The Disoriented

by Amin Maalouf

  He paused and sipped his coffee, then added in a solemn tone, “On the other hand, it’s true that if we had shown up timidly, apologizing for the intrusion and asking the Arabs whether they minded making a little room for us, we would have had nothing, we would have been driven out.”

  He paused again for a few seconds, then, for the first time, he looked into the eyes of his favourite sister-in-law. “There is no satisfactory answer to such a question, Colette. How can one cease to be a lamb without becoming a wolf? I am not convinced by the path that the Israelis have taken, but I have no alternative to suggest. So I keep my distance, I hold my tongue, and I pray.”

  He fell silent, as though he were praying. Then, he added in a more cheerful tone, “People here say Deus é brasileiro! When I first came here, I used to smile, but now I think they may be right, even if they don’t believe it themselves. When the Almighty looks down on the world, which country makes Him most proud of His creation and His creatures? Which country makes Him feel glorified and which makes Him feel insulted? I believe that this country, Brazil, is the one He surveys with joy, with pride, and it is our country, over in the Levant, that He surveys with sorrow and anger. Yes, I think my new compatriots are right, Deus é brasileiro. This is the holy land, this is the promised land, and humble Moses that I am, I do not regret leading his people here.”

  Forgive me, Adam, for responding at such length to your short phrase. But I had to do it. To honour the memory of my father, and also to set out my own ideas. Because his words as I have just recounted them to you from memory essentially encapsulate how I feel now. He handed down his vision to me just as he handed down his old books, and I feel as though I am heir to an antiquated wisdom for which our contemporaries no longer have any use. We live in an age of bad faith and entrenched positions. Whether Jew or Arab, we have been left with a choice between hating the other or hating oneself. And if, like me, you had the misfortune to be born both Arab and Jew, you quite simply don’t exist, you don’t even have the right to have existed; you are simply a misunderstanding, a mix-up, a mistake, a false rumour that history has already refuted. And whatever you do, don’t ever dare remind either side that it was in Arabic that Maimonides wrote Guide for the Perplexed!

  Do you think that among our circle of friends—or what remains of it—it is still possible to calmly talk about such things? Could a Jew like me explain the finer points of his opinion without instantly proclaiming himself anti-Israeli or anti-Zionist?

  I ask you, and I ask myself these questions, but I’m not setting them as a condition for coming to the reunion. I would love to see the country again, to see my friends, and if it is impossible to discuss such things calmly, then I won’t discuss them. I would never stoop to saying something I didn’t believe, but I can easily refrain from saying everything I believe. I’ll see the country, I’ll gorge myself on wonderful food, I’ll talk about my childhood memories and avoid contentious subjects.

  Yours faithfully,

  Naïm

  -

  3

  As soon as he had read the long email from his friend and before thinking about how he might reply, Adam opened his notebook to set down some memories.

  I never knew Naïm’s father well, I would say hello and exchange polite pleasantries, but I never had a conversation with him. As I remember, he was tall with tortoiseshell glasses and dark, close-cropped hair. I remember he used to wear brown and white two-tone shoes that must have been fashionable at the time. My lasting impression of him is as a strict man, maybe because his son always spoke in a whisper when he knew he was at home.

  I have a clear memory of the little study where they had that long conversation. Thinking about it, he cannot have been all that strict, since Naïm had no qualms about taking me into his study. We used to play chess there sometimes, sitting in the huge armchairs. We were completely surrounded by books in various languages, some of which looked very old. But I only ever saw the spines, I never opened any of them.

  He closed his notebook, reread the email from beginning to end, then set about replying.

  Dearest Naïm,

  Thank you for taking the time to recount that episode in your life. I was very moved to read it, and as I did, I felt a mixture of sadness and pride.

  The pride has to do with my friends. Or most of them, at least. Since I came back to the country in the circumstances I’ve already explained, I’ve been doing my best to track them down, to rediscover them, often after many years of silence, and I realize that we were the bearers of noble dreams. If I had had any doubts about it, the email you just sent would have been enough to dispel them.

  The sadness has to do with what we have become. How to explain the fact that we had so little impact on events in our country, to say nothing of those of the world? How to explain the fact that we now find ourselves among the losers, the vanquished? Because we are scattered across the globe? Because the voice of wisdom that was ours has become all but inaudible?

  But I’d like to get back to your beautiful letter and the serious theme it addresses so sincerely.

  The conflict that so changed our lives was not a regional feud like so many others, it was not simply a clash between two “neighbouring tribes” ill-used by history. It was infinitely greater than that. It is this conflict, more than any other, that has prevented the Arab world from improving, that has prevented the West and Islam from being reconciled, that has dragged humanity back into ethnic tension, religious fundamentalism, and towards what people these days call “the clash of civilizations.” Yes, Naïm, I am convinced that the conflict that ruined your life and mine is now the painful heart of a tragedy that extends far beyond our generation, far beyond our native land and our region. I am weighing my words carefully when I say that it is because of this conflict that humanity has entered a period of regression rather than progress.

  Am I falling into the all-too-common trap of according too much importance to those things that affect us most deeply? Do you remember how we used to mock the people who, every time there was a clash between two villages in the mountain, would start speculating about what the Americans would do, what the French would say, how the Russians would react, as though the rest of the world had nothing better to do? As a historian, with a keen sense of the relative nature of things, I have always refrained from saying—or even thinking—that the conflict in the Middle East managed to deflect the march of humanity towards a different destination.

  But, in trying so hard to avoid making one ludicrous mistake, we risk falling into the trap of oversimplification, so brilliantly summed up by our proverb “Ma sar chi, ma sar metlo.” It’s one I frequently teach my students, translating it in my own manner as “Everything that happens inevitably resembles something that has already happened.” Then I vehemently refute it, since the realities of today are never those of yesterday, and similarities can be more deceptive than instructive.

  In this case, it is safe to say that, in the history of the Jewish people spanning three or four millennia, the 1940s, which witnessed their attempted extermination, the defeat of Nazism, and the founding of the State of Israel, is the most dramatic and the most significant decade of all.

  Your father told you as much, and I believe it as firmly as he did: at the time that you and I were born, a cataclysm had just occurred that would have both regional and global consequences, that would inevitably shatter our lives, and about which there was absolutely nothing that we could do.

  In an ideal world, things might have happened differently. The Jews would have come to Palestine explaining that their ancestors had lived there two thousand years earlier, that they had been driven out by the Roman emperor Titus, and that they had now decided to return; and the Arabs who lived there would have said, “Of course, come in, you’re welcome here. We’ll give you half the country and we’ll live in the other half.”

  In the real world, things were never
going to happen like that. When the Arabs realized that Jewish immigration was not limited to a handful of refugees, but was an organized mission to appropriate the country, they reacted as any populace would: by taking up arms to prevent it. But they were beaten. Every time there was a clash, they were beaten. I can’t begin to count the number of defeats they have suffered. But what is certain is that this series of catastrophes gradually destabilized the Arab world, and then the whole of the Muslim world. Destabilized both in the political and in the clinical sense. No one comes through a series of public humiliations unscathed. Every Arab bears the mark of a profound trauma, and I include myself in this. But this Arabic trauma, seen from the far shore, the European shore, the shore I have adopted, elicits only incomprehension and suspicion.

  In the “appeal” that you recounted, your father put his finger on a crucial truth: after the Second World War, the West discovered the horrors of the camps, the horrors of antisemitism; meanwhile, to Arab eyes, the Jews did not look like brutalized, emaciated, unarmed civilians, they looked like an invading army, well equipped, well organized, and ruthlessly efficient.

  And in the succeeding decades, this difference in perception merely became more pronounced. In the West, acknowledging the monstrous nature of the massacre perpetrated by the Nazis became a decisive element in the contemporary moral conscience, and this translated into material and moral support for the state in which the persecuted Jewish populations found refuge. Meanwhile, in the Arab world, where Israel won a series of victories, against the Egyptians, the Syrians, the Jordanians, the Lebanese, the Palestinians, the Iraqis, and even against the assembled Arab nations, people did not see things in the same light.

  The result, and this is what I was coming to, is that the conflict with Israel disengaged Arabs from the conscience of the world, or at least the conscience of the West, which almost amounts to the same thing.

  I recently read this passage by an Israeli ambassador about his career during the 1950s and ’60s: “Our mission was delicate, because we had to simultaneously persuade the Arabs that Israel was invincible, and persuade the West that Israel was on the point of death.” In hindsight, it has to be said that in this contradictory mission, the diplomat and his colleagues were spectacularly successful. So it should hardly be surprising that the Western and the Arabic worlds do not see the state of Israel or the Jewish people in the same light.

  But, obviously, the work of diplomats alone does not explain this difference in perception. Objectively there are two separate, parallel tragedies. Most people, however, both Jewish and Arabs, acknowledge only one. How can one explain to the Jews, who throughout history have suffered persecution and humiliation and, in the mid-twentieth century, were the victims of attempted extermination, that they should be more attentive to the sufferings of others? How can one tell the Arabs, who are now enduring the darkest and most humiliating period of their history, who have suffered defeat upon defeat at the hands of Israel and its allies, who feel despised and scorned throughout the world, that they should be mindful of the tragedy of the Jewish people?

  Those, like you and me, who are profoundly sensitive to these two “rival tragedies” are few in number. And, of all the Jews and all the Arabs, they are—we are—the most miserable, the most distraught. There are times when I genuinely envy those from either camp, who can say without scruples: Let my people triumph, let the others go to hell!

  But I’ll stop there. We’ll soon have opportunity enough to share our misfortunes. Especially at the reunion that I am trying to organize.

  On that subject, things are beginning to take shape. I’ve just spent twenty-four hours with our old friend Ramez. We had lunch together and afterwards he flew me in his private jet—oh, yes—to Amman, and you can just imagine the kind of “hovel” he lives in … I’ll tell you more about the visit either by email, or in person. Right now, I just wanted to say that he was very excited when I mentioned the possibility of our old friends meeting up again. We can count on him being there, together with his wife, Dunia, who to my mind will fit into the group as though she were always part of it.

  On the other hand, the other Ramz is unlikely to come. I don’t know whether you know, but Ramzi has withdrawn from the world to become a monk. It happened a little more than a year ago. He and Ramez had built up a veritable empire, he had made a fortune, and then one day, he decided to give it all up to go and live as an ascetic in a monastery in the mountains. These days he’s called “Brother Basil.” I don’t know whether to admire him or pity him. The cynics talk about depression, and maybe they’re right. But there are too many cynics in this world—and far too many in this country; personally, I prefer to think that our friend faced up to genuine spiritual and ethical questions.

  His “alter ego” has not gotten over it; the mere mention of Ramzi’s name brings tears to his eyes. Ramez has visited him just once, and was given short shrift.

  I’m planning to try and visit anyway. To talk to Ramzi about the planned reunion. I doubt he’ll want to join us. But if he’s prepared to see me and explain his reasons, I can at least tell our friends what he said. In that way, he won’t be completely absent …

  It was at this point in his writing that Sémiramis called to tell him the hotel restaurant would be closed that night for a private party, and she had asked for some food to be sent up to her house. She was calling from her little terrace, the table was laid, and she invited him to join her.

  “I was just writing an email to Naïm.”

  “You can finish it later. I’m waiting for you. I’ve opened the champagne. If you don’t come soon, it will lose its fizz …”

  “Hang on to the fizz, Sémi, I’ll just finish this email and send it and I’ll join you. It won’t take more than five minutes.”

  He returned to his screen.

  The beautiful Sémiramis is pressuring me. And this letter is already too long, but there are two more things I wanted to say.

  First, I’m delighted that you want to see the country again after all these years and I can’t wait to go with you when you visit your old houses, the one in the city and the one up in the mountain—a hotbed of depravity, from what you’ve said. Since the statute of limitations is long past, I’m expecting a detailed confession.

  Secondly, at this point it would be useful, in fact urgent, to start thinking about specific dates for this reunion. What do you think about the last week of May or the first week of June? Today is April 27, Mourad died on the night of April 20-21, the “fortieth night” falls on May 31, so I’d suggest we meet around that time, ideally for a long weekend …

  If that works for you, let me know and I’ll get in touch with the others tomorrow. I don’t yet know exactly how many of us will be there. Albert hasn’t replied to my last email yet, but I’m hopeful. Obviously, Tania and Sémi will be there, Ramez and his wife, probably Nidal, the brother of poor Bilal, and you and me … Actually, are you planning on bringing someone—the “default option,” as software designers call it—or coming on your own? I’m going to try and persuade my partner, Dolores, to come; I hope she’ll agree to step away from her magazine, even if it’s just for forty-eight hours …

  I have to go now. Much love,

  Adam

  He pressed Send and rushed to join Sémiramis in her little house.

  She had left the front door open.

  -

  The Ninth Day

  -

  1

  Adam returned to his room early the next morning, his mind comfortably numb, his eyes still a little heavy with sleep. He would have liked to relax, perhaps even doze in the warm breeze. But, out of habit rather than necessity, he sat down in front of his computer and pressed the power button.

  Among his emails, there was one he had been impatiently waiting for and immediately opened. Signed “Dolores,” it had been sent at about three o’clock in the morning.

 
My love,

  I’m having trouble getting to sleep tonight and the loneliness is weighing on me. You have hardly been gone a week, but in the anguish of our empty apartment, I suddenly felt as though you had left months ago, and forever.

  This isn’t the first time one of us has gone abroad without the other. But this separation seems different. You feel very far away. Not just far from Paris, from our home, our bedroom. You feel far from our shared world. I feel as though you have gone back to a previous world, one that I never knew and in which I have no place. The sheets on our bed seem suddenly cold, and the blanket is not enough to keep me warm. I need to rest my head on your shoulder, but you shoulder isn’t here.

  It was clear that you were dreading this trip. If someone doesn’t visit his native land for a quarter of a century, it is not because he can’t make time. Plainly, you were worried about what feelings might be stirred up by seeing the places and the people of your former life. I could feel your anxiety last Friday, after the early morning phone call from your friend, but I still urged you to go.

  For two reasons. The first, I told you at the time, being that when a friend, or even a “former friend,” asks for you on his deathbed, you have no right to hesitate. The second reason I did not mention, but it has been on my mind for a long time, perhaps since we first met at Pancho’s birthday party eight years ago and had that long conversation. When you confessed you hadn’t once set foot in your native land since you left, I found the idea strange and unhealthy. Especially as you’d made it clear that you were at no risk if you went back, you were not likely to be killed or arrested, it was simply a “position” you had adopted, because your country had let you down. I felt that your position was unhealthy, perhaps even slightly pathological and I promised myself I would “cure” you. More than once, I suggested we go there on holiday, so you could show me where you had lived, but every time you shied away, you suggested we go elsewhere and I didn’t want to insist—even though I was more certain than ever that there was something wrong.