By our souls, by our blood,
We will ransom you, O Bobby!
To cut a long story short, people, they dug a grave for the dog and buried him. He was the first dog martyr of the cause.’
‘I’ve heard that story before, Jumaa. I don’t want to ruin it for you. But the truth of it is that he wasn’t any braver or more patriotic than other dogs. He just knew that the Jew wasn’t from the camp and didn’t belong. That’s all. Then he attacked. I remember the dog. I was pretty broken up about it when he died.’
‘God have mercy on that dog’s soul. What do you think, Abu Fadi, do you think Israel’s ever going to pull out of Gaza?’
‘Yes, Abu Faruq. It wants to leave. Sharon’s as sick and tired of Gaza as everyone else who came before. He wants to get rid of Gaza — not because he gives a damn about the people who live here, but so that he can hold all the keys himself and slam the door shut whenever he wants to.’
‘Damned if they occupy us and damned if they pull out!’
Suddenly, I start thinking about Salim Abu Shanab, a journalist I met in Tunis years ago. And I remember a story he told me when I visited him three days ago at the press office he works at. We had been talking about the current situation, analysing it from so many angles that it began to dissolve on our tongues. I asked him whether he agreed that a kind of tribalism — or clannishness — had returned to Gaza after so many years. I asked whether he agreed that this mindset had crept into everyone’s heads now, including intellectuals’ who should know better. He leaned back in his chair, took a long drag of his cigarette, then answered, ‘Listen, my friend. It’s easy to explain. If no one’s got your back, you’re dead. Look at me, I write all the time in a lot of papers. I appear on television. I have personally gone after the PA. I have been critical of Hamas as well — but no one can touch me. And that’s because before anyone is going to come after you, they’re going to size you up. Who are you? Who are you related to? Who’s got your back? How strong is your family? Are you with the PA? And so on. Listen, let me tell you a story that will explain how it works. There was a Hamas preacher called Abul-Sibhat, because of all the prayer beads he played with. The guy attacked me all the time. Every Friday, this guy had nothing better to do than abuse me. During his sermon, he’d go on and on about this heretical apostate journalist Abu Muhannad, meaning yours truly. One Friday, my cousin Bassam — he’s a really good guy, you’d like him — was praying in Abul-Subuhat’s mosque. Bassam listened to the man attack me like he did every week. The microphone was turned up so loud you could hear it all the way to the outskirts of Rafah Camp. Bassam waited after prayers and then went up to the guy. He says: “God bless you, sheikh.” The guy must have thought Bassam had come to thank him for the great sermon, so he replies: “God bless you too. Welcome, dear brother.” So my cousin says, “Do you know who that heretic Salim Abu Shanab is?” Abul-Subuhat strokes his beard from top to bottom and gently answers: “Let’s not talk about that apostate. May the curses of God be upon him!” “Listen up, you old coot,” my cousin shouts. Then Bassam starts yelling at the sheikh while sparks shoot out of his eyes, “That man — the one you say is an apostate — he’s my cousin. He’s part of my family. We’re the Abu Shanabs — don’t forget the name. If you ever utter anything negative about him, I’m going to rip your beard out. Even if you surround yourself with twenty other old sheikhs and a hundred militiamen, I’ll come in here and break your knees.”
‘“Salim Abu Shanab’s your cousin?” the sheikh asks, squirming like a cockroach in a drain. Of course, he never expected that someone would speak to him like that. Our pious brother had built his entire reputation on abusing me. He put on a caliph’s cloak and built a small kingdom for himself in a mosque while gathering followers around him. And every Friday, they’d entertain themselves cursing the Satan of the Press as they used to call me. The devil of the secular apostates. And now along comes someone who doesn’t only hold him accountable for what he says, but chastises him for it too. Our sheikh friend starts to tremble. As he tries to justify himself, his beard sweeps back and forth on the ground like a soft broom, “Did I say something wrong?” My cousin Bassam reminds him of all the punishments he is going to suffer if he doesn’t quit. The old man is shaking and stuttering as he utters the most earnest of oaths: “I swear to God, I swear to God, if I’d known Salim was your cousin, I would have kept my thoughts about him to myself.” “I don’t want you to speak about him. I don’t want you to have any thoughts about him either. Do you hear me, old man? Or do you want me to bury you upside down in the sand?”
‘You know what happened after that? Every time that sheikh saw my cousin, he’d ask: “How’s Salim, I mean, Abu Muhannad? Please send him my best wishes and kindest regards.”’
The memory of this conversation makes me suddenly laugh out loud. Abu Hatem turns to me and asks, ‘What’s so funny, Abu Fadi? You don’t like the conversation?’
‘Not at all. Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion, cousin.’
When the party shuts down, I turn the recorder off. There is enough dialogue here to fill ten pages.
18
Abu Hatem takes me on a tour of Gaza City so I can see my friend Muhammad Khadija. On the way there, I cannot stop thinking about Adel El-Bashity. I thought I was done with it. I thought I had handed the keys back to their owner. But as soon as I thought about it again, I began to realize I was mistaken. There were so many unanswered questions. Had the keys to Leila’s heart rusted after all these years? Or might they still open that door? Or would she keep away from the whole thing, given how scandalous a reunion might be? Or would it be he who backed off when he finally began to face the absurdity of those feelings he’d carried around for so many years?
All of a sudden Adel seemed cheap to me. He had used me at our meeting. I had handed him the keys that would unlock an old, neglected room in his heart. I had paved the way for him to enjoy the remainder of his days. And up till now, Adel had not even called to thank me. By now, he has met his Leila. He must have. If he had not, my mobile would be ringing the whole time, with him asking me to resume the search for Leila. It is just like the Palestinian — Israeli negotiations — they are always resumed one way or another. Sometimes they go forward, sometimes they falter, but even then, they’re resumed, and we all breathe a sigh of relief to know they have not yet died. And then they stumble again.
Why get upset about Adel El-Bashity? Don’t we say, Saw his girl, forgot the world? And besides, we were not even friends to begin with. We had only met because he was searching for Leila. That is the extent of it.
The fact is I liked Adel El-Bashity more in my novel than I did in real life. The fictional character was more authentic. And besides, what do you hope for from authenticity when the character departs from the text and begins to get mixed up with the real Adel? Isn’t that what happened when the three of us sat there in the Andalus Hotel Café, talking about Leila? Didn’t Adel find his two beings at that moment? Didn’t the two versions join together at that moment to rebel against me, the author?