The Shahid's Widow

by Danny Bar

  She stood aside and watched until he finished lighting the stone stove with a mixture of olive waste and straw. Then he stepped back and contentedly looked at the fire spreading in the oven, “That’s it, like a bride heating up for her wedding night, who’s first?”

  “Pita bread with egg,” she asked, “and two larger pitas with za’atar.”

  Abu Hamdan placed the dough, broke the egg on top of it and lifted the metal lid of the oven to push it inside. The intense heat emitted by the oven engulfed Yasmina with pleasant sensations.

  Upon returning home, she prepared in her modest kitchen a dish of yellow rice with strips of beef she had purchased from the butcher in Halhul. She also bought a bottle of juice, something she had never done before, “No liquid is clearer than the water found in our spring,” Issam, her husband, would regularly remind her. Then she tidied up the house, folded the mattress Jamil had slept on and placed it in her bedroom. She tried to make the house look as beautiful as possible. Issam had never finished building it, and all the walls were bare. He had not even had a chance to install the water pipes and there was no one at hand to complete the task. It was only a few days before his death that he had connected the house to his parents’ electrical system with a cable that remained exposed on the ground, thus endangering anyone that happened to walk by. Khalil had promised to help her, “Allah knows, perhaps by the time the dust settles you won’t need to live here anymore,” he had hinted.

  Late in the evening, Jamil arrived and was warmly welcomed. The smell of cooking filled his nostrils.

  “What happened?” he asked suspiciously.

  “It’s your birthday,” she answered with a smile.

  “How do you know?” he angrily asked.

  “Issam, Allah rest his soul, once told me that you are exactly two years his senior, and today is his birthday,” she said with sadness, “we have never had the chance to celebrate together, so this is for him today as well.”

  “Since when do we celebrate birthdays?” he asked angrily.

  “Do you want to argue with the vineyard keeper or partake of the grapes?”

  “Sorry, I’m suspicious of everything and everyone around me. Perhaps your intentions are pure, Yasmina, but I will always look for concealed motives, please don’t blame me for it. May Abu Ghazall’s house fall on his head, I don’t know who else he has drafted to follow me. Everywhere I go, I arrive at spontaneously, without announcing my intentions to anyone. But still, the Israeli Army quickly comes after me to raid the place. Only by a series of miracles have I been able to escape from their clutches thus far. Nowhere is safe for me anymore, not even your house,” he said and fell into deep thought.

  “Sit down to eat,” Yasmina instructed him and began to serve the dishes she had prepared.

  “Blessed be your hands.”

  “Tea?” she asked him once he had finished eating.

  He nodded.

  Yasmina took the teapot off the kerosene burner and poured the yellow liquid into a thin glass. Then she served him the tea along with A’sh al Bulbul, a sweet pastry made of roasted noodles and filled with almonds, which looks like a bird’s nest.

  “Do you know what’s sweeter than a halva confection? A friendship that comes in the wake of animosity.”

  “This new friendship will be preserved only if you know your place.” Yasmina went to the bedroom, then returned to the kitchen holding a cardboard box. She handed it to Jamil. A pair of black leather shoes were inside.

  “What’s this?” he was surprised.

  Instead of replying, she gave him a mysterious smile and he did not remain indifferent, “Sometimes I think that you are not the innocent peasant you pretend to be. I don’t know what you are hiding, but you’ve changed. I’m not sure Issam would have liked what you’ve turned into.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Only your clothes and your behavior are those of a village woman, all the rest of you is already a faranji, a western woman.”

  “You are wrong, in my body and soul I am a daughter of the Arab nation.”

  “Only time will tell if I was wrong to trust you.”

  “You were not.”

  “Perhaps, but I will tell you a secret.”

  “Yalla,” Yasmina tensed up, her heart beating wildly.

  “I have been following you.”

  “You’ve been what?” she became breathless.

  “In Halhul.”

  “And what did you find out?” she asked with a mocking tone, trying to conceal the turbulence of emotions she really felt.

  “There was this moment I thought you were about to get into a pickup truck that slowed down as it drove by you, but you kept on walking. In any event, I wrote down its license number and asked the organization to find out who it belongs to.”

  “Have you lost your mind, ya Jamil?”

  “What were you doing there?” he raised his voice.

  “I went to the pharmacy.”

  “Why?”

  “To buy headache pills,” she tried to hide the tremor sneaking into her voice.

  Jamil was relentless, “Where are they?”

  “Who?” she asked in panic.

  “The pills you bought.”

  “In my bag.”

  “Show them to me,” he demanded firmly.

  “Here,” she said and waved the plastic container she had fished from her bag.

  It seemed that only then his mind was finally put at ease, “You are lucky, I would have killed you just like I killed Amar.”

  “And who is Amar?” she asked with feigned naivety.

  “Some kid from Gaza who double crossed me! I shot him like a dog.”

  38

  “Are you Sultan Suleiman?”

  “Excuse me?” Adnan, surprised, looked at the man blocking his way.

  “Are you Sultan Suleiman?” the speaker lost his patience.

  It took Adnan a long time to realize what he had just heard. It was the question he had expected for many days. “No. I am Salah al Din al Ayubbi’s brother,” he finally answered.

  “I was looking for you here yesterday,” the man said.

  “I was here,” Adnan apologized, then suddenly remembered, “by Allah, you are right. I left the newspaper and cigarettes on the other table.”

  “We thought you had changed your mind. Maa’lish, now we have met. That’s it, a decision regarding the operation has already fallen, all that’s left to do is prepare you for it,” he told Adnan as they walked along the walls of the old city toward Damascus Gate.

  “Tomorrow, I will pick you up from here at five and take you to the Sheikh, he will get you ready and purify your soul for the operation.”

  “When will the operation take place?”

  “Sooner than you think.”

  “I am tired of waiting,” Adnan grumbled.

  “Tawel balak,” the man answered him, “be patient.”

  “The waiting is more difficult than the operation itself.”

  “I know, we all waited for this redeeming decision and now it has come. We mustn’t be seen together, let us part here. Ma’asalame,” the man bid him farewell.

  Adnan was left on his own and felt his heart beating hard in his chest. The moment of truth has come, he thought and felt a burning need to share this with someone. He deliberated whether he should call Ellen. The softness she had demonstrated toward him had opened something wide and new in his heart. He had never been treated like that by a woman. Of course, he had known many women in Coro, Venezuela, where he lived, but the relationships he’d had with them were completely different. I never told them about my troubles and anxieties, he thought, and they wouldn’t have understood… In Coro, I behaved like a typical Arab man, seeing the act of revealing his emotions as unthinkable, but it’s different with Ellen. I want to talk
to her so much. It seems as though all barriers have broken…

  The thought that he was going to his death without sharing his big secret with anyone was difficult. He wanted someone intimate who would accompany him to the highest point of his life – his death. Being lonely was too hard. Even the lowliest condemned man, he thought, is entitled to speak before being led to the gallows, while I am sentenced to die in silence without anyone knowing what has led me to my terrible death. Worst of all, I am taking my anger with me to the grave, which I so desperately sought to rid myself of. Not much will remain of my body after the explosion, but all the anger and bitterness in my heart might survive even after my body evaporates. They are immune to the ravages of time, nothing can destroy them.

  Adnan feared Ellen. He realized his choice of becoming a suicide bomber was a cry for help, even if he was reluctant to admit it. Now help had arrived from an unexpected source, which confused him more than ever. “What is it that you actually want?” he asked himself out loud.

  To die!

  Then I must stay away from Ellen, he thought and returned to the hotel.

  In the morning, Ronit began to go through the computer printouts containing the details of all tourists from Spanish-speaking countries currently residing in Israeli hotels.

  “Call the embassy in Madrid,” Amos asked her, while he himself called the chief security officer at the Israeli Embassy in Caracas, Venezuela.

  “Do you remember anyone suspicious recently visiting the embassy to issue a visa?”

  “Of course I do,” the security officer answered, “I ran across him during the morning patrol before opening the embassy. He seemed like a nice and intelligent guy at first, but he had this disquiet attitude about him, so I asked him a few questions. I think the consulate clerk could tell you his name. Not a lot of people from Venezuela come to visit in Israel.”

  “Could you have her come to the embassy?”

  “Not right now, it’s nighttime in Venezuela and she won’t dare to come out of the house.”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  “I understand, but Caracas is one of the most violent cities in the world and she won’t risk herself by coming out of the house, even if I point a gun to her head,” the security officer told him, “we’ll just have to wait for the embassy to open in the morning.”

  “All right,” said Amos in desperation and spent the remaining time in a meeting with Magic Flute at the Hilton hotel in Tel Aviv.

  A knock on the door interrupted their conversation and Khalil hurried to hide in the bathroom.

  Upon exiting, he found two large plates covered with gleaming silver tray covers, and the mouth-watering smell of pancakes spread in the room.

  “Ya latif… God,” Khalil said with admiration, “Let’s have all our meetings here from now on, ya Abu Ghazall, I’m tired of peach cream cookies,” he laughed out loud.

  Once Khalil was finished eating, Amos poured him a cup of coffee.

  “There are two important things I would like to tell you,” Khalil said and wiped his mouth with a white napkin, “the explosives are no longer with the butcher. Someone took them last night. Additionally, the messenger who is supposed to meet the suicide bomber is here.”

  “I understand,” Amos nodded, “this means that the attack should take place in a matter of days.”

  “Perhaps even hours,” said Magic Flute.

  Amos looked at his watch and made a quick calculation. It was 9:00 am in Venezuela. He hurried to call the embassy and asked to speak with the consulate clerk.

  “Yes, I remember the guy,” she told him, “a handsome man, fancily dressed and speaking eloquent Spanish without the slightest trace of an accent. I’ll go through my records and tell you his name. Call me again in half an hour.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  A few minutes later his secretary called him, “You have an urgent call.”

  “From who?”

  “Yasmina.”

  “Yasmina?” He looked at Khalil with concern,”Put her through.”

  “The attack will take place tomorrow in the evening, eight o’clock,” Yasmina told him excitedly.

  Before long, news of the attack had reached all branches of the security forces. The Prime Minister decided to summon the security cabinet and all heads of the security forces for an urgent meeting.

  “Where is Jamil?” the head of the Shin Bet asked to be updated while making his way to Jerusalem.

  “Roaming the village of Beit Ula and saying goodbye to his friends from the organization. We are closely following him at all times,” said the head of the Operations department, “but there is no guarantee that he won’t slip from our hands at the most crucial moment. We need to be ready for such a scenario as well.”

  “Got it. Update me with any developments, even during the security cabinet meeting if needs be.”

  “He’s at the mosque,” the operation room updated the team and turned his head toward the computer that started buzzing.

  Sheikh abd al Rahman al Majali was the name that appeared on the screen, and the computer blurted a list of intelligence items tying him with the organization. Witch Doctor, a reliable agent in the organization, reported that he had conducted the religious preparation ceremony for the No. 5 bus line suicide bomber in Tel Aviv. He had spent two years in prison, until he was released as part of the agreement with the Palestinians.

  Jamil had spent a full hour inside the mosque, then he left, climbed the mountain ridge overlooking the village and from there descended toward Tarqumiyah.

  “He is going up the path leading to Yasmina’s house,” the lookout reported and the team took positions nearby and spent the night out in the chilling cold of the Hebron Mountains.

  “There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger,” called the Sheikh and Adnan echoed his words, knelt down, lingered a few moments, and then stood beside the Sheikh. Only the two of them were present in the empty mosque situated on the outskirts of Bethlehem.

  The messenger who had brought Adnan there through roundabout ways, had taken off immediately after promising to return, but without saying when.

  The Sheikh retired to the corner of the mosque and motioned for Adnan to join him, “Tomorrow, you will be awarded with a great privilege, ya Adnan,” he began, “few are the ones who win the right to ascend straight to heaven, without having to wait for Judgment Day. Only saints earn this privilege. You are among the few that Allah has called unto him.”

  He looked into Adnan’s eyes to see how deep an impression his words had left on him, “you will set out to fulfill the commandment of Jihad. We view it as the sixth and most important of the Arkan, the pillars of Islam.

  “The holy Quran tells us: ‘Fight in the cause of Allah those who fight you… for tumult and oppression are worse than slaughter.’”

  Adnan nodded.

  Ya Adnan, you mustn’t think that you are going to your death tomorrow, as Allah is my witness, this is not the case. The holy Quran promises us that those who are killed never die, they live on and are provided for by Allah himself.”

  Adnan looked at the Sheikh, but his thoughts drifted far from there. He wasn’t able to focus on the Sheikh’s words. As the latter spoke of Allah, Adnan’s thoughts drifted to the family he had left behind in Venezuela.

  Who am I doing this for? he asked himself, for them? Will his mother’s heart, once it is pierced with the initial pain of grieving, be flooded with the pride of the esteshhad for her son’s deed?

  He hesitated a moment before answering himself. No! Not my mother… you are lying to yourself, ya Adnan, this is not her way. She has always despised the women who demonstrated happiness after their sons had died during an operation. “It is all an act,” she used to say, “even an animal whose cubs are snatched from it cries out its grief.”

  “Are you listening, ya Adn
an?” the Sheikh asked him angrily.

  “Yes, you said that all Jews live in Dar al Harb and we Muslims have the duty to fight them until they embrace Islam.”

  “Marhaa, ya Adnan,” the Sheikh complimented him and continued: “And now, cleanse your soul from anything that is not pure and holy. Forget about this world. Swear to die, because the time separating you from your death is now brief.”

  “I am setting out to fight Allah’s war, but what about my family? What will become of my mother?” Adnan asked, and his eyes filled with tears. He lowered his eyes and hid part of his face with the Quran.

  “Say their names in your prayers and Allah will provide for them. They will enjoy the honor preserved for the families of Shahids and will reap great rewards after your death. Yalla. Move on to the next chapter, al Anfal, and ask Allah to help you remain hidden from the eyes of our enemy before your mission is done.”

  Adnan returned to busy himself with reading. A silence settled in the empty mosque.

  The Sheikh knelt and sat on the carpet, “Come and sit next to me,” the Sheikh said and pointed at the carpet, “let’s read together.” Adnan sat on the carpet with his legs crossed. Together, he and the Sheikh read the Surat Al Fatiha, the first chapter of the Quran.

  “Ya Sheikh,” Adnan addressed him hesitantly, “I was hoping to go to my death bearing Allah’s name on my lips, but only my mother’s name keeps rising in my mind.”

  “Such thoughts are the test of Allah, intended to raise your spiritual level and erase your sins. Be assured that the moment the first drop of your blood falls to the ground, the celestial angels will rush down to cleanse your soul. Your body will remain whole, those who have opened the graves of Shahids have seen this with their own eyes. Therefore, rejoice in your fate, ya Adnan.”

  Adnan shook his head as if refusing to believe. “Ya Sheikh, please forgive me for my heresy, but I feel no joy over my coming death, I feel as if the heavens have abandoned me.”