“The media faults Israel. Canada’s Globe and Mail, the Boston Globe, the Washington Post and most European papers. How do their impressions make you feel?”
“I don’t feel anything. I don’t care what they write. Let them choose sides however they see fit. But if they do choose Hamas, they’re sending a strong message.”
“What sort of message?”
“That they prefer backwardness to modern ways. That they support a system where you can’t speak your mind, where women have no freedom, and where religion counts for everything. Good luck to them, that’s all I can say.”
Phil Matthews was eyeing him strangely, as if Avi had changed since the last interview, to the point that he was a completely different person. And in some ways he was. Being prepared now to do what men do, he had decisively left his boyhood behind and hadn’t time for anything he considered nonsense.
“Some people might say that Israelis are touchy,” Matthews went on. “They feel that as soon as they say something bad, Israelis condemn them as anti-Semitic. Can you comment on that?”
“Some criticism’s fair. Some is just awful. Take my brother, for example. If someone says he’s a killer because he’s a member of Tzahal, well, either he doesn’t know my brother, or he doesn’t understand the situation, or he’s anti-Semitic. The problem is, people don’t know us. They see a couple of TV broadcasts, the images are awful, and suddenly they’re experts. They should speak to us before they point their fingers. Otherwise their opinions are weak, even hateful.”
Phil Matthews paused. He was still digesting Avi’s new gruffness. Avi wished he would leave. He wanted to kick a ball with Ilan, or take Zohara out to a movie, or play some music, or hang with his friends. This interview was a waste of time.
“Let me ask you this.”Avi rolled his eyes. More questions. “Whether critics are acting fairly or not, they’re interested in Gaza and the footage is upsetting. What can you tell them that will set things in a different light?”
Avi mulled this question over. Despite his seemingly dismissive remarks, events in Gaza did worry him. When he saw a missile demolish a building, he could easily picture the horror it wreaked, the ghastly sounds, the shrapnel flying, the raging pain, the blood all over. When he saw bodies littering the streets and images of parents burying their babies, or kids squatting beside a dead parent, howling with a sorrow that would never leave, he had to close his eyes. The pictures were so wrenching. Were they right to react with such deadly force? He could defend his brother and he could defend Israelis, they too were bothered by the bombs and missiles and tried to minimize the pain inflicted, but the question remained: were they acting justly? People were dying because of their actions, not just terrorists but innocent folk, as well. And Phil Matthews was entitled to ask whether anyone has the right to cause such anguish. Granted Hamas wanted to destroy the nation, but did this allow the “good guys” to blow them to pieces?
He didn’t know. No one did. The generals, the media, the rabbis and mullahs, the right wing, the left wing, no one knew. You could consult the Torah, the Koran, the New Testament, Gandhi, Einstein, the Dalai Lama, the nicest people, the smartest ones, the church-going people, the secular ones, and still you wouldn’t get a concrete answer.
But Israelis had to act. That was the problem. They hadn’t the luxury to mull things over, not when rockets were hitting their cities, soldiers were being kidnapped, and bombs were exploding. Right or wrong, they had to act. And in acting they advanced with a limited perspective and would have to take the blame if the results were ugly. If they blew up buildings and electrical stations, right or wrong, they would have to face the possible fact that they had cut young children apart in the process, even though they could truthfully argue that it was done only to protect their own families. This is what it meant to do what men are forced to do.
But these strictures applied to Israel’s harshest critics. They too had a limited perspective. If they thought there was a simple solution, that the problems could be solved once and for all by granting the Palestinians a state of their own, maybe they were right, maybe they were wrong. But who would pay if they were mistaken? Whose homes and cities would be attacked? And the critics weren’t entirely honest. They liked to downplay Arab aggression, the hatred and ignorance often dogging the “victims”: in their eyes they were innocent and could do no wrong. These critics tended to neglect, as well, the grinding effects of being threatened daily, on buses, in restaurants, or when shopping for groceries. Did they think that Israelis liked going to war? That they experienced a thrill when they were called to arms, that they relished the prospect of exchanging fire? This wasn’t true of anyone he knew, and no song of theirs, no book of theirs, no poem of theirs, no film of theirs glorified war in any way. And finally, these critics were blind to the fact that Jews were always assessing the cost of statehood; whether the dream of Zion, which had nurtured them in exile, was worth the soul-destroying price, the beatings, the arrests, the endless suspicions?
They are lucky, he thought, Western people. They don’t face the same tensions as us and their men no longer have to do what men do. Their choices don’t involve them in life and death issues. They are rich. They are privileged. And while they want to judge, and feel obliged to judge, their judgement, like ours, will be inherently flawed.
Phil Matthews was waiting.
“My dad used to tell me bedtime stories,” Avi said. “Fairy tales like the ‘Three Little Pigs,’ ‘Cinderella,’ ‘Snow White,’ and ‘Jack and Beanstalk.’ He liked to mess with the regular plot lines and tell the stories from the villain’s point of view, from the ogre’s and not Jack’s, or from the witch’s and not Cinderella’s. It was funny because I would cheer for the villain, even if the villain was up to no good.”
“You’re saying things are a matter of perspective?”
“Yes. If you see things from our angle, missile attacks, suicide bombings, a kidnapped soldier, troops shot down, you’ll think we have every right to bomb. But if you see it from the Arab side — the occupation, civilian deaths, poverty, beatings, and daily arrests — well, you might be tempted to argue their cause.”
“So the Israelis aren’t right and the Arabs aren’t wrong?”
“Of course not,” Avi said with some surprise. “No Israeli I know thinks the Arabs are wrong. I mean, we think their suicide bombers are evil, and Hamas is cowardly to hide behind women when they shoot their missiles; but we understand why they would want their own land. If it were merely a matter of right and wrong, the situation wouldn’t be nearly as crazy.”
“I’m afraid I have bad news for you. Most people think it does involve right and wrong. And when they’re asked to choose sides, they often side with the Arabs.”
“It must be nice to have such certainty,” Avi said sarcastically. “Still, it
makes no difference. It’s not my job to set your listeners at ease. Our job, in Israel, is to protect ourselves and, for our sake not for your listeners’, to deal justly with others.”
“But can you judge what is just? That’s the ultimate question.”
“We can judge as well as anyone. And if we’re not fit to judge, then no one is.”
The interview lasted a few minutes longer. But the hard questions had been dealt with and Matthews moved on to less troubling stuff: his plans for the summer, whether the war in Gaza had affected his routines, and what he was planning to study next year. He then switched his recorder off and packed his stuff away. A moment later Matthews was descending the steps, having thanked Avi repeatedly for speaking his mind.
As Avi watched him drive away, he felt resentful, hostile, and somehow abashed: he wasn’t used to speaking so directly.
But at least his fear was a thing of the past.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Crescent Star Page 14
