The Collaborator of Bethlehem

by Matt Beynon Rees

  More students came into the room. Most were silent. They knew enough of Omar Yussef’s strictness not to speak in class unless he appeared to be in a very good mood, which rarely applied to the opening of the morning session at 7:30 A.M. But one girl was too animated to hold herself back. Khadija Zubeida entered quickly and excitedly. She was tall and thin with black hair cut in a bob. There was an early bloom of acne high on both of her pale cheeks. Before she sat, she leaned over the desks of two friends: “My dad called me before I came to school,” she told them. “He arrested a collaborator. The one who helped the Israelis kill the martyr in Irtas. He said they’re going to execute the traitor.” She spoke in a whisper, but in the quiet classroom it was audible to all, as was the snigger that punctuated it.

  “Who was it?” one of her friends asked.

  “The collaborator? He’s a damned Christian from Beit Jala. Saba, I think. He led the Jews right to the man in Irtas, who was a great fighter, and he delivered the final blow with a big knife that the Jews gave him.”

  Omar Yussef put down his pen before the shaking of his hand could propel it across the table. He shoved the exercise book away from him and put his head in his hands to gather his thoughts. They had taken George, he was sure of it. He coughed to steady his voice. “Khadija,” he called to the girl, hoarsely. “Which Saba?”

  “I think he’s called George, ustaz. George Saba. My dad says he keeps dirty statues of women in his house and he offered to let the arresting officer take his daughter instead.”

  The girls clicked their tongues and shook their heads.

  “The Christian confessed, too. He said, ‘I know why you came here. You came here because I sold myself to the Jews.’ My dad gave him a good thump after he confessed.”

  Omar Yussef stood and leaned against his desk. “Come here,” he said, sharply. As the girl approached him, a little confused, he considered giving her the same blow her father claimed to have aimed at the collaborator. But he knew he must try harder than that: he was a schoolteacher, not a police thug. He wondered what the girl saw from the other side of the desk. He knew that his own eyes were tearing with rage and the slack fold beneath his chin trembled. He must have seemed pitiful, or deeply unnerving. “What do I teach you to do in this classroom?”

  The girl looked dumbly at Omar Yussef.

  “How do I teach you to look at history?” Omar Yussef waited. He stared closely at the girl. There was no reply, so he went on. “I teach you to look at the evidence and then to decide what you think about a particular sultan, or about the causes of a war.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” the girl said, relieved.

  “So how do you know that this man was a collaborator?”

  “My dad told me.”

  “Who’s your father?”

  “Sergeant Mahmoud Zubeida, General Intelligence, Rapid Reaction Force.”

  “Did he do the investigation, from start to finish?”

  The girl looked perplexed.

  “No, of course, he didn’t,” Omar Yussef said. “So you’d need to talk to all those who did investigate the case before you could come to the conclusion that this man was a collaborator.

  Wouldn’t you?”

  “He confessed.”

  “Did he confess to you? In person? You’d need to talk to him. To understand him. To talk to his friends. Most of all, you’d need to find his motive for collaborating. Did he do it for money? Maybe he already has a lot of money and has no need of more. So then why would he do it? Was there anyone else who might have done it to set him up? Maybe a business rival?”

  The girl shifted from foot to foot and scratched at the spots on her cheek. Omar Yussef saw that Khadija was about to cry. He knew that he was shouting now and leaning very close to the girl across the desk, but he didn’t care. He was infuriated by the ignorance of an entire generation and saw it concentrated in this girl’s thin shoulders and blank face.

  “How could I know all that?” Khadija stammered.

  “Because it’s what you need to know before you condemn a human being to death.” Omar Yussef leaned as far forward as he could. “Death. Death. It’s not something light, something to giggle and boast about. This alleged collaborator is someone’s father. Imagine having your father taken away and knowing that he will be killed.” As he spoke, it occurred to Omar Yussef that the girl probably had frequent cause to imagine her father’s death at the hands of the Israelis in some stupid gun-battle. It was probably in Khadija’s nightmares each night, coruscating and terrifying. It made Omar Yussef feel, for a moment, sympathetic. He stood up straight. “Sit down, Khadija.”

  Omar Yussef took out his comb and straightened the strands of hair that had fallen forward when he shouted at her. The class was silent. He returned his comb to his top pocket and sat. “When you are gone from the world, what will you leave behind?” he said. “Will you leave behind many children? So what? Is that a good thing in itself? No, it depends on what you will have taught them. Will you leave a great fortune? Then, what kind of person will inherit it? How will they spend it? Will people remember you with love? Or will they feel hate when they think of you? Start asking yourself these questions now, even though you are only eleven years old. If you do not ask these questions of yourself, someone else—maybe a bad person— will dictate the answers to you. They will show you their so-called evidence, and you will never see all the other choices available to you. If you do not take charge, someone else will gain control of your life.”

  I might be talking about myself, Omar Yussef thought.

  “This man, George Saba, was once my student. He was a very intelligent, good pupil. He was sensitive and funny. He was also moral. I don’t believe he would become mixed up in anything criminal or bad.”

  Khadija Zubeida didn’t raise her head as she spoke sullenly. “What evidence do you have?”

  Omar Yussef was pleased with the question and he nodded at the girl. “More than you, Khadija. Because you judge the case according to your feelings of hate for someone you’ve never met. I know George Saba and I love him.”

  Well, that was a smart way to start the day, Omar Yussef thought. I love the Israeli collaborator; I love the worst traitor. Next time anyone’s looking for a dupe, stick me in jail and get my class to testify that I sympathized with a collaborator, which surely makes me a collaborator, too. Good job, Abu Ramiz. You need more sleep and an extra cup of coffee in the morning.

  When classes ended for the morning, Wafa, the school secretary was waiting outside the room. She wore a thin, fixed smile and handed a small cup of coffee to Omar Yussef.

  “God bless your hands,” Omar Yussef said. “I assume this fine treatment means that you are preparing me for bad news.” The cup rattled against the saucer. His hand shook more than usual. George, he thought, Allah help him.

  “Drink your coffee, ustaz,” Wafa said, and the smile became more affectionate.

  Omar Yussef stared at her, waiting.

  “The director wants to see you as soon as possible in his office,” she said.

  “Thank you for the coffee.” Omar Yussef drank. “It’s delicious.” He returned the empty cup to Wafa. “You see, I didn’t even curse when you mentioned our esteemed director.”

  “For a change. We must thank Allah.”

  Omar Yussef entered Christopher Steadman’s room and immediately the friendly warmth he had felt with Wafa changed to anger. At the side of the desk, next to the tall, fair figure of the UN director, was the government schools inspector who had forced the Frères School to terminate Omar Yussef’s contract a decade earlier. Omar Yussef knew immediately what this would be about. The bastard from the government had stopped Omar Yussef tampering with the minds of the elite at the Frères School. Now he figured he could cut off his piffling influence over even the bottom of the pile here in the refugee camp, where, after all, the corrupt scum who ran the government recruited their expendable foot soldiers. Omar Yussef was angry, too, because he understood that he was be
ing summoned into the presence of the inspector to give Steadman more leverage in his push for his retirement. “Sit down, Abu Ramiz.” Steadman gestured to a chair in front of his desk. Omar Yussef noted that the American had picked up on the tradition of calling an acquaintance the “father of” his eldest son.

  Only the day before, Steadman had asked Omar why Arabs called each other Abu or Umm? Omar Yussef explained that Palestinians each have a given name, “so I am Omar,” he said. “But we also are known as the father—Abu—of our first son. My first son is Ramiz, so people call me Abu Ramiz. The father of Ramiz. It is more respectful, more friendly.” Then he warned Steadman that if he made him retire, he wouldn’t have anyone to pester with questions about Arab society. Steadman proceeded as though he hadn’t noticed the aggression in what Omar Yussef said. “If I had a son, which I don’t, I always thought I’d call him Scott,” Steadman said. “So I’d be Abu Scott.” Then he asked Omar what Umm means. Omar decided to confuse him: “It means ‘Mother of.’ My wife is Umm Ramiz, just like I am Abu Ramiz. My son decided to name his first son after me, because he believes in following this tradition, so he is Abu Omar and his wife is Umm Omar, and their son Omar will one day name his son after his own father and be called Abu Ramiz, too. And you,” Omar said, “will always be just an American.”

  Now, in Steadman’s office, Omar Yussef could see that the American was trying hard to fit in. All right, so you remembered, he thought. You called me the father of Ramiz, Abu Ramiz, but you won’t make me like you so easily.

  The room smelled. That, too, was the result of Steadman’s attempt to conform to local traditions. Before Ramadan, Omar Yussef joked with him that Muslims refrained from washing during the holy month and were offended by those who did. At first, he found it hilarious that Steadman took him seriously. The director evidently planned not to bath for the entire month. Omar Yussef regretted the joke now and sniffed the cologne on the back of his own hand to overcome the reek of body odor. “Do you know Mr. Haitham Abdel Hadi from the Ministry of Education?” Steadman asked.

  You know perfectly well that I know him. I’m sure he’s shown you his file on me, Omar Yussef thought. He remained silent.

  “Well, I must tell you that Mr. Abdel Hadi has received some complaints about your teaching. This is why I’ve called you in here today.” Steadman stroked his thin, blond hair back from a sunburned forehead. He brought his hand down with the palm open, giving the floor to the government inspector.

  The government inspector read from a series of letters he claimed parents had written to his department. The letters quoted Omar Yussef criticizing the president and the government, lambasting the Aqsa Martyrs Brigades as gangsters, condemning suicide bombings and talking disrespectfully about the sheikhs in some of the local mosques. “Last month,” the inspector said, “some of the students were hurt in a demonstration against Occupation soldiers at Rachel’s Tomb. The next day, teacher Omar Yussef told them that instead of throwing stones at soldiers, children should throw stones at their parents and their government for making a mess of their lives. This is a precise quote: for making a mess of their lives, throw stones at their parents and their government.”

  “Is that what you said, Abu Ramiz?” Steadman asked.

  Omar Yussef looked at the dark, sly eyes of the government inspector. He held his hand over his mouth, trying to make the gesture look casual. He hoped it would hide the angry twitching in his lip. He felt adrenaline filling him with rage. Steadman repeated his question. His innocent tone infuriated Omar Yussef.

  “I don’t expect you to be absolutely politically correct, Abu Ramiz. You’re too old for that,” Steadman said. “But I cannot accept this kind of thing. We work in cooperation with the local administration and we’re not supposed to be breeding revolutionaries, or encouraging acts of violence.”

  This stupid man really thought I wanted the children to attack their parents. “The children were already violent. They attacked the soldiers. I hope it’s not revolutionary to point out that this is still an act of violence, whatever their reasons for doing so. I was suggesting to the children that the guiltiest target is not always the most obvious one,” he said.

  “That is outrageous,” the government inspector said. “To place parents and the government before the Occupation Forces as criminals against the Palestinian people.”

  “It’s politically correct these days to blow yourself up in a crowd of civilians. It’s politically correct to praise those who detonate themselves and to laud them in the newspapers and in the mosques.” Omar Yussef banged the edge of his hand on the desk. “But you say that it’s outrageous for me to encourage intellectual inquiry?”

  “You have a bad record, Abu Ramiz,” the government man said. “Your file is a lengthy one. I will have to institute official proceedings against you, if you do not agree to Mr. Stead-man’s proposals.”

  Omar Yussef looked at Steadman. The square American jaw was firm. The lips were tight. Steadman adjusted his small round spectacles. He squinted and watched Omar Yussef calmly with his little, blue eyes.

  So this bastard already told Abdel Hadi he wants me out of here. Who knows if they didn’t cook this up between them? He decided he wouldn’t make it easy for them. He would never retire. They could put him in a jail cell with George Saba before he’d accede to Steadman’s weakness and pandering. “This would never have happened when the school was run by Mister Fer-gus or Miss Pilar. They would never threaten me. Yes, I consider this a threat, not just from the government but from you, too, Christopher. I end this conversation.” He went to the door.

  “Abu Ramiz, you may not leave yet,” Steadman said. “We need to clear this up.”

  “I am happy that you listened to my lecture about ‘Abu’ meaning ‘father of,’” Omar Yussef said. “Would you like me to refer to you as Abu Scott, as you suggested, after all?”

  Steadman seemed taken aback by Omar Yussef’s change in direction, and he answered warily. “Yes. Like I told you, I always figured I’d call my son Scott, if I had one. So that makes me the father of Scott. Sure, you can call me Abu Scott.”

  “It is a most appropriate name. In Arabic, Scott means shut up.” Omar Yussef stared at the confused American and the furious government inspector. “Excuse me, but I have a condolence call to pay in Irtas. The husband of one of my former pupils has been killed by political correctness.”

  Chapter 4

  The path through the valley was marked by a languid stream of mourners for the martyr. They sauntered along the track to the Abdel Rahman house, chatting idly. Omar Yussef cursed himself for wearing only a jacket that morning, as the wind rushed down the valley of Irtas and through his tweed. He decided to put on a coat every day until April, no matter how bright the weather looked from his bedroom window when he awoke. He moved as fast as he could, but was passed by almost everyone, though they seemed to be in no hurry. He was thankful at least that he wore a beige flat cap of soft cashmere to warm his bald head and to keep his strands of hair under control in the stiff breeze.

  Omar Yussef came to the end of the path. There were two oil drums with the palm fronds and black flags of mourning bending in the wind. The flags were mounted on bamboo poles and their ends clicked and scratched around inside the barrel as the wind whipped them, as though they thought they could escape. Omar Yussef wound through the rows of men sitting on white plastic garden chairs under the fluttery black tarpaulin of the condolence tent. He joined the queue of men who passed along the family receiving line, limply shaking hands and muttering that Allah would be merciful to Louai Abdel Rahman. At the end of the receiving line was a thin young man with a bony resentful face. Omar Yussef assumed this was the dead fighter’s brother. The kid alternated his fierce glare between the edge of the woods beyond the vegetable patch and the entrance to the family’s house. Omar Yussef held the youth’s hand and asked him where to find Dima Abdel Rahman. He detected a flash of hostility before the young man told him she was inside with the w
omen.

  “Please go and get her. Tell her it’s her old schoolteacher.”

  The young man hesitated, while Omar Yussef kept his hand in his grip. Then he pulled his hand away and went into the house.

  Omar Yussef would have liked to accept a small cup of qahweh sa’ada. Any other time of the year there would have been a teenager circulating with a plastic flask of the unsweetened coffee at a funeral. But it was Ramadan now, and there would be neither coffee nor anything else served until darkness fell. Omar Yussef didn’t need Ramadan to remind him that there were things from which he ought to refrain. He remembered that when he was a student an old woman once slapped his face because he smoked a cigarette on a Damascus street during Ramadan. He ought to have kept her around to batter him every time he did something forbidden. How long, he wondered, would it have taken him to quit alcohol if he’d received a sharp jab to the head every time he sank a scotch on the rocks? Instead, he hadn’t sobered up until his late forties. By that time, the spectacular relish of his early drinking days had vanished. Even he could see that he was pathetic. He had stopped because it embarrassed him to notice men twenty years younger look with pity at his bleary eyes and shaky hands.

  From behind the mourning tent, there were three sharp, loud shots, but only Omar Yussef ducked. He turned quickly to follow the gaze of the other mourners. Along the path came a troop of Aqsa Martyrs Brigades gunmen. A big man who wore a bandoleer across his chest led them. Omar Yussef pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up along his nose and saw that it was Hussein Tamari, the leader of the Martyrs Brigades in Bethlehem. He carried the big gun everyone talked about. Tamari’s head was widest at the bottom, bulky and jowly. He had a thick, black moustache and trim, black hair that seemed of necessity to be short, as there wasn’t much real estate for it to cover. The top of Tamari’s head narrowed to a third of the width of his neck. The tapering, in-bred head seemed to Omar Yussef to be a declaration that his brain wasn’t the source of his swagger.