Abu Hatem agrees to let the matter drop while I try to digest this news, the second shock I have felt since my arrival.
17
On another night in Khan Yunis, another guest descends upon us. Who it was that beckoned him, I do not know. It may well have been Abu Faruq, who was introduced to me on the night of the feast. The man who would not stop telling everybody that he was Abu Hatem’s pharmacist friend. It was probably him, but it could have been any one of the thirty or so relatives who had come to spend the evening with us. In any case, I did hear someone beckon the illustrious guest, even if he did not actually mention the man by name. All he had to do was say ‘the pride of the Arabs’ and everyone knew who he was talking about.
Saddam Hussein? Now it’s getting good, I tell myself as I switch on the tiny digital recorder I have been carrying in my shirt pocket. The only part of the device that shows is a gold clip that looks like it’s part of an expensive pen. The words are still in my mouth when a voice booms out from the middle of the room. ‘Nothing has fucked us up like that buddy of yours, Abu Faruq.’
So it was the pharmacist who said it? I turn to see how Abu Faruq is going to respond to the challenge.
‘He is, despite what you and others might say, the best of the best. A real Arab.’ Abu Faruq’s voice rises above the bubbling of the shisha and the murmuring of the men. And then he throws the ball in my lap. ‘What do you think, Abu Fadi? You’re a journalist. You know better than us.’
I exhale, the thick smoke rises into the air. I take cover in a non-committal answer. ‘I didn’t come to talk, Abu Faruq. I came to listen.’ I let my recorder run, taping the evening’s conversation.
‘Abu Faruq, what’s so brave about hiding an old missile or two, and then firing them on Israel and sending everyone in the region to hell, Iraq included?’
‘Shakir, who was the one who helped you at the start of the Intifada?’
‘You mean: who was paying people to carry his photo around on placards? Who was ruining our reputation throughout the whole world? Fifty dollars for anyone hit by a rubber bullet. One hundred dollars for a real bullet. Two to four thousand for your family if you die. It doesn’t matter if you’re injured or killed — all that matters is that someone gets hit. The money’s there, waiting to be spent. Then, one day the money’s all gone and all we’re left with are our dead and crippled. Gaza’s full of them. How did this help our cause?’
‘OK, let’s not get too hung up about Saddam and his bombs. Listen, I want to tell you about what happened to me one night when I was coming back from Tel Aviv.’
‘Don’t try to change the subject, Abu Hatem.’
‘Majdi, habibi, listen. We talk about the Saddam phenomenon all the time, let me tell my story and you’ll see. Abu Fadi, this really happened to me during the First Intifada. I got to Beit Hanoun crossing at about 1 in the morning. Luckily for me, the soldier on duty was this gorgeous Indian girl. She looked just like the actress in that film Singam, way back when there used to be cinemas in Gaza. God have mercy on us these days! Remember when Gazans could play hooky by going to the movies? Where was I? The Jewish girl. The Indian girl. Right when she puts the magnetic strip of my ID card into the computer, the screen goes dead. I say to myself: That’s it, the central computer’s down, I’m going to have to spend the night here. The girl asks me: “Do you have a permit?” I say: “I swear. It’s in my ID.” But she doesn’t understand what I’m saying, so I tell her to call the officer in charge. He comes over, stretching and yawning. “Where you coming from, khabibi?” he says. I tell him I’m coming from a friend’s wedding in Tel Aviv. He starts typing and says: “Wait here.” Then he sees something that tells him I’m good to go. I let him mess around with his computer and decide to call Mr Sha’ul, the guy whose house I was at. At first he is bent out of shape because I’m calling him so late. Then he asks: “Efo ata, Abu Khatem? What’s going on? Where are you?” I tell him I’m at the crossing and that they’re not letting me through. He says: “Put the officer on the phone.” I give the phone to the officer and they start talking. Next thing you know, these guys are laughing their heads off and chatting away. After about five minutes, he tells the Indian girclass="underline" “Let him through.” The point is, everyone, Mr. Sha’ul and I were like friends. Even closer. We worked together for fifteen years or so. We worked together throughout the First Intifada. Throughout the founding of the PA. And then things got bad. One time we were even thrown into jail together. OK, we weren’t incarcerated, but we were detained. The army tried to hold us for taxes we paid or didn’t pay. The point is: we suffered and succeeded together. He used to come visit me in Rafah when the garment factory was there. He came to see me in Khan Yunis when it was too dangerous for me to go to him. What I mean is this: we had a real relationship. A friendship through thick and thin. He must be seventy by now. Could I have another coal for my arghileh, Abul-Nun?’
Everybody calls Abu Hatem’s son, Nabil, ‘Abul-Nun’. Nabil comes over, carrying hot coals in a metal colander, and puts some on each arghileh.
Hassan Dahman works in a garment factory in one of the settlements close to Khan Yunis. Now he picks up the thread of the conversation and begins to embroider on the subject of bilateral relations. ‘Back during the First Intifada, cousin, the Jews used to come to visit us. They used to come to our weddings and bring their children with them. They’d come to congratulate the bride and groom. They’d come to the wedding and dance with us. None of us had any problems with anything.’
‘Yeah, it’s the Second Intifada that ruined everything. All the dying, the shooting and suicide bombs. That’s what blew up everything we had, Hassan.’
‘That’s right. If only the Intifadas hadn’t happened. If only we’d stuck to the old slogan of a secular, democratic state — the two peoples would have been assimilated into one another by now. You know, a lot of Palestinians married Jewish girls and got citizenship.’
‘You’re dreaming, Abu Hatem! Your mind is all mixed up by Uncle Sha’ul and all the business you do.’
‘You’re mistaken, Abu Jalal. The First Intifada revived the Israeli left and made it stronger.’
‘So the First Intifada fixed all our problems? I beg to differ. The Intifada is what fucked us up good. The First Intifada brought us Oslo, right? And Oslo brought us the PA, right? Go look outside and see all the thuggery and corruption the PA brought to the country. Then it fucked itself up and left us with nothing but occupation.’
‘The First Intifada was a popular insurrection. Everyone got involved. Even dogs took part in the struggle. Who else remembers what Abu Khaled’s dog did during the First Intifada?’
When no one answers, he goes on. ‘Apparently I’m the only one who knows it. I heard the story from folks in Breij Camp.’
‘Tell us the story then, Jumaa,’ someone finally calls out. Others chime in, inviting him to go on.
‘One day, the chief Israeli commander is touring Breij Camp in his jeep. The jeep stops and he gets out of the vehicle. Back in the day, Abu Khaled El-Jirjani had a dog called Bobby. Bobby sees the officer and begins to bark at him. When the kids in the neighbourhood notice, they start cheering Bobby on, clapping and whistling: “Bite him, Bobby! Eat him up, chew his bones!” The dog gets riled up even more and begins to bark louder and louder. The next thing you know, Bobby’s flying through the air. He’s like a panther pouncing on the officer, locking his jaws on the man. At first the Israeli is completely stunned, then he manages to grab his gun and he shoots Bobby. Then he jumps into his jeep and takes off as fast as he can, while the poor dog lies dying in a pool of his own blood. Those kids went and picked up Bobby’s body. I swear to you, those kids picked up that dog and put him on their shoulders like they were carrying the body of a soldier who’d been killed on the battlefield. Of course, the Jews couldn’t do anything to stop them from doing it. Those kids went around saying that Bobby was a true patriotic hero. They were crying, with real tears in their eyes, and singing.