“Let’s assume you can file the suit. Can the judgment be made in absentia? And does international law allow you to demand that the accused be handed over? What about state sovereignty and the immunity of national leaders?”
“The basic principle of internationally binding legislation gives states the right for their courts to investigate the most flagrant cases, specifically crimes of massacre, torture, war crimes, and crimes against humanity, even if these crimes occurred outside of their territories and if there is no direct link between these states and the criminal, the victim, or the site of the crime. Those who have immunity today, because they are prime ministers or ministers, will lose their immunity after a year or two. Now I’ll give you the other, more difficult example: imagine if the legislation that we expect will be promulgated, for which we are already seeing good omens, imagine if it allowed us to bring a case concerning Tantoura. Our mother could bring it: there’s the massacre, a war crime, and a crime against humanity. There’s the plunder, which requires compensation for the village lands, fields, plantings, and animals that they seized, and for the houses and furnishings.”
“Will we give up the right of return?”
“Of course not. That’s the right for you to return to your country. They threw us out, and we have the right to return. They plundered our private possessions, so we have the right to go to court to reclaim them.”
“Who would you bring the case against, in this instance? Would it fail because of how much time has passed? Most of the leaders of the Israeli army in ’48 have died, maybe all of them.”
“This point is subject to research, and we need dozens of things to research it: we need capable jurists, researchers, and historians, and we need to convince the residents of the usefulness of making the claim. Filing a suit is expensive, but I’m not talking about filing suits now, because that comes later and our project may not take part in it directly. We only want to prepare the ground, in the sense of a), researching the legal grounds; b), forming a network of residents whose interests are affected, on the one hand, and of capable jurists and lawyers who want to participate in the project, on the other; and c), setting up a database of documents and studies that will permit us to file suits in the future. Imagine, Brother, if a person or a group of people from a Palestinian village that was destroyed, where the lands and the residents’ possessions were plundered, brought suits — the courts would have 418 cases at the least. If the residents of the villages that experienced massacres brought suits, we have before us twenty massacres, some bigger than those in Tantoura and Deir Yasin. These massacres are well known, but researchers might discover others no one recorded.”
Sadiq was now pacing back and forth. He stammered, “You’re dreaming, Brother, by God, you’re dreaming. If only we could get our rights by law — who among us would choose all this blood?” He sat down suddenly and said, “Why didn’t you mention the case of the massacre in Sabra and Shatila, and the kidnap victims, when you have a direct interest in it, you and me and Hasan and Mother and Maryam?”
“There are ten files on the schedule, each of which has a probable case that needs work, including Sabra and Shatila, of course. Maybe the whole idea came to me when I was thinking about what happened in Acre Hospital. In short, Brother, we need time, we need money, and we need to work night and day.”
“And what will you do if none of these regulations that you are counting on is issued?”
“They will be issued, all the indications are that they will. In fact, a law of this kind was issued a few months ago in Belgium, but it’s not sufficient.”
“What if you file a case and a second and a third, and lose them, or what if contrary regulations were issued, limiting cases of this kind?”
“That could happen. You’re as likely as not to lose when you embark on a new project. But then the cases will generate public opinion, informing people of these crimes.”
“What people?”
“In Europe.”
“They can go to hell, they’re complicit. These crimes happen before their very eyes and they don’t lift a finger.”
“That’s an oversimplification, Brother. People in general are not that bad. There are giant corporations with vested interests who are murderers, prepared to go to any length. Then there are people, the mass of people, ordinary people who want to live securely, to raise their kids and to enjoy small pleasures, a soccer match, or two weeks of laziness on a sunny beach. People who are concerned and who feel real pain when they see children killed unjustly. They aren’t animals, just people like you and me, and sometimes better, because they haven’t experienced the violence that would breed violence in them.”
46
The Chain
I burst out laughing, and I laughed so much I had to hold my sides. I said, “You’re incredible, Abed!” We were sipping coffee, about to leave for the airport to see him off.
Sadiq said, “Be sure you have your passport and your plane ticket. Be sure you didn’t leave your wallet or any of your cards. Be sure …”
Maryam laughed. “Sadiq, why do you insist on treating us as if we were kids?”
Saying goodbye is hard. I think that I’ve gotten used to it, and then when the time comes, I discover that that’s a delusion. Abed looked at his watch. “We’re leaving in ten minutes, aren’t we? Five minutes and I’ll be ready.” He went into the room where he slept and came out carrying his small leather bag, hung over his shoulder, with a thick nylon case for the suit his brother had given him in his left hand, and a nylon bag in his right.
Sadiq commented, “What wrong with a suitcase? Wouldn’t that be better than having something in each hand, like this?”
Abed put down the bag with the suit next to him and opened the other bag, saying, “This bag is for you, it’s gifts.”
“What gifts?”
“The gifts I brought for you.”
“And you’re giving them to us now, when you’re leaving?”
“I forgot. I missed you so much that when I saw you, I forgot!”
I laughed, and kept on laughing as I saw Abed give Maryam and Sadiq and his wife and children their gifts. When he extended his hand to me with a very small bag, smaller than half my palm, I was still laughing.
He said, “It’s a silver chain.”
I spread it on my palm to look at it.
Abed said, as he kissed my head, “I’ll tell you the story of it on the way.”
He wanted to keep me from becoming emotional over it. He plunged into a long story about his Iraqi friend Mustafa, who designed the chain for him. Mustafa is a Kurd but his teacher Yahya Nasir is a Sabian, do you know who the Sabians are? He talked about the Sabians, and about Yahya Nasir who taught Mustafa silversmithing. He talked about Mustafa’s family, living in Kurdistan, in Iraq, and he talked about the Kurds. He said that Mustafa is a visual artist and not a silversmith by trade, but that he designed the pendant. He said, “He’s a genius.” He talked about his art, about the show he had in Paris, and how dazzled people were. He talked about how he met him, and how he became his friend. He talked about when he left Iraq and why he left it, and how he moved around in a number of countries until he eventually settled in Paris. Abed did not stop talking until we went into the airport and he had only enough time left to kiss us, to say goodbye, and to pass to the other side of the wall.
On the way back Maryam started talking endlessly, like her brother. She talked for half the trip, and then the words stopped. She said, “Shall I sing for you?”
Sadiq said, “No.” We made the rest of the trip in silence.