“He’s the strongest person in the village right now. You know him. He’s your age,” Ashraf says, and adds Bassel’s family name. “Believe me, if anyone is negotiating with the police or the army about this whole situation, it’s bound to be him and not the mayor.”
6
The village is completely still. The heavy midday heat has chased everyone indoors. Like us, most people must have discovered that the best way to avoid hunger and thirst is to take a nap. In our house everyone’s sprawled out, whether on the beds or on mattresses on the floor. My younger brother and I chose the living room sofas. Apart from the two small children, nobody is sleeping. Everyone seems to be deep in thought about the situation but prefers not to discuss it with the others. What good could it do to share our concerns? I try to think of ways of getting hold of more water. The use of force won’t help when it comes to a family that has no record of fights or violence. I wonder what would happen if we dug some water holes in the village. Maybe the groundwater would rise to the surface and give enough not only for us but for everyone. And maybe there are pipes running under our land, leading from the reservoirs and the rivers of the Galilee to the cities in the center and the desert in the south. If people here could get their act together, maybe they could still come up with a constructive idea for the water supply. Obviously it won’t be enough to have just one person or one family digging. There has to be full cooperation. Except that nothing could cause the villagers to cooperate now. They’ll only go for a quick fix. I hope the ones who stole our water die of poisoning!
Food is less of a problem than water. True, there’s hardly any land left in the village to plant things on — crops that could give us something to eat — but for now, we haven’t run out yet, and maybe we could hunt birds. In my mind’s eye I see scenes of our childhood — mine and my brothers’. We spent whole days trying to catch pigeons and other birds, using a box, a stick and a piece of string. All you needed was some patience. I try to take my mind off the food, I try not to think about water, because it only makes me thirstier. Actually I’ve had nothing to drink since last night. Everyone else has had one glass but I decided to do without, like a kind of model of sacrifice. Not that anyone paid special attention to me. Luckily, I still have some cigarettes, the only thing I don’t skimp on because I know very well that everything else will run out long before the cigarettes do. And what’s the good of having cigarettes when you’ve got no water?
I get up slowly, take the pack of cigarettes and go outside to have one. My younger brother sees me and gets up too without making a sound. The two of us light up. He’s much less scared of my father now. “If he catches me smoking out here, I’ll tell him I just started because people told me it makes you forget your hunger and thirst,” he quips, and I don’t say a word.
“What do you think?” my brother begins, and I nod and feel my whiskers with my left hand. “I don’t know, but it’s got to end. It can’t go on for even one more day.”
“What are they saying on the radio? You do still listen to the news, don’t you?”
“They aren’t saying anything. Judging by all the panels and the experts talking about Israeli Arabs, it’s obvious that there’s a big problem, because they keep referring to us as a threat, as something that calls for a solution, but they haven’t said anything about what’s happening.”
“Tell me, are they interviewing any Arabs?”
“Not a single one. Which is scary too. And it seems like everyone is in the same boat, not just our village.”
“What, even the MKs and the mayors?”
“Not a single Arab is being interviewed. Nothing. It must have something to do with the new security orders. Besides, maybe they can’t get hold of us. How can they get hold of the mayor? No chance.”
“Strange. The defense minister’s supposed to be a friend of his, isn’t he? How many plates of hummus did they share?” my brother asks.
“Yes, but if this is everybody’s problem, maybe it’s a good sign. I mean, they can’t keep all the Arab villages in this condition much longer. They’re certainly not planning to starve everyone to death. Something enormous must have happened.”
“What? Israeli Arabs got control of the Defense Ministry?”
“Something like that.”
“And maybe someone from our village is holding the prime minister hostage with a knife and they’re holding on to all of us till he’s released,” my brother says with a laugh, and this time I laugh too.
“All I know is I’ve lost a year of school,” he says.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “They’ll schedule a special makeup exam for the Arabs.”
7
My younger brother and I sit on the front steps and look out over the village, which is waking up with a start. The midday nap has run its course, and everyone’s back on their feet. All at once, as if an alarm bell has rung, the streets are crowded. First the children and then the adults. The children are hungry. Luckily for our two, we still have some food left and they don’t feel the shortages the way we do. My wife goes outside carrying the baby and shaking a bottle of formula. I restrain myself, trying not to scream at her for doing something so stupid. I whisper softly in her ear that we don’t want the whole world to know we have baby formula left. As if she’s suddenly grasped a very deep idea, she rushes back inside. But it’s too late. A neighbor has seen her and rushes over to where we’re sitting outdoors. “I beg you, I have nothing to give my children. Please let me have some milk.”
“We have barely half a carton left,” I lie to her. “Not enough for the baby for even one more day.”
“Please, just two tablespoons,” she says. “For my little one. She’s starving.”
A crowd is gathering at the entrance to our house, watching the drama unfold. “We don’t have any,” I tell her. “I wish we did.” I speak louder to make sure they can all hear me. I know perfectly well that if I give her any, even a small amount, if won’t end there. Everyone’s going to want some. “You don’t understand.” By now I’m shouting. “Leave us alone. You’re the last thing we need now.” But she persists. The short, overweight neighbor who never visited us — and we never visited her either — is suddenly convinced that we owe it to her to give her some food. It isn’t a request anymore, it’s a demand, a right we’re depriving her of. “But I saw you had food,” she yells, well aware that everyone is listening. “If I hadn’t seen it, I might believe you.”
“And I’m telling you this is all we have. Our daughter has nothing left after this bottle.”
Now my entire family joins me outside, except for my wife — the one who’s really to blame for this new development, but I can’t really take it out on her. “What do you want?” my father intervenes now. “Go away. What is this, a public spectacle?”
“Give her some milk,” someone in the crowd shouts, and I recognize the voice of the polite grocery store owner, whom we’ve known for many years. “You bought out half the store yourself,” he yells, and the neighbor confronting us draws strength from this reinforcement. She looks determined, with no intention of leaving before her demand is met. Her eyes are mean, and I get the feeling that her real aim isn’t so much to feed her children as to increase her supply of food. Hungry children cry, and we haven’t heard any of hers crying yet.
Dozens of people are standing around, waiting for the show to run its course. The neighbor yells something that we can’t make out, curses and tries to force her way into our house. “I’ll get it myself,” she yells. I grab her fat body and try to stop her. She’s very strong and I have a hard time restraining her.