by Danny Bar
At 7 am sharp, the team leader displayed the map of Halhul on the screen and began to present the various stages of the operation plan to the head of the unit.
It was midnight when the sound of barking coming from the yard woke Yasmina. Through the shutter’s cracks she noticed Jamil’s shadow cautiously moving between the fruit trees in the yard toward the entrance. He shushed the dog with quiet calls and knocked on the shutter.
Yasmina hurried to open it, “You can’t, I’m alone. Is there no sanctity to this house anymore?” she asked naively.
“Open up before someone sees me.”
“Go away!” she whispered.
“I’ll scream,” he threatened her.
She hissed a silent curse, put out the light illuminating the entrance and opened the door for him.
The Jamil who stood before her at the entrance looked vastly different from the one she’d known. His beard was gone, replaced by a fresh stubble. His eyes were red and sunk in their sockets. At that moment, he appeared to her like a wounded animal.
“I’m hungry,” he went inside and heavily sat in a chair, “I roamed about the mountains with nothing to eat.”
“I don’t have anything left,” she said, “I have no one to cook for anymore.”
“Just give me whatever you have.”
“Ful medames, broad beans.” She said and went to the small kitchen, took out a small pot and placed in on the kerosene burner.
Jamil sprawled his legs, threw his head back and rubbed his temples, “I’m tired of running all day long. Enough is enough! The Jews won’t let me be before they put a hundred holes in my body.”
“Get up, the food is ready,” she said, ignoring his words. From inside a small metal case, she took out two thick pita breads wrapped with a towel, then placed a deep plate on the narrow table.
Jamil hungrily stormed the pita bread, tore large chunks and dipped them in the thick ful.
A silence settled in the kitchen, with Jamil’s face buried in the plate before him. He did not raise his face before licking the plate clean with his finger.
“Bring more.”
“And where would I bring more from?” she mumbled, “you have taken the little I had for myself.”
“I’m hungry,” he said angrily.
“Eat pita bread with za’atar.”
“Yalla, give it here,” he said and snatched it from her hands.
Now that he had satisfied his hunger and settled down a bit he said, “Even if they kill me, Yasmina, many more will follow in my footsteps, people who prefer death to a life of oppression and abuse. As for me, I’ve grown tired of leading such a life. I prefer to be a Shahid.” He raised his eyes to the house’s faded wall and drew an imaginary picture with his hands, “Look! They will hang my picture right here, on this wall, alongside the pictures of our two greatest Shahids, Rafiq Silmi to my left and Yahya Ayyash to my right. Every child will have my name on his lips and my father would finally be able to be proud and raise his head in public.”
“You are daydreaming! All you will bring him is grief. What pride are you referring to?” Yasmina’s voice was as cold as ice.
“What does a woman understand of the heroic ways of men?” he mocked her.
“Perhaps I don’t know anything about the heroic ways of men, but I do know a lot about the suffering you and your friends cause to your fellow men. You bring disaster upon all our heads. Each night, the Israeli Army breaks into our houses, arrests people and destroys our homes. And our people? You’ve exploited them! They used to work in Israel, earn decent salaries and nourish their children. And today? Everyone sits at home. They have nothing left, neither their pride nor their livelihood.”
“Each man looks only at the little prayer mat that he spreads for himself instead of looking at all the other men praying in the mosque,” he answered mockingly, “therefore, it is our duty to fight for Allah and Allah himself will reward us. For it is written in Surah Muhammad of the holy Quran: ‘’”O you who have believed, if you support Allah, He will support you and plant firmly your feet.” It is the time of our trial, Yasmina, and those who are not with us, are our enemies,” he angrily said and went out to the yard to wash his body. A moment later, he came back inside and turned off the light.
Yasmina shuddered. She lay down as quietly as she could and cowered, praying he would let her be that night. But once again, Jamil did not heed her pleas. He rolled up her dress and took her with wild determination. A sharp cry emerged from her throat and the dog crouching by the door yelped with pain that echoed hers.
At an early morning hour, Canard arrived at agent “Forest Keeper’s” house, which was surrounded by trees. From there, he was picked up to attend a briefing regarding the coming meeting in Gaza.
“Very important!” Come to the meeting at twelve sharp, not a moment earlier,” instructed the head of the Operations team, “or a moment later. And this time, please drive only on ‘normal’ paved roads instead of dirt roads. Last time we had to chase you through the desert as if you were some crazed camel,” he chided him fondly and took off to meet his team members, which had already settled in their positions.
Josh went inside the hospital with a huge bandage wrapped around his forehead. Saul, wearing a woman’s clothes, stood at the taxi station in front of the hospital entrance and observed the meeting point. He was dressed like most local young women. His black dress reached his ankles and black pants protruded from beneath it, decorated by two gilded stripes at the width and his gun holster tied at the knee. His feet were clad with gilded open sandals, adorned with colorful beads. Beautiful henna flower patterns were drawn in blue on the bridge of his feet. On his head, he wrapped a white hijab, different from the ones common in the West Bank.
David sat at the station of the bus going to the Jabalia refugee camp.
“ As-salamu ‘alaykum…” peace be upon you, greeted an old man who sat beside him on the bench.
“ Wa-alaykum as-salaam,” and unto you peace, answered David and quickly turned his head toward the hospital.
A young man stood at the entrance and stared at the agent.
“There’s the suspect,” David reported.
“Did you say something?” asked the old man.
“No. No.” David tried to avoid a conversation.
The young man suspiciously examined his surroundings, then began to walk towards the agent.
“Is this the Al Aqsa Mosque?” he addressed him.
“No. It moved to the square today,” the agent answered with the password he’d received in Jordan.
The young man warmly shook the agent’s hand.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Excellent, it’s just that it’s a little hot here,” answered the agent, took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead, just as he’d been instructed to do by the team leader.
“We have contact,” Saul whispered and continued: “About eighteen, black, curly hair, t-shirt, brown pants, wearing a watch on his right hand.”
The agent and the young man left the hospital, crossed Omar al Mukhtar, Gaza City’s main and bustling street, and sat on straw stools at a nearby cafe.
Numerous young men crowded the cafe and hookah smoke filled the air.
A shoe shiner leaped between them all, offering his services for a measly sum. He leaned toward the young man and polished his shoes until the latter’s patience had run out and he chased him away. The shoe shiner did not complain and immediately went away.
“I took their picture,” he reported to the team leader and packed his things. Shortly after, the two left the cafe and walked across the city’s main street towards AlMedina Square, where they entered the Abu Bakr al Siddik mosque.
“I’m going in after them,” said Saul.
At the entrance, he washed his hands and face, as was customary to do bef
ore a prayer, and joined the ranks of the praying men, saying with them the Islamic testimony of the al shahada: “There is no god but Allah and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.”
At the end of the prayer, he sat with everyone and listened to the local Imam who opened his mouth to curse the infidel Zionists.
“Allah sees your suffering. He did not forget you, oh believers. The judgment day will come. They shall pay for your misery, I promise you that. None of them will escape. We shall show no mercy, because there is no mercy in the heart of the Jews: should they see you trapped in a fire, they will not come to your aid, but merely throw twigs into the fire to make it even fiercer.”
The members of the congregation raised their hands angrily and uttered loud cries. The Imam silenced them with a gesture of his hands and raised his voice even higher. “And as if this sin wasn’t enough, their religious book, the Torah, commands them to drink the blood of your children in their holiday of Passover. Did you know that, oh believers?”
He fell silent, then examined each and every member of his congregation. The men nodded in agreement and angry tears could be seen in the eyes of many. “Oh thou believers! Rise up and strike at them, raise the sword of Islam over their heads, Allah is on your side. And thus sayeth the prophet, peace be upon him: Those who believed and those who suffered exile and fought (and strove and struggled) in the path of Allah,- they have the hope of the Mercy of Allah. And Allah is Oft-forgiving, Most Merciful.”
The listeners remained silent, sitting for a while before finally leaving the mosque. So deeply were they touched by the Imam’s words, that some of them decided to act immediately. There were those who drew shabariya daggers from hidden folds in their clothes, raised them into the air and swore to kill any Jew who might cross their path.
David slipped away from them and exited the mosque, following the agent and the unknown young man he had met with.
Next to the “7 Up” soft drink factory, the young man went up to the back of a truck and hid between the vegetable boxes. The driver started driving, with the surveillance team following him, until he had to stop for an inspection at the border checkpoint separating Israel and Gaza.
The soldier checked the driver’s papers, glanced at the trunk and ordered him to drive on. Canard drove down Highway 35 toward Hebron and stopped at the “Glass Junction,” where the young man jumped off the truck and disappeared into a nearby alley.
It was only after the truck had gone that he took a taxi to the Halhul area and directly turned toward Ayed’s butcher shop.
A few moments later, he emerged out of the shop with Ayed and walked with him across the street until they arrived at a house still in the construction stage. Ayed fished out a key from his pocket, opened the door, let the young man inside and returned to his shop.
9
The two Mercedes cars, parked by the side of the road that connects Hebron to Halhul, looked just like any other Palestinian vehicles. They neither attracted special attention among the locals nor did the three men wearing red and black keffiyeh headscarves sitting inside.
The team tensely waited for David’s radio report. The team leader knocked nervously on the dashboard clock It was 6:00 pm.
“The target is out,” David whispered shortly after.
The Mercedes cars slowly drove up the street and captured the paunchy man slowly walking towards the cafe in their headlights.
The vehicle passed him by and stopped. Its door opened and two men quickly exited.
“Masaa al khair,” they greeted Ayed.
“Good evening,” he answered kindly and tried to pass them by. The two men blocked his way and pushed him into the vehicle. Ayed found himself lying on the back seat between two other men and the vehicle started driving again.
No one had noticed what happened.
“Who are you guys?” asked Ayed with panic.
No one bothered to answer.
“Merciful people, I’ve done nothing wrong, I am a believer in Allah,” he mumbled with fear.
“Then pray for him, traitor,” the driver scolded him.
“Traitor?! Me?! No way,” his voice cracked.
“The traitor’s’ ultimate abode is Hell: what an evil bed to lie on!” the driver quoted Allah’s words in the Quran referring to the fate of traitors.
“No!” Ayed burst into tears, “You are making a big mistake, I am a member of the Mukawama – the resistance.”
The vehicle screeched to a halt.
“You are what?!”
“I’m a member of the resistance,” he repeated his words.
“Liar.”
“I swear by Allah and my eldest son.”
“Liar!”
“The pharmacist can confirm this.”
“Curse of Allah on his head, we don’t trust him, he exploits our people.”
Ayed turned silent.
“Anyone else?”
“Just him,” he whispered.
“All right, drive on to the forest,” said the team leader in Arabic to the driver.
“No, please wait,” said Ayed with desperation, “there is someone else, but it’s a secret.”
“Secrets are a part of our way of life in the Mukawama,” said the driver.
“Jamil,” sputtered Ayed quickly, as if spitting a hot potato from his mouth.
“Jamil is wanted. How could we possibly ask him?”
“I’ll pass on any message you’d like to relay to him,” he said.
“How?” asked the driver impatiently.
“I have a woman passing my letters to him.”
“Who is she?”
“Yasmina.”
“The Shahid’s widow?”
“Yes, may Allah have mercy on his soul and admit him into heaven,” he blurted the words quickly, feeling that his time was running out.
“OK. We will trust you this time, but be on your guard, the Jews can trick anyone.”
“Not me,” Ayed stammered.
“Yalla, get out, but don’t tell anyone about this, otherwise you’ll end up like the Al Atrash family.”
“No, no, I won’t say anything, I promise. Look,” he mimed locking his mouth and left the vehicle.
The drivers of the Mercedes cars waited until they lost sight of him, then quickly drove off.
“Who the hell is the Al Atrash family?” the team leader asked the driver.
“No idea… it just came out that way,” the driver laughed.
After getting out of the vehicle, Ayed sat motionless on the road. He needed to sit like that for quite a while before he was finally able to get up and walk back home, and with great difficulty.
His wife was startled to see how pale he looked. “Should I call the doctor?” she asked with concern.
“No, no. I ate some bad fava beans at Sabri’s, curse him and his mother,” he told her and went into the bedroom.
He slept in his clothes, rose the following morning and went to the butcher shop as usual.
Since that incident, Ayed closed his shop early in the afternoons, headed straight home and remained there until the morning hours, not even frequenting the cafe.
“What happened, Abu Latif?” his friends asked him with concerned.
“Tired, that’s all.”
10
The past twenty-four hours had shown significant progress in the political process. There was a real chance for a breakthrough that would allow the two leaders to meet for a peace conference in Washington, after which a treaty signing ceremony would take place on the lawns of the White House, attended by the American president and the leaders of the Arab nations.
The Prime Minister was concerned by the attempts of various ultra-right-wing elements and terrorist organizations to sabotage the forming agreement. He knew that a large-scale terrorist attack would prove destructive to t
he peace process. Images of shattered glass and burning buses would give his political opponents fertile ground for opposing and disproving his claims about the benefits of the peace process. He intensified his pressure on the head of the Shin Bet.
“We spare no effort, Prime Minister, but we need to be careful not to lose the end of the thread”. said the head of the Shin Bet, “Each rash action could make Jamil abandon the network of helpers he has devised for himself. This would be disastrous, as we’ve reached the point we control most of it, and we have plans of deepening our control as early as the next few hours.”
Following his conversation with the Prime Minister, the head of the Shin Bet drove up to Tel Aviv and summoned an urgent meeting for the very same day.
First to speak was the head of the Judea Department. He turned off the lights and began to project a series of images on the screen. The first was marked with various stamps, possibly copied from the suspect’s identity card.
“This is Jamil. We know his general whereabouts, at least some of the time.”
“Is this an updated picture?” the head of Operations asked.
“No. He might have lost weight since then, and grown a beard, as they all do,” the head of Judea added and pointed at the screen, “and this is Yasmina, widow of Issam, the suicide bomber who killed himself in Tel Aviv. She is Jamil’s courier! The picture was taken a few days ago in the factory where she works.”
“Beautiful girl,” remarked one of the participants. The speaker ignored the comment and continued.
“Last on the list is Ayed, the butcher. Here you see him in the doorway of his shop. He serves as a local contact for the organization headquarter in Jordan, as well as its storekeeper. Would you like to add anything about the operation you have conducted last night in the town of Halhul?” he asked the head of Operations.
“Yes, Ayed was arrested on the way to the local café. After a brief ride told us about his connection to Jamil and Yasmina. He hadn’t suspected anything, and thought he was arrested by the Palestinians as an alleged collaborator. I believe he won’t tell Jamil about the arrest. He fears for his life, which gives us much needed time to act.”