by Malka Marom
“Do you know what a subcontract for the pull-out from Sinai means? We’re talking millions of dollars, according to Mercedes, American dollars, Tal, not shitty local currency, and millions of dollars in three years.
“If he wasn’t bullshitting me, all Egypt wants from us is every fucking foot of Sinai, not later than three years from now. According to him, the government is planning to give back to Egypt the Sinai that Egypt ‘gave’ to us—a bare wasteland.
“Yamit is going to be like it never was three years from now. Everything we’ve built in Sinai is going to be levelled to the ground or pulled out—must be pulled out in three years. That’s why Defence is contracting out part of the work,” Shabbo said.
And I was thinking: It would break my father’s heart to hear even a rumour that Yamit would be levelled to dust. Only photos would remain of the dream he had shared with Arik, and memories, and Arik’s model displayed somewhere in Yehoshua’s Ministry building. Did Yehoshua know this latest about Yamit? Or does the Mercedes know something that the cabinet minister doesn’t?
Peace in our pockets, he said, my Arik. Now Levi will stop nagging me to consent to his fighter pilot duty. What a messenger, Shabbo.
“‘This pull-out job was made for my partner and me, I told the Mercedes,’” Shabbo said. “I told him, ‘my partner’s military-service record is classified, but I can give you his name. You have friends in high places, you can check him out. The pull out pressure will be nothing for him. You can count on him to deliver. No one fucks around when he’s in charge. And me, you know for five years, you know my work. A natural, you said, with machines, with money, business.’
“And the Mercedes said: ‘Oh, I know your word is as good as your work. But this pull-out subcontract is different, a big job; it involves a partner, and it might save us a hassle later if I see how you’ll deliver now.’ Then, right on the spot, he offered us a try-out job up in the Golan Heights. Can you imagine, Tal? To try us out, he’ll subcontract to us a little job he got from Defence. Made me laugh how he set a limit of ten days to see if we can deliver under pressure. Ten days to stretch up a few security fences in the Golan Heights. This is pressure to him. So, I didn’t laugh, and he said that he’ll supply the materials and the rest is up to us. So I told him: No problem, we’ll deliver in seven days—not ten. And the minute he pulls out of the station I hired a few guys and borrowed four Jeeps. Leora’s will make five, and that should do it. What do you think, Tal? In three years you and I are going to be set for life.”
Shabbo turned to me and asked, “You won’t need the Jeep for that week, will you?”
“Forget the Jeep,” Tal told Shabbo before I can open my mouth. “Dragging bales of barbed wire on the basalt boulders and over rocks would wreck the Jeep.”
“But I’ll return the Jeep in better shape than it is,” Shabbo said.
“You can’t return kilometres, Shabbo,” countered Tal.
“All right, no problem, we’ll borrow another Jeep,” Shabbo said, his face still flushed with excitement.
But then Tal told him, “I’m sorry, Shabbo, you’ll have to count me out.”
“Why?” Shabbo asked him. “The kibbutz holds no challenge for you. Every young kibbutznik with a brain is leaving and you—”
“I won’t have anything to do with war-profiteering, Shabbo. Count me out.”
“Where do you see war-profiteering? This pull-out job is for peace. I thought you were a peacenik.” Shabbo’s voice was raised now.
“Oh, come on, Shabbo. You’re dealing with a war profiteer—a contractor, like the ones who milk Defence and cut corners to buy a Mercedes. You know who pays in the end for the cut corners. Are you that hungry, Shabbo? Did you think I’m that hungry? I could never understand the paper-shufflers in Defence, and it looks like I never will. Whenever we sent in a requisition, they’d cry that they’re broke; and here, a fat civilian contractor bribes them, or whatever, to squeeze from them millions of dollars for jobs the army can do. The borders are relatively quiet these days; men and equipment are sitting idle; why can’t they do both jobs? You would think we’d have learned something from the Yom-Kippur War, but it looks like we haven’t. Same mistakes, same corrupt paper-shufflers, same war profiteers, same contractors, same vultures. Dir balak—watch out—Shabbo. You know what smell attracts vultures.”
“If you think I smell, you don’t know where you live, Tal. Don’t be a dreamer. The Land is not the Unit.” Shabbo’s face was flushed, his tone cynical. “It’s a land of milk and honey, all right. A land of fucking milkmen, each one for himself, Tal, like in California. But here, each one milks as if, next war, he’ll go to the next world; so what the hell, milk whatever you can from Defence, from Commerce, from any ministry. And isn’t the government milking whatever it can from any tit it can find? And isn’t the war the richest tit of them all? That’s what everyone is milking.
“More than half the country is shuffling papers for the government, or sweating their butts off in government munitions plants or the aircraft industries, or selling jeans, coffee, and rock-’n’-roll to the government workers, and you think they are not war profiteers? And isn’t your kibbutz milking the government for all the subsidies and interest-free loans it can get? It has no fucking compunction, that’s for sure, about collecting your army officer’s paycheque month after month, year after year . . .
“In the army you see only Defence contractors, so you think only contractors are war profiteers. But after a couple of years of civilian life you’ll see the whole country is living off the fucking war. You want to change it? Here’s your chance.
“Remember in the Yom-Kippur War, Tal? Remember you said: ‘First thing we do when the war is over is bust our butts to replace the old guard, kick them out of their fucking cabinet chairs. We owe it to the ones who went.’”
“That’s what every soldier says in every war,” Tal said.
“Oh, don’t give me that. ‘A military record is the ladder in The Land. Just look at who’s running the country,’ you said. Well, let me tell you, it took me a good two civilian years to see that money is what determines rank in civilian life. The generals you see in power are only puppets of the moneymen. That’s how it is. Some generals are voted into power, other generals are voted out; but the same moneymen are pulling the strings. You want to replace them, then enter their arena, play their fucking game—only better. Grab the opportunity or someone else will; and he’ll not do half the job that you or I will, and you know it . . . Look, sleep on it. But let me know soon as you get back from the desert.”
“No need to sleep on it, Shabbo.”
“How do you know, you might see the light in Sinai.”
“You mean, light reflecting off the golden calf?”
“No, Tal. The Hebrew slaves who built the golden calf wanted to go back. I want to go forward, to be partners with you. If the Mercedes wasn’t bullshitting me, if we really pull our forces out of Sinai, it’s going to be like Switzerland here. A whole different world! A whole different life! Look ahead, Tal, not in the rear-view mirror.”
“I’ve heard it said of war widows that they look backward not forward, and of dropouts and of the exiled, but not of kibbutzniks, elite commanders like you.” I say to Tal when we are alone in the Jeep, heading southwest to Yamit.
“Would you reconsider Shabbo’s offer of partnership, if and when we trade Sinai to Egypt for peace?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I want to reap the crops I plant,” Tal replies. “I am a farmer . . . a farmer who likes the smell of a field freshly ploughed, the site of a field of tall sunflowers brimming with seeds, the sound of the breeze rustling the eucalyptus trees . . . For me, the kibbutz is the place.”
“So, why are you on leave from the kibbutz?”
“Leave it for now,” he replied, almost like Azzizah says, “Not proper to ask questions,” w
hen she drops the curtain, indicating that, beyond this, no more would be revealed.
j
“Forbidden,” Azzizah decreed when I asked her if she could tell me what Abu Salim cassette-recorded earlier in the day, much too fast for me to understand. “Forbidden,” she said.
“But Abu Salim recorded the cassette in front of me and Nura, therefore he clearly thought it is not forbidden for her to know what he cassette-recorded,” said Tammam. Curious to learn all about the cassette recorder, she convinced Azzizah to relent.
Their veils-upon-veils can’t conceal their delight in the power they have over Abu Salim’s voice. Play, Off, Pause, Forward, Rewind . . . Tammam keeps pressing, while Azzizah mutters in between bursts of laughter—hers and Tammam’s, “Not proper . . . Not proper . . .”
“Abu Salim starts with many many . . . Wallah, how many greeting-blessings to El Bofessa,” says Tammam.
“The longer the greeting, the more troubling what follows,” says Azzizah. Wahada-wahada—one by one—she and Tammam cut Abu Salim’s talking-too-fast-for-me-to-understand, like my mother amplifies for my father.
Neither wife comprehends her husband’s men-talk at first listen or at second or third. Time and again they played and replayed the same sentences. (Each time I caught a few more words.) Time and again, Tammam presses Rewind, Play, Stop, while she and Azzizah discuss what their husband could possibly mean by this or that expression.
“Whatever he means, it is not proper to put Abu Salim’s men-talk into women-talk,” Azzizah decides, “for no woman is as well informed as a man.”
“Aywa, we can but say what we think Abu Salim was cassette-recording,” says Tammam.
“What we think Abu Salim was maybe saying,” Azzizah corrects Tammam.
“Aywa,” says Tammam, “maybe what troubles Abu Salim is that we Badu were not invited to the maq’ad where the elders of the mighty tribes of Egypt and of Israel are peace-talking, as if our Badu elders are but women who have no voice, no say, no power . . .”
“Wallah, it is truly troubling,” mutters Azzizah.
“And maybe it also troubles Abu Salim that not one tribe in the world alliance of all the stranger-tribes the world over (meaning: not one nation in the United Nations) demands that we Badu rule in our Sinaa, even though Sinaa is ours.”
“True, Wallah,” says Azzizah, “the waterholes, be they full or empty, are ours, as are our home grounds, be they green or parched by draught, as are the passageways—smuggling routes—all ours . . .”
“We Sinaa Badu are treated like Harrah (shit), for we Sinaa Badu are but thirty or fifty or sixty ten-hundreds (thousand) strong, Abu Salim is saying here,” says Tammam. “He says that all the stranger-tribes the world over, even the stranger-Arab tribes, care only for the stranger-Arab tribe called the Felastiniyiin—Palestinians. For they are stronger than us Sinaa Badu by many many ten-hundreds . . . stronger only in numbers they are.”
“Yet they were as powerless as us Badu,” Azzizah corrects her.
“Aywa—yes,” Tammam agrees, “This stranger-Arab tribe Abu Salim calls the Felastiniyiin was as powerless as us Badu, in the days before the world alliance of all the stranger-tribes had empowered the Felastiniyiin in a land called Lubnan—Lebanon . . .”
“Wallah, how wide the horizon of our border-crossing men . . . none wider than your father’s, Abu Salim’s,” Azzizah says to little Salimeh. The child squeals in happiness to see what wonders the cassette translation of her father’s words are working on her girl-mother and Azzizah. Like a magic carpet, it transports them far beyond the narrow confines of their compound to a realm they are forbidden to enter—except in rare stories told by their men.
“And in this part of the cassette recording,” continues Tammam, “what troubles Abu Salim is that the alliance of all the stranger-tribes gave us Badu not even one grain of rice. Not even the stranger-Arab tribe called the Felastiniyiin, who had supplies to spare now. For the world alliance of the stranger-tribes supplied them with money and food to spare, and also with clothes and carpet-blankets to spare, and schools, and clinics, even dwelling places . . . And with so much fire-power they were supplied, night and day they fired in the air, just for the keif of displaying their newly supplied power . . .”
“Yaa-Allah!” exclaims Azzizah. “I will remember forever how the noise of fire power convulsed our mountains in the last war, as in the war before the last, and the one before . . .”
“Here, too, I think Abu Salim is saying that the Felastiniyiin’s pleasure-firing gave the people of the land called Lubnan a headache. Therefore, the Lubnan elders told the Felastiniyiin, ‘Stop your firing.’ But the Felastiniyiin replied, ‘We will do with our fire-power as we desire,’” says Tammam, cutting her words, wahada, wahada—one by one.
“Clearly, the Felastiniyiin were abusing the hospitality extended to them by the people of Lubnan,” says Azzizah.
“Aywa,” says Tammam. “Strange are the ways of the stranger-tribes of the world over, for they did not stop their flow of supplies to the Felastiniyiin, not even when the Felastiniyiin sparked a war of brothers (a civil war) in this land called Lubnan, and not even when, under the very heart of the place called Beirut, which had offered them refuge, the Felastiniyiin had sheltered the blood of their fighting men in many many caves . . . And their fire-power they stored at the very heart of their dwelling places, right next to the clinics, the schools, and the dwelling places . . . Yaa-rabba . . .” Thus the Felastiniyiin exposed the blood of their women and children.
“Sip your tea, yaa–Abu Salim,” Azzizah tells the cassette recorder now when Abu Salim coughs.
“Aywa,” says Abu Salim on the cassette, slurps his tea with much noise, almost as if he could hear her. Cracks us all up.
Tammam doesn’t have to hear a section more than once or twice now, before she goes on to cut his words wahada, wahada—one by one. “‘Wallah, if we do not disarm the Felastiniyiin, they would overpower us all, as they do in this land called Lubnan,’ one stranger-Arab tribe said to another. That is what I think Abu Salim is saying . . . ‘We know how to disarm the Felastiniyiin,’ said mighty Egypt. And without further words, the mighty sheikh of mighty Egypt flew in a tayarra—aeroplane—to the place called Al-Quds—Jerusalem. And there, for the whole world to see and hear, he declared that mighty Egypt would battle Israel no more. But only on condition that Israel would evacuate Sinaa—only Sinaa, not the land called Filastin—Palestine. And just like that, right there and then, the Felastiniyiin were disarmed of their most powerful loyal and constant ally, Wallah.”
“Yaa-Allah, Tammam, you talk like a man,” says Azzizah, a glint of amazement in one eye and apprehension in the other. “Tell on . . . Tell on,” she urges her junior co-wife.
“Aywa,” says Tammam. “And in this part, I think Abu Salim was saying that for thirty years, no tribe—not even the Felastiniyiin—had sacrificed as many sons as Egypt for the liberation from Israel of this place called Filastin . . . Aywa—yes—for thirty years Egypt had favoured the Felastiniyiin even more than her own sons, let alone our Badu sons. In prison, Wallah . . .”
“A fate worse than death is prison,” Azzizah mutters, almost touching the ground as she bends and lifts up her veil to spit.
“And yet, in prison, Wallah, mighty Egypt would lock our Badu sons whenever our Badu sons would refuse to serve mighty Egypt in her army and her battle for the liberation of Filastin. That is what I think Abu Salim was saying here. And next he said that when our Badu sons died battling for the Felastiniyiin, not even the Felastiniyiin acknowledged it . . . and not even Israel. Aywa—yes, not even as an enemy are we Badu of Sinaa recognized. The world does not see how we Badu of Sinaa are disregarded. But why us Badu and not the Felastiniyiin?” (Abu Salim spoke now like a person bereaved: “Why me?”)
“Inshallah, fate will right this wrong,” says Azzizah.
“Inshallah,” says Ta
mmam. “That is what Abu Salim was saying, ‘Inshallah,’ he said. This wrong will be made right by one of the men high up, who is destined to do so before or after he hears these words that he, Abu Salim, was recording now . . .”
“It is too hot now to continue . . . too hot to fetch water . . . too hot to move from the shade,” says Azzizah, as if in the past two-three days we have moved more than a few steps from Tammam’s maharama—the place of the women—by the fire-circle in front of Tammam’s tent.
CHAPTER 12
Tal has probably crossed three deserts by now—the Sinai, the Negev, and the Judean—if he’s returning to Tel Aviv by way of Jerusalem; two—the Sinai and the Negev—if he decided to get back by way of Beersheba; and only the immense expanse of Sinai if he’s driving back through the western gateway: El-Arish–Yamit. Tal had driven through that gateway countless times, always duty-bound—until the morning he and I took that route to the peninsula. For the first time, Tal was entering the western gateway to the peninsula by choice. He could barely conceal his excitement, elation, and joy—and I, my sadness.
Kilometre after kilometre, we kept passing war helmets, rust chewing rings around the bullet holes in them, lying on the roadside next to rusting chunks of tank chains. And past the bend, a wilderness unlike any I had seen or imagined. From horizon to horizon, battleground and battle training grounds . . . From horizon to horizon, the wilderness that had claimed you, my love, orphaned our son, widowed me, and trained Tal to know war: a wasteland flattened by God or man and covered with army bases.