The Shahid's Widow

by Danny Bar

  The Shahid’s Widow

  Danny Bar

  Copyright © 2018 Danny Bar

  All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.

  Contact: dannybar2013@gmail.com

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  About the Author

  Message from the Author

  1

  “Do you read me, Amos?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “A terrorist attack in Tel Aviv.”

  “Where?” asked Amos, becoming alert.

  “Tel Aviv, Dizengoff Street, corner of King George.”

  “Any casualties?”

  “MCI level 3,” the female voice continued, “it’s a mass casualty incident.”

  “Roger that,” replied Amos, “I’m on my way,” he added. Then hit the gas and set the emergency lights blinking.

  A burdensome silence settled on the radio.

  Jamil stood next to the pharmacy on Dizengoff Street and examined the chaos around him with a cold, detached gaze, as if it wasn’t of his own doing. He wrapped his arms around Issam, his cousin, and kissed his cheeks over and over.

  “Your time has come, cousin. Go and meet the fate that Allah has destined for you,” he dealt him one last kiss on the mouth and turned his eyes aside.

  Issam clung to his embrace, refusing to let go. He trembled from head to toe, could barely stand on his feet and sought the support of Jamil’s shoulder.

  Jamil showed no mercy, “Stop whining” he rebuked Issam and pushed him away.

  “Jamil, I’m frightened. One is already gone,” Issam pleaded, his voice cracking.

  “Shame on you!” Jamil raised his voice and contemptuously shook off the hand resting on his shoulder.

  “Look!” Issam cried and opened his hand in desperation.

  Jamil ignored Issam’s plea and firmly disentangled himself from Issam’s arms, “Go!”

  Issam lingered a moment longer, then he picked up the bag from the floor, connected the activation switch and with cries of “Allahu akbar!” ran toward the crowd. He disappeared in a cloud of fire and dust right in front of Jamil’s eyes.

  The second blast was powerful and spread ruin and devastation. Not a single muscle twitched on Jamil’s face. The screaming of the wounded accompanied him on his way to his white Subaru with Israeli plates, waiting for him on Shapira Street. Jamil heard the screaming, but completely blotted them out of his heart, sealing it from everything taking place around him.

  He turned on the radio and tuned in to the Israeli radio broadcasts in Arabic, then took out a cigarette from his shirt pocket, opened the window and lit it. A patrol car hurtled in front of him, its beacons flashing.

  “Too late, idiots,” he chuckled aloud, “the horses have already left the barn.”

  Suddenly, a newsflash interrupted the radio show. Jamil tensed and reached to turn up the volume.

  We interrupt this program for a special news bulletin. Two blasts have just been heard on Dizengoff Street in Tel Aviv. There are reports of multiple casualties in what appears to have been a combined attack carried out by two suicide bombers. Police are conducting a manhunt in an attempt to capture a third terrorist who drove the other two to the site of the attack. We’ll continue to update with more details as soon as they become available.

  Jamil smiled contentedly to himself as he drove down Highway 35, across Judea, and then took the turn heading to Hebron. Upon arrival, he was to head toward Beit Fajjar, to a safe house prepared in advance by his contact.

  Driving up the slope to Hebron, he noticed a new checkpoint on the road. He put a yarmulke on his head and cocked his gun.

  The soldiers motioned for him to stop.

  He slowed down and smiled at the soldier. The soldier looked at the yellow, Israeli license plates, then glanced inside the vehicle. His eyes came across the baby seat installed in the backseat. He smiled back at Jamil and motioned for him to continue on his way.

  On the outskirts of Tarqumiyah he passed by the house of his uncle, father of Issam who had just died. Judging by the quiet, drowsy air of the house, he assumed the bitter news had yet to reach his uncle and he doubted that it would come any time soon.

  Prior to the attack, they had taken great efforts to conceal the identity of the suicide bombers from the Israeli security forces. He had offered the middleman two hundred dinars for the blue Israeli identity cards. Although he had known these weren’t intended for legitimate causes, he closed his eyes. It was a deadly mistake and once Jamil had received the identity cards, he put a bullet in the middleman’s head and left no trace of the suicide bombers’ identity.

  Upon nearing the village of Beit Fajjar, Jamil turned into a bumpy dirt road. The tires of his car were on the point of bursting as they hurtled over the sharp stones next to the tall terraces separating the vine plots until he finally reached the shomera, a stone hut. It was one of numerous others scattered all across the vineyards of the Hebron Mountains, which served the farmers during harvest season. When he had discerned no movement, he honked and waited.

  A man suddenly appeared on the roof of the hut and waved a Kalashnikov assault rifle he was holding. It was only then that Jamil covered the final few feet separating him from the hut.

  The man quickly got down from the roof, went to Jamil and embraced him for a long moment, “Mabruk Alaik Ya Aris,” he greeted him like he would greet a bridegroom at his wedding and the two quickly entered the hut.

  “I’m starving,” said Jamil, “I haven’t eaten anything since morning.”

  “I’ve brought you some food from the Hebron market,” said the man and took out a bundle wrapped in newspaper and containing a pita bread lamb kebab

  “Tfadal!” help yourself, he told him and the two sat on the moist ground and ate quickly. Jamil occasionally paused his chewing to excitedly describe the “operation” he had just carried out. He especially took pride in the high number of casualties. He also complained of Issam’s cowardly behavior.

  “Got cold feet at the last moment,” he said with contempt and looked around him, “by the way,” he suddenly stopped eating and asked, “whose place is this?”

  “The famous Al Jabari clan.”

  “And where are they now?”

  “At home, in Hebron. They come here only during the grape harvest season. They work all day down in their vineyards and come to sleep here in the evenings.”

  “And this is how they live here?” he asked and circles the damp and narrow room with his eyes.

  “Yes. What more do they need? There’s plenty of water,” the o
ther man pointed at a few clay jugs wrapped with burlap sacks, “a little labneh cheese, some bread baked by the women and a mat to sleep on.”

  “And this is where I need to stay tonight?” Jamil asked with disappointment.

  “What did you expect?”

  “A place where I could take a shower, a bed to lay in. Don’t I deserve that?” he grew angry.

  “You are a wanted man,” the other man reminded him, “half the Israeli Army will be after you.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” said Jamil submissively and continued to eat.

  “Well, I need to go now,” said the man and stood up.

  “Wait!” urged him Jamil, “it’s hard for me to be alone now; black devils are circling all around me.”

  “May Allah keep you from harm,” the man blessed him and looked at his watch, “It’s getting dark.”

  “Not yet,” Jamil tried to delay him.

  Evening began to fall, the setting sun caressed the slopes of the mountains and the last light of twilight engulfed them.

  “I must, otherwise they would notice my absence.”

  “Let’s pray and then go,” Jamil suggested and spread a small prayer mat on the ground.

  “There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah,” he called several times, straightened up and placed his hands by the sides of his head, next to his ears. The prayer had only lasted two minutes. By the time the last light of day had vanished, the man entered the car and left the place.

  Jamil was left on his own.

  He climbed onto the roof, placed the rifle beside him, lit a cigarette and puffed smoke rings into the air. He concealed the flickering flame of the cigarette tip between his hands.

  “Issam, you gullible fool, with your death, you have opened the gates of heaven for me,” he snorted with contempt and crushed the cigarette butt.

  He felt pleased and even hummed a favorite song to himself. Then he spread a blanket on the surface of the roof, lay on his back and pondered about the passing day’s events.

  The chill of night penetrated his bones. He tossed onto his side and pulled the wool blanket over his head, trying to fall asleep and failing. The morning’s sights continued to haunt him, even Issam’s tearful eyes as he had begged for his life.

  Then his thoughts turned to the men of the Israeli Security Agency especially the one in charge of his area. “Go drink the sea of Gaza, ya Abu Ghazall,” he muttered mockingly, “I’d stuck the tip of the knife deep into Tel Aviv’s heart and you knew nothing about it,” he boasted and snorted with contempt.

  2

  Abu Ghazall, or in his real name, Amos, came from a well-known family of pioneers that emigrated from East Europe to Palestine in the beginning of the 20th century. His grandfather was a member of Hashomer, a Jewish defense organization in Palestine, and patrolled the valleys on horseback to defend the population from Arab outlaws.

  His large stone house, situated in glorious solitude on the top of the hill, served as a meeting place for leaders of the Arab population in the area, who all held Amos’ grandfather in the utmost respect. In feuds between families, he served as an arbitrator and his was considered an undisputed word of honor.

  “Abu Samuil has spoken, and his word is inviolate,” they used to say around a small bonfire, while small glasses of Turkish coffee were passed from one man to another.

  The fear of possibly insulting Abu Samuil – or perhaps these were only the rules of the ceremony, this wasn’t entirely clear to little Amos, who was sitting beside him – had done its work and a deal was always struck. It was only then that Abu Samuil became reconciled and agreed to drink the coffee. He loudly gulped it with great pleasure and all the other men joined him.

  Amos, then a little blond, blue-eyed boy, sat fascinated next to his grandfather and listened to the conversations conducted in Arabic. Soon enough, he began to understand his first words of the language.

  What fascinated him most of all were the culture of the orient and its baroque wordplay, as well as the stylized expressions that peppered every conversation. As an older child, he accompanied his grandfather on his various visits to the nearby villages. He was still so young that his tiny arms could barely hug his grandfather’s hips so as not to fall off Nadia, the Arabian mare. Word of Nadia’s extraordinary size and noble qualities preceded her and many were willing to pay vast amounts of money to buy her.

  Amos sat with his grandfather in the tents of the area’s dignitaries. More than once, his grandfather would stop the flow of the conversation, allowed his grandson to say a few words and took great pleasure in listening to him.

  “What could be sweeter than your own children?” he would ask the dignitaries while looking at his grandson with open pride, “your children’s children.”

  It was only natural that after graduating from university, Amos followed in his father’s footsteps and joined the prestigious Israeli Security Agency, also known as Shin Bet. His professional choice had very much pleased Abu Amos, his father. who had meanwhile retired from the service and spent most of his time in pressing olives, making olive oil or churning labneh cheese.

  Amos began his training in an intensive Arabic school. The finest teachers taught him the various nuances of the language, as well as the Arabic way of life, religion and customs. He received daily instruction from Abu Rauf to polish his accent. “I’m teaching you the cream of the Arabic language and you still pronounce your Ks and your Gs like a peasant just out of his cucumber field,” the veteran teacher would often scold him for his articulation. All of Amos’ explanations about having learned to speak like that from his grandfather were to no avail. Abu Rauf did not relent and with time Amos adopted the more noble Jerusalem accent as well as some juicy sayings taken from the local slang. “No language is whole without them,” Abu Rauf said to him and told him about an operator who had encountered a young man roaming about the outskirts of the village and asked him for his name and profession. “Muhandes shaware,” the young man answered embarrassedly. In his report of the encounter, the operator mentioned that the young man was a road engineer.

  Abu Rauf laughed aloud and looked at Amos.

  Amos was embarrassed, “Sorry, I didn’t understand.”

  “You foal!” scolded him Abu Rauf, “It’s slang. That young man wasn’t really a road engineer, he just meant to say he was unemployed and had nothing better to do than to roam the roads idly. Shaif kif?” He glared at him, “did you understand?”

  Toward the end of his studies, the final phase of his initiation began; two weeks in which the cadets became intimately familiar with Arabic culture and customs.

  Amos had spent the first week in the house of an Arabic dignitary in the city of Nazareth and shared a room with his eldest son. At an early morning hour, he set out with the father of the family to his fabric store, learned how to haggle in Arabic and further enriched his knowledge of local idioms. “Speaking without them is like stroking someone while wearing rubber gloves,” his host explained and winked at him.

  He spent his second week in a village, where he was the guest of a family of farmers. He had spent that week sleeping on a mattress placed on a concrete floor. The shower was located in the yard and the diet was poor as well.

  In the evening, he went with the father of the family to the bustling café in the center of the village. There, his host introduced him as an Arabic language researcher sent on behalf of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem.

  In the morning, he went to the fields with his host and helped him in cultivating his plots. In the afternoon, they sat together under the shade of an olive tree to catch a brief nap while a light breeze blew and eased the burden of the scorching heat.

  Amos’ heart went out to that family, their simple way of life and mainly the warmth showered on him by all household members. “How little a man needs in order to fulfill his existential needs,” h
e told his wife upon returning home for a vacation.

  The two weeks were at an end, and so were his studies in the intensive Arabic school. The cadets were stationed in the various district established by the Israeli Shin Bet in Judea, Samaria and Gaza.

  Amos had been charged with supervising the villages in the area of Hebron, a city whose population was considered in the territories as highly extremist and piously religious. Stationing him there expressed the deep appreciation his superiors had for him and their recognition of his personal skills and abilities.

  Upon entering his new post, he received a vehicle and a codename Abu Ghazall, a name by which he will be known among the inhabitants of Hebron with both fear and respect.

  Even at the very beginning of his way, it seemed that no name could better express his qualities. “’Ghazall’ is the Arabic word for a deer,” the head of the Arabic department told him, “and you are just like a deer: swift-footed, fast, innocent looking, yet possessing amazingly keen senses, which you would definitely need. Be alert, Amos, there will be many disappointments down the road, and agents that will betray you.” And Amos listened and kept his vigil.

  With great patience he spread a dense espionage network of agents throughout the villages. They served as his eyes and ears and provided him information about newly forming terrorist squads, alongside juicy gossip about the locals, which he always knew how to utilize to his advantage.

  “You open a shutter in the morning and quarrel with your neighbor, and by the afternoon Abu Ghazall already knows to ask you what the argument was all about,” the villagers said with admiration. Still, Abu Ghazall was careful not to insult their dignity and when needs be had even helped many villagers in solving weighty problems. One time, he sent a woman to undergo fertility treatments in Israel, another time he helped a merchant get the money owed him by an Israeli merchant. He had done all that without asking for any compensation, the locals used to say with admiration, but there were also those who thought differently and accompanied their words with a meaningful wink, “those are the webs he is spinning about us, spinning and patiently waiting for his prey,” they said.