JULY 9, 2006 (SUNDAY): 1:25 P.M.
“Okay, we can start. And thank you for the tea. It’s refreshing on a day like this.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Moussa answered with a frosty smile. When Phil Matthews had phoned and asked to see him again, he had wondered what use this talk would serve. Why was this journalist interested in him? Did the man have no family of his own to look after? Perhaps he was bored with his life in Toronto and was there to give himself a bit of excitement? Unless he had taken his freedom too far, like so many others who came from the West, and wanted to see real traditions in action. Whatever his excuse or motivation, Moussa had better things to do with his time.
“Rashid will translate so don’t hold back,” Phil Matthews pointed to the Daffawiyya who, if it was possible, looked even thinner than before. “First of all, the usual introduction. I’m here with Moussa Shakir again, a resident of Jerusalem’s Muslim Quarter. Let’s start with the comments our listeners sent in. You’ve had a chance to look at them. What do you think?”
Moussa grimaced. While half of the comments had been warm and friendly, others had been negative. Some had pointed out, on the issue of freedom, that Hamas was more controlling than the State of Israel. Women couldn’t act as they pleased, Gazans couldn’t speak their minds freely, playing music was out of the question, and many books were strictly forbidden. So who was Moussa to blame the Israelis?
Others argued Arafat, former head of the Palestinian Authority, was really to blame. Not only had he helped himself to a billion dollars of outside funding, he had incited terrorists to kill Israelis. And when one considered the history of Arab violence, from the Ma’alot killings to the 1972 Olympics, the Israelis had been comparatively kind and forgiving — or so Daniel Cohen of Montreal had written in.
“I have little to say.”
“Really? Don’t tell me you agree with these people’s opinions.”
“It’s not that I agree with them. They have one way of seeing things; I have another. We are like parallel lines and have no point of intersection. At least with Hamas — to address some listeners’ concerns — I have an important point in common: we are all Palestinian and wish to escape Israeli rule. What happens next, how we deal with religion and our situation, that’s our business and no one else’s. Mr. Cohen, you live in Montreal. I take it you don’t want to live with Israelis, either.”
Phil Matthews looked bewildered, as if he’d been expecting to interview one person, and another had shown up. And maybe that was true. Now that he had tapped into his anger, he had turned his back on his childhood forever. And with the abandonment of childhood came a more sombre view of the world.
The Daffawiyya felt it too. He seemed to see there was more to him than the spoiled child he had been before. His tone was much less chiding now, as if he appreciated Moussa could do what men do.
“We haven’t seen each other in a while. Can you tell us how things have developed since then?”
“My sister got married and the wedding feast was wonderful, even if the Israelis kept some families from attending. I saw my brother, who lives in Canada, and my father even wrote us a letter from jail. Our shop hasn’t been searched — that is always positive — and business has been good these days.
“What about Gaza?”
Moussa had to smile. If the Palestinians had been rich, with a state of their own, would Phil Matthews have been interested in their thoughts and feelings? If there’d been no wall, no refugee camps, no roadblocks, no closures, no Deir Yassin, would Canadians have even known that Palestinians existed? Of course he was grateful for their intervention: any pressure on Israel was fine by him. But it was a funny way to treat a population, to befriend them only when they needed something and not when they could stand up on their own two feet. This wasn’t friendship; it was charity.
“Hamas’ rage rolled out of control. And when the servants defied the master, the Jews cracked their whip.”
“But was this wise or necessary? If Hamas knows Israel will make use of its jets — and they must do something to combat those missiles — why would they want to trigger the storm? It only serves to endanger their own women and children.”
“Maybe they feel they must keep up the pressure. If the Jews enjoy the fruits of peace for too long, they will never be willing to give us a state. As my brother likes to say, a tree must be shaken if the fruit is going to fall.”
But even as he spoke, Moussa had his doubts. When Hamas had taken over Gaza, terrible stories had trickled out: of beatings, shootings, and men pushed from windows; of pleasures banned and freedoms removed in the name their unsmiling God. Hamas reminded him of little kids who put beetles in jam jars and neglect to punch holes in the top, preventing air from seeping in. If he were living under their rule? They would take away his books and films and maybe even his soccer ball and force him to memorize tracts from the Koran. They would beat him if he broke the rules and would expect him to beat “sinning” Muslims in turn. His own sister represented what he could expect: before meeting Sayed, she had not been so traditional; now she followed his every injunction and allowed him to dominate her thoughts and speech, to the point he determined the people she could speak to.
And what about the violence? While he admired Hamas for attacking the Jews, he often found their rage excessive and their tactics unacceptable. Could he praise a movement that urges its members to let bombs off in public places and reacts ecstatically when the death toll mounts? Could people be trusted who celebrated death and preferred it to life’s simple pleasures? Phil Matthews certainly had a point: their attack on Israel had been reckless, never mind it was bold. And because of this recklessness, innocent people would die. And to hide behind women when they launched their missiles, hoping the Israelis wouldn’t dare shoot back? How could anyone tolerate such tactics?
The problem was that he had to choose sides. He was either with the Arabs or he supported the Jews, that’s all there was to it. And even then he didn’t have the freedom to choose. That was the difference between Phil Matthews and him: the reporter belonged to the world as a whole, his loyalty could be transferred from one group to another, and his choices knew no formal bounds. It wasn’t so for people like Moussa. His allegiance had been shaped at birth. He owed his family everything, pure and simple; after that he had his hamuleh to consider; and then there were his fellow Palestinians, followed by all Muslims in general. This order was permanent and could not be reversed. As repellent as he found Hamas, he therefore had to cheer them on as they battled the Israelis from house to house in Gaza.
“Here’s a question for you. If you were Jewish, what would you do?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Let’s say you were Jewish — your name was Avi Greenbaum. Let’s say you lived in West Jerusalem and you speak Hebrew. What would you make of the world around you?”
“You mean, what would I think of Moussa Shakir?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. I suppose I would see things from a Jewish perspective and would think like a Jew and act like one, too. My loyalty would be to the Jews and, if I had to choose between the Arabs and my side, the Jews would win out every time. Although some Jews side with us and not Israel. While I appreciate their help, I don’t understand their choices.”
“So would you be bombing Gaza and arresting Palestinians?”
“Yes. I suppose I would.”
“So are the Israelis right to do what they’re doing?”
“It doesn’t mean they’re right. They’re pursuing their interests. They are doing what is good for their fellow Jew.”
“So should we be condemning them? The world, that is?”
“I don’t know. Yes. I mean, I’m glad there are people attached to our cause. It is very rough in Gaza now.”
He was smiling to himself. When he was five years old, he’d come across a puddle on Al-Wa
d Road. This little pool had attracted him because it had reflected perfectly the world above it, the one difference being left and right were reversed. That tree is to the right of me, he’d imagined the puddle’s Moussa saying, even as he (the real-life Moussa) had countered, No, it’s to my left. In his mind he’d then switched places with the image and both had agreed that they’d been both right and wrong. But in the puddle the tree had been to the right and because the reflection had to to navigate his world, he had to act as if his view were the sound one.
Perhaps realizing that he’d been pushing Moussa, Phil Matthews asked some easier questions, such as how the crisis in Gaza was affecting his family. Moussa explained, without going into details, that the family business was busy now because people were worried and stocking up on food. And visiting his father was out of the question: the prison was off limits until the situation cooled. On a more personal note, Matthews asked about his plans for the summer and who he was rooting for in that night’s game, Italy or France. Moussa said he admired Zidane and would be cheering for the French that evening. With the interview on the verge of ending, Phil Matthews asked if Moussa’s team would be playing the Israelis soon.
“We’re meeting next week,” Moussa said. “Unless there are interruptions.”
“Interruptions?”
“If the situation worsens, the game might get cancelled. Otherwise the players might roll out of control.”
“Maybe that’s more of a reason to play: to show both sides you can compete without fighting? I mean, isn’t that the purpose of sport?”
“I suppose,” Moussa said. But as Phil Matthews wound the interview up, Moussa traded looks with the Daffawiyya. The man smiled thinly, as if to say he knew what Moussa was thinking and, yes, he agreed 100 percent. For all his warmth and excellent questions, his boss knew nothing about Jews and Arabs, not if he believed a game of soccer could make a difference in that part of the world. Such thinking was the sign of a deluded idealist.
It was funny, in a sad sort of way. Phil Matthews had to believe this long tunnel had an end, that one day everyone would be like him, friendly and tolerant of everything around him. And, who knows, maybe they would one day.
But only once they’d hammered their foes into submission.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Avi stepped from his room into the hallway. It was 9:00 a.m. and gorgeous outside. His plan was to eat breakfast with Dan, who had slept at home the night before, after which he would practise his clarinet awhile, and, at eleven, join his team for an hour of drill practice. They had a match scheduled for the following day and it had been a while since they’d played together. At some point, too, he would phone Zohara and arrange to see her later that evening. All in all it would be a great day.
Halfway to the kitchen he paused. Was that cigarettes he smelled? He glanced across the living room to the front door, which was standing open. Dan was outside. He was dressed in his uniform but it wasn’t fully buttoned. His hair was uncombed and he was smoking. That was odd. He never smoked this early unless….
“What’s wrong?” he asked, joining his brother.
“Where’s your shirt?” Dan spoke. Avi hadn’t put it on and his brother was a stickler for such things.
“What’s wrong?” Avi repeated. “I know something’s up.”
Dragging on his cigarette, Dan crushed it out and flicked it to the dumpster. He pulled out a pack and lit a second one. The city’s sounds intruded: there was a nest nearby, with cheeping birds; a woman telling her kids to wake up; the clatter of a garbage truck further down the street; the hiss of a cat defending its turf; and, from several apartments all at once, the drone of radios and TVs blaring. This last detail increased his suspicions. Why were people tuning into the news?
“There’s been an incident,” Dan said, from the middle of a cloud.
“In Gaza?”
“No. In Lebanon. Our turf was fired on and two humvees were attacked. Three soldiers were killed and two kidnapped. One tank followed after the aggressors, but was blown up by a mine and more soldiers died.”
“This doesn’t make sense. We’re at peace with Lebanon….”
“Tell that to Hezbollah. They’re behind these attacks.”
Avi stood in silence as Dan went on. Their troops were going into Lebanon soon, never mind that they were still busy in Gaza. It was too early to say how the crisis would unfold, but the rumour was that the Syrians were stirring and other Arab parties might get involved. All leave had been cancelled within the army. Dan had called his unit commander and was waiting to hear back from him. He might be going to Gaza or north of the border, unless they kept him at his usual post. He would have his answer soon enough.
His brother was calm and speaking in a low tone. Avi understood that he had to suppress his fear, and he was able to do so with surprising ease. He said he would fix them breakfast, scrambled eggs if Dan approved. He ducked inside, leaving Dan to finish his smoke. He went to his room and slipped on a shirt, then hurried to the kitchen and turned on the stove. Two minutes later there were six eggs frying, bread was toasting, and he was fixing a salad. He also had the coffee going — he had mixed it extra strong.
In the midst of these proceedings, the telephone rang. His brother answered and chatted a minute. Avi closed his eyes.
It would never end, would it? Thousands of calls were being placed at that moment and an empty feeling was assaulting people just like him, brothers, parents, and children of soldiers. As these men and women received their orders, civilians would have to sit and wait, praying their relatives would emerge unscathed. Whatever their convictions, whether they were peaceniks or militants, secular or religious, all of them were under the gun just now. If they were going to survive this threat, they would have to do what men must do, regardless of the cost involved. And doubtless when this war was over — and Avi prayed it would finish quickly — it would create further tensions in its wake and light the long wick to yet another explosion. There was no solution. Both conflicts were in regions that the Israelis had abandoned over the last few years, the Gaza Strip and Lebanon. Far from gaining peace as a result, their retreat had led to yet more conflict. So what on earth did the future hold if neither force nor disengagement could lead to peace…?
“The eggs will burn if you don’t turn them.”
Opening his eyes, Avi smiled at Dan. As his brother set the toast on two plates, Avi turned the stove off and served the eggs. Pouring cups of coffee, he took a seat.
“I have to make this quick.”
“You have your orders?”
“They’re expecting me up North.”
“You’ll be fighting up in Lebanon?”
“Not just yet. We’ll send in our planes and see what they can do.”
Dan smiled and took a bite of the eggs. He had combed his hair, buttoned his shirt, and pulled his uniform into shape. His posture, too, was ramrod straight as if, even while eating, he represented the state; his head was tilted forward, though, to keep himself from spilling on his uniform. He looked confident yet vulnerable; he was a tool of death but could be killed in an instant. His fear tried to assert itself but Avi was too strong.
Dan mentioned Zidane — the French soccer player who had butted an Italian and robbed the French team of their shot at the World Cup. The news was old — it happened a week earlier — but last night the guy had been on TV, explaining his version of events to a talk-show host. Avi listened moodily. He couldn’t eat.
“Are you nervous?” he finally asked.
“I feel dazed more than anything. We didn’t see this coming, not from Lebanon.”
“But there could be serious fighting.”
“There’ll be fighting all right. But we’ll win, more or less, and the violence will die down for now, only to rear its head in future.”
“So that’s what lies in
store for us? Bloody conflicts every few years, and bombs and condemnation from abroad?”
“Your friend Zohara must be getting to you,” Dan joked — he had heard all about her left-wing convictions. He consulted his watch and took another bite of egg. As he chewed, he was running through a mental checklist, of stuff he would need besides the obvious equipment, a book, extra socks, sunglasses, chewing gum. And cigarettes. He would need lots and lots of them. There were papers, too, he wanted in good order, the banking, bills, and arrangements for the car (its transmission needed fixing). At the same time he felt he had to address the occasion and that was why he set his cutlery down and eyed Avi with the look of an old soldier.
“I don’t know how this war will end, although I’m sure we’ll extinguish it more or less. I do know what my own role is. When I’m not in uniform — and this applies to you now — I’ll take advantage of the stuff around me and study and work and hang out with my friends. When duty calls, and I’m told I’m needed, I’ll follow my orders, without cowardice I hope, but without punching back any more than I have to. I’ll be generous when events allow and respect our ‘cousins’ to the best of my ability. They have to know we’re here to stay; but they should know, as well, that we can be good neighbours.
“These are early days yet, you have to remember. The country is less than sixty years old. When the United States was sixty, it was only half-formed. It was full of violence and really bad ideas — much worse than the ones we live by here. And look at it today. Their true ideals eventually shone through. The same is true of us. Our values are great, and they’ll shine through too. A hundred years from now, we’ll have security and justice. Or maybe it’ll take a hundred years more. The point is, we have to get from here to there. By going about our business, by fighting when we have to, but by remembering that the Arabs deserve a fair shake too, we’ll get there, eventually. Until we reach that stage, we have to endure; that’s the only possible course of action.”
Dan stood and drained his coffee in one swallow. Walking by Avi, he squeezed his shoulder and disappeared into his room. Avi didn’t know what to think. He felt so useless, staying behind while his brother fought. Was he supposed to go swimming or play soccer with his friends or practice his clarinet while Dan ran the risk of being blown to pieces? Would he and Zohara sit down to coffee as bullets did their best to kill his brother?
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