24
When Kedar called, it was early. I had just emerged from the shower – a square of tiled floor in the bathroom set off from the sink and toilet only by a plastic curtain hung from the ceiling that reached down to my knees.
Dripping, I answered the phone. “Hello?”
“David, Mordechai Kedar. I get your messages. How was your trip?”
“Hi, Mordechai. Fine, fine. Thanks. Thanks so much for calling, I know you’re busy.”
“No problem, David. I give your passport number to Prison Service.”
“Thanks so much. I really appreciate the help.”
“I’m afraid news is not all good.”
“Oh.”
“We could meet if you like. Do you have car here in Israel?”
“No, unfortunately not. I’m not sure what your schedule is, but maybe we could meet in Jerusalem sometime when you are available. If you will be here.”
“I’m very busy, David. No time for travel. But you are welcome to come to Ra’anana and visit me at my home in the afternoon.”
“Sure, of course. I can come. When were you thinking?”
“Today, David.”
“Oh.”
“You can come today, yes?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, having no idea how far away Ra’anana was or how I might reach it.
“I leave soon to go teach at the university, and have presentation to give to police station here at four in the afternoon. Come for lunch at my home at two. We can talk then.” Kedar gave me his address, and told me to call upon arriving at the central bus station in Ra’anana.
“Okay, I’ll give you a call when I arrive.”
“Good. I see you in the afternoon.”
[Click.]
I dressed and shuffled into the kitchen. The stone floor’s chill seeped through my socks as I filled an aluminum kettle and warmed some water for coffee on the gas burner. Rubbing my hands involuntarily over the steaming water, I wondered what it was Kedar had learned, and why a personal appearance was required to acquire it. Images of Israeli officials formed ranks in my mind, all of them shaking their head and mouthing, Ee’efshar – impossible.
Moving to the dining room, I sat with my scalding cup of Nescafé and unfolded a map of Israel upon the table. Morning light streamed through the sliding glass doors and highlighted Ra’anana, situated near the coast, somewhat north of Tel Aviv. I knew how to get from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv – taxi vans called sherut (or service) lined up in an alley downtown at all hours. Banking on there being a similar way to reach Ra’anana from Tel Aviv, I estimated the trip would take two, perhaps three hours, if things went well.
I caught a taxi downtown to Jaffa Street and got out near the intersection of Ben Yehudah – the city’s cobblestoned, commercial center for tourists, where discount jewelry stores and ice cream stands coexist with Burger King and Kentucky Fried Chicken. The vans to Tel Aviv were off a side alley, and after locating them, I squeezed into the lead vehicle beside some Palestinian laborers and nodded, Ma nishmah? – How’s it going? The Hebrew came out sharp and gruff, as though awakening from a deep hibernation, the gutturals emerging from the cavernous recesses of a past life to forage in my jet-lagged synapses. When the van reached its capacity, I called to the driver, Yallah, hasherut maleah – Come on already, the van’s full.
When the driver hopped in, we passed our fares to the front – forty shekels, approximately ten dollars – and settled in for the winding, hour-long trip from the hills of Jerusalem down through the coastal plateau, the trip ending in central Tel Aviv at the country’s largest bus station, housed in the belly of a tiered shopping mall. Once there, it was time to find a way to Ra’anana and Kedar. I walked past pierced Israeli punks who feigned their marauding before bass-thumping music stores and itinerant Thai workers who huddled behind upturned collars along the curb, waiting for rides to the fields. Spotting a police officer directing traffic, I asked, “Yeish sherut l’Ra’anana?” – Are there vans to Ra’anana?
“Aiyn.” – There aren’t.
I could have taken a bus – several lines ran steadily between Tel Aviv and Ra’anana. But I had promised Jamie I’d stay away from them; so I turned instead toward the idling taxis. The phone buzzed.
“Hello?”
“David?”
“Hi Jamie,” I said, pressing the phone to my skull and plugging my free ear against the din.
“How’s your trip?
“It’s good.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m actually in Tel Aviv, at the bus station. I’m trying to figure out how to get to Ra’anana.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s about a half-hour from here.”
“Why are you going there?”
“Mordechai Kedar invited me. I’m going to his house.”
“Is he that big intelligence guy, the one with all the connections?”
“Yeah.”
“Sounds like you’re making progress.”
“Eh, I don’t know. He sounded pessimistic on the phone. How are you guys?”
“We’re fine. It’s snowing here.”
“Cool.”
“You’re not taking a bus, right?”
“Of course not.”
“Take taxis. Don’t worry about the cost.”
“I am,” I said, moving toward the line of white Mercedes. I could hear a muffled conversation commence on the line.
“Can Noa say hello?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, here she is – ”
I stepped into a cab. “Ra’anana, b’vakashah.”
“120 shekel.”
I nodded and put the phone back to my ear as the driver put the car in gear.
“Abba?”
“Hi Noa. How are you?”
“Abba, it’s snowing in Pittsburgh.”
“Wow. That’s amazing.”
“Are you in Israel?”
“Yes. I’m in Israel.”
“Is it the day?”
“Yes.”
“We just woke up here.”
“I know.”
“Isn’t that funny?”
“Yep. It sure is.”
“Abba?”
“Yes?”
“Tamar’s allergic to the cats here.”
“Oh, is she stuffy?”
“Yes.”
“Aw. That’s too bad. Is she keeping you up at night?”
“Abba?”
“Yes, Noa.”
“When are you coming home?”
“I’ll be home next week.”
“Is that long?”
“It’s not too long.”
“How can I know how long it is until you come back?”
“I have an idea. Maybe you can make a chart with Imma that has the days of the week on it. And each day you can color in a box to see how many days are left.”
“Does Imma know how to make a chart?”
“I’m sure she does.” The phone muffled again as Noa turned toward Jamie and repeated the plan. “Noa?”
“Yes?”
“Can I talk to Imma now?”
“She says she can make a chart.”
“Great – can I talk to Imma now?”
“Bye Abba, I love you – ”
“I love you.”
“ – hey David. What kind of chart does she want?”
“Just one that has the days until I come home. You can cross off a new day each morning, just to give her a visual of how long until I come back.”
“Oh, okay. That’s a good idea.”
The driver leaned over as we approached Ra’anana and said, “La’an rotzeh?” – Where do you want?
“L’tachanah ha’merkazit.” – The central bus station.
“Hey Jamie, I think I should go and make sure this guy’s taking me to the bus station.”
“That’s okay. I have to make the kids breakfast anyway.”
“How are you holding up?”
“We’
re fine. Everything’s fine. Let’s just say single-parenthood isn’t something I’m hoping for, but don’t worry about us. We’re doing what we need to do, and you just do whatever it is you need and then come home.”
“Thanks. I love you.”
“Love you too, I’ll call soon.”
“ ’K – bye.”
The cab pulled up to Ra’anana’s central bus station, which was nothing more than a parking lot with seven or eight shelters huddled beneath Microsoft’s headquarters in Israel – a looming, glass structure encased in green, reflective windows with the company’s logo stretched across the top. Strange, I thought while shuffling across strips of asphalt and rubble. It was December. The sun was surprisingly hot. I ducked underneath the awning of a bus stop where soldiers holding M-16s, blue-collar workers holding empty lunch bags, and single mothers holding fidgety infants were waiting. A few stray children tossed rocks into a gravel pitch behind us. I tucked myself into a corner of the shelter and called Kedar.
“Hallo?”
“Mordechai? Hi, it’s David. Just wanted to let you know I’m in Ra’anana at the bus station.”
“David. Welcome. You are early; I’m still at university, but I can meet you at my home. Do you mind walking, David?”
“Um, not really.”
“My home is just a mile from where you are.”
“Okay.”
He provided walking instructions, then hung up abruptly. I looked at the phone and gathered myself, repeating the directions internally as a young, brown-haired woman turned to me and said, “Atah Americai?”
I nodded and she smiled, tucking her chin playfully to her chest and looking down briefly. I glanced up at Microsoft’s head quarters, a glistening symbol of American prosperity and commercial domination. I squinted and said, “Lama?” – Why?
She shrugged. It was a shrug of loneliness, of impossibility – a shrug I felt crawl into my cartilage. I turned away and walked toward Kedar’s, feeling the chill of an everlasting shrug,13 thinking, You know what he’s going to tell you. You know what to expect.
Beyond the shadow of Microsoft, I entered a surreal suburbia. Meticulously manicured lawns and contemporary apartment buildings. Medians lined with palm trees, creating a green, coastal canopy. I was disarmed – by the charm, the peacefulness, the choreographed serenity. I found myself at Mordechai Kedar’s apartment complex a mile later, enveloped in a serene side street in this family-dominated neighborhood.
A car pulled up and parked. It was Kedar. I recognized him from his profile on the Begin-Sadat Center for Strategic Studies website. As he approached – a gray-haired intellectual in his fifties wearing slacks and a blue dress shirt – I noticed a gentle confidence in his gait. He greeted me warmly with a handshake accompanied by a backslap. His only words: “I see you made it okay.”
He led me into the building, and once we were inside his apartment, Kedar gestured with an index finger for me to sit at the kitchen table as he rooted around in the refrigerator. I gazed upon the view, an expanse of desert hills and, in the distance, beige apartment blocks rising out of the desolate sand.
“You like potato kugel?”
“Sure.”
“Good. We have plenty,” he said, setting down a baking dish and sliding some food onto a plate. After insisting I eat – “eat, eat” – he sat across from me, sliced kugel onto his plate and dove straight into the business at hand, the reason for my arrival.
“When I started to look at your request, I did it normal, and went through normal procedures with prison service. When it came to Yossi’s desk, he saw my name and called me, wanted to know why I not call him about it and wanting to know what this David person was about. When I told him, he immediately agreed and that’s when I called you asking for passport number.”
He was moving too fast. “Who’s Yossi?”
“My friend Yossi is one of the people who deals with who visits prisoners. He makes some of the decisions,” Kedar said as he sliced another piece of potato kugel and slid it onto my plate without asking.
“Why did you go through the normal bureaucratic process instead of calling your friend? I’m just curious.”
“I knew it would get to him. I have to save my favors, yes?”
I nodded in faux understanding, scooping up the kugel and politely shoveling it in, despite being anything but hungry. “So your friend Yossi agreed that my request was a legitimate one?”
“Sure, of course. So as I said, Yossi checked. Spoke to the prison chief at – your Mohammad is now at Rimonim, he was moved to another jail – and the prison chief told Yossi that prisoner refuse. He not want to meet with you.”
It was the same story I had heard before. Kedar poured orange juice into my glass and said, “There’s nothing to do. He can’t make the prisoner meet with you. I’m sorry.”
There was nothing for me to say. This is what I’ve traveled all this way to hear? I thought.
“Want to know why this is?”
“Why what is?”
“Why you can’t meet with this Mohammad?”
“I thought you just told me why.”
“No, I mean why prisoner gets to choose.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“It’s very interesting. Muslim women sometimes attack soldiers. They take out knives and jump at them. At first, we were confused by it, because these women are not what you would say is a terrorist, or jihadist. And then we realized what they were doing: they wanted to go to jail. They were trying to escape revenge killing from family, and saw jail as the only way to live. Jail became refuge for these women. And then we found when they were in jail, family members would try to visit this woman. We worried that they wanted to harm them or kill them. So they make a rule that prisoner does not have to meet with anyone without his permission. This is why you cannot meet with your Mohammad.”
“But I don’t plan on hurting him. This is clear to everyone, right?”
“Of course, but I’m telling you a rule. It’s rule for all prisoners to protect them.”
“I understand this. But I guess I just don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to meet, particularly if he really did express remorse about what he did, and knows I’m not looking for revenge. Especially since his family claims he’s told them he welcomes a visit from me.”
“He is Hamas, yes? What does he gain from meeting with you, David? Not much. But if it is learned in jail that he meet with you, it could cause him trouble. Maybe Hamas does not appreciate it. Maybe someone in jail doesn’t like the idea of him meeting with you. He could put himself in danger. This is what I think.”
I looked down, confused. “This is what I don’t understand. Why would he tell his family, aloud, in prison, that he would meet with me if he was afraid for his safety? Wouldn’t he be afraid to even say such a thing to his family? It doesn’t make any sense. Of course I understand why he would refuse, given a situation in which he’s afraid of the repercussions should the meeting be found out, should Hamas learn of it and not like it. But I would assume in such a situation Mohammad wouldn’t articulate aloud to his mother that he would like to meet with me. Why would he say this?”
“I don’t know why, David. Maybe he lies to his family.”
“Is it possible he’s not the one lying?”
Kedar shrugged. I had gone too far.
“David, you should know something about your Mohammad. Or something about what Palestinian society was like when he committed attack. Want to hear a joke?”
“A joke?” The conversational turn was puzzling. “Um. Okay.”
“Why is price of Kleenex going up in Jerusalem?”
Kedar waited for me to play along. “Why?”
“Because East Jerusalemites are wrapping stones with tissues before throwing them.”
I didn’t get it.
“This was a popular joke in the West Bank during time Mohammad committed the attack, a joke that shows very much about that time. There was much anger amongst Palestinians in the
West Bank against those living in Jerusalem. They would tease them and say that Israeli Palestinians liked their comforts – their state-provided health insurance and citizenship – more than the Intifada. And this caused much shame in East Jerusalem. Many Palestinians felt much shame about having money and living good lives. They had much shame about being seen as not fighting. Not getting dirty. I’m sure your Mohammad felt shame – ”
We were interrupted by his cell phone, into which he immediately began speaking in fluent Arabic. Cupping a hand over the speaker, he leaned in and said, “Just a student. She have trouble registering for classes of mine.”
I thought about the joke, about its questionable value as an informative kernel of sociology serving as a possible backdrop for Mohammad’s actions, but it had absolutely nothing to do with how I might gain an audience with him. I wanted an audience, not a punch line. When Kedar hung up, he looked out the window. We both sat quietly for a time, watching an Egyptian vulture circle against the blue sky. He turned to me and said, “David, I have a friend. His son was kidnapped and murdered by Hamas, and he is today a peace activist. I will never understand why he is peace activist after something like this happened. It is not something I could do. It is not something I can understand or judge. But he is a friend.”
Suddenly, I understood why Kedar had invited me to lunch. “You don’t understand why I’m trying to meet Mohammad, then.”
“No. I’m perplexed by these motivations you speak. I do not understand.”
“Then why have you done all of this to try and help? Why did you make all the efforts, contact the prison service, call me in America for my passport number, and invite me here to be with you if you don’t really have a stake in what I’m doing?”
What Do You Buy the Children of the Terrorist who Tried to Kill Your Wife? Page 23