What Do You Buy the Children of the Terrorist who Tried to Kill Your Wife?

by David Harris-Gershon

  “He’s only been asked once, right?”

  “I believe this is correct. Now, I want you to know that the Prison Service wants to offer you whatever it can to help you achieve whatever it is you are looking for. I have brought some photographs of the prison where Mohammad Odeh is being held. Perhaps these will help you with your book?”

  I looked at Julie, both of us understanding that this was going to be hopeless, that the Lieutenant Colonel couldn’t possibly accept what it was I was looking for, much less understand it. Attempting to explain the psychology of it all would do nothing to help. There was nothing to say. So I said nothing.

  “Or, perhaps you would like me to take you to the jail itself? You could view it from the outside, take some pictures, perhaps get a tour of the perimeter from the prison warden – ”

  “Ian, I appreciate it. I really do. But this isn’t about a book. This is about something entirely different – ”

  “You only want to meet with the prisoner.”

  “That’s right. This is all I’m seeking. I ask nothing else.”

  “I understand. Let me tell you. What I can do is this: there is a high-level meeting in a few days. If you like, I can press this again and have those in charge of making such decisions look into it again.”

  “I’d appreciate that Ian, because, honestly, and I’m not saying anyone here is lying, but it’s just that there are inconsistencies, you know. The Odeh family claims that Mohammad wants to meet. They have spoken with him, and have spoken with me. The Prison Service claims he has refused. So I just need this to be checked, because something is not right.”

  The Lieutenant Colonel appeared to be swallowing some rising frustration. “Yes, of course. Again, I will check on this and email you the result of further inquiry.”

  “Because something isn’t right. You understand? I’m getting mixed signals, and just need to make sure that what I’ve been told is accurate. I just want to make sure that it is accurate.”

  He understood my non-accusation. “Yes, David. I hear exactly what you are saying, and will do everything in my power to see if it will be necessary to check with the prisoner again. This is as important to me as it is to you, I assure you.”

  He then asked about Jamie, about her recovery, and for a moment I felt the warmth of sincerity. But when I handed him the photo album Jamie had prepared for my journey, he lingered a bit unnaturally on each picture, smiling politely, shaking his head as he turned the pages slowly, commenting on my beautiful family – it was a performance. A bad one. I suspected there would be no further checking.

  On the way home, I plucked Moshe the taxi driver’s card from my wallet, having promised to call – having promised not to be a typical American – and dialed his number.

  “Hallo?”

  “Moshe? Hi, this is David. I’m the American who promised to call you after – ”

  “David? Yes, yes. I remember. Ma koreh?” – What’s happening?

  “Well. I went to visit the Palestinian family. The one I told you about. And – ”

  “The terrorist family, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so I was right, yes? Bad idea, eh?” Moshe’s voice crackled on the line.

  “Wait. You must buy me lunch first, Moshe. Remember? Then I’ll tell you about it.”

  “Ah, David. I’m sorry. I’m stuck in Tel Aviv – family thing.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Do you come back soon?”

  “Next week. Will you still be in Ha-aretz?” – The Land?

  “Nope. I’m leaving soon.”

  “Back to America?”

  “Yep.”

  There was a pause on the line. “So I buy you lunch next time you come, yes?”

  “Okay, Moshe.”

  “So David, tell me. I was right, yes?”

  “About?”

  “About visiting the family. That it was not a good idea. It is worse for you, right?”

  “You were wrong, Moshe.”

  “Eh,” he grumbled.

  “You were wrong. They were kind. Our talk was good.”

  “Give it time. You’ll see. They are not good – you’ll learn their words are all lies, and then you’ll feel worse.”

  “And what if you’re wrong, Moshe? What then?”

  “Eh.”

  A single, guttural syllable. That was his only response to this possibility, which seemed to him, and, I imagined, a significant number of Israelis, utterly implausible. Palestinians could not be good. Could not be kind. They were the ones who taught children to sing songs of murder and martyrdom. They were the ones who blew up cafés and danced in celebration. They were the ones who would push all Jews into the Mediterranean, if given the chance. They were the repository for the fears of a historically traumatized people – a traumatized country.

  While Mohammad’s murderous plot had brought me face-to-face with an undeniably barbarous element woven into the fringe of Palestinian society, I had also been brought face-to-face with his family. And what I saw was a normal people. A kind people. A broken people. I saw a people who feared military uniforms, feared casual bureaucratic encounters, feared a knock on the door telling them that a child had been taken to prison.

  I saw a people who feared helicopters and the sky in which they hovered.

  I saw a people who feared midnight raids and indefinite detentions.

  A people who feared armed, uniformed teenagers.

  A people tired of the fear.

  Tired of the suffering.

  Tired of the shame.

  And I saw that seeing all of this wasn’t enough. Meeting them wasn’t enough.

  The next morning was chilly and misting with rain as I proceeded past cement barriers to the Jerusalem District Court, the location of Mohammad’s trial in 2002. After weaving through temporary concrete walls to the court’s security entrance, I came to a giant steel box set one hundred yards from the judicial building’s vaulted face.

  I had arrived after a decision:

  Me:

  What is it you still want?

  Me:

  I’m not sure.

  Me:

  Was meeting the Odeh family not enough?

  Me:

  It was good – it was helpful. But I want more.

  Me:

  You want to speak with Mohammad.

  Me:

  That’s not happening – I think I’ve resigned myself to that. And the truth is, I’m not even sure I want it anymore. Like I said, meeting with the family was good. It really was. But I feel like there’s more to be done.

  Me:

  Maybe you just can’t let go. Can’t let go of the need for further seeking as a way to occupy yourself.

  Me:

  That’s not it.

  Me:

  Whatever.

  Me:

  Fuck you, it’s not escapism. You don’t travel to Israel and do all this for escapism.

  Me:

  What then?

  Me:

  I don’t know. I think it’s understanding. A lot of this has been about trying to understand how this happened in order to absorb it, soak it up and empty it somewhere else.

  Me:

  So visiting the family did nothing?

  Me:

  No, it did. I get them, I think. It helped. There was some sort of reconciliation between us, and a healing element accompanied that. I can feel it. Feel a shift within. But here’s the thing: it didn’t help me to understand Mohammad’s derangement, to understand the chain of moments and influences leading up to his violent act. And even though I may never understand, there’s still a need to try.

  Me:

  So what’s left?

  Me:

  Maybe just an understanding of how the event happened. The pieces. Something to put together. Then at least I’d have a puzzle completed. Would have something to look at and say, “There it is.”

  Me:

  You want information.

  Me:

  It’
s all that’s left.

  I knew that there was detailed information about the attack and the terror cell that had orchestrated it, copious amounts of information accumulated from the police investigation. And I knew most of this information must have come out during the terror cell’s trial, must have been typed up by a court reporter into the public record. It existed. It was just a matter of securing it. And since Mohammad had been tried at the Jerusalem District Court, this seemed to be the natural place in which to dig. One last time.

  The previous evening, preparing for a visit to the court, I had sipped nana tea at a local café while searching for names I could lean on if things didn’t go smoothly at the courthouse. From journalistic accounts of Mohammad’s trial, I learned that the state’s lead prosecutor for the case was named Orit Blubstein. The presiding judge Ya’akov Tzaban.

  I asked the waitress for a Jerusalem phone book and scanned for the name Blubstein, not expecting to find her listed, given her position. She was a woman whose job it was to prosecute politically and ideologically driven murderers. I certainly would not have listed my name and address in the public phone book. But there it was: Blubstein, Orit – 2365 Weikovski Street – 02-4853945.

  I could not believe it.

  What are you thinking? I said silently, looking at her name, speaking to the book. The name shrugged back. In a country hypervigilant about matters of security, I wondered how the equivalent of a United States district attorney could be listed in the local phone book. Shaking my head, I began to consider that perhaps I understood very little about the underlying logic driving the way things worked in Israel, if such a logic even existed.

  I picked up my cell phone, thinking, What the fuck, and dialed her number. A woman answered.

  Me:

  Efshar l’daber eeym Orit? – Could I speak with Orit?

  Her:

  Mi zeh? – Who’s this?

  I explained, sputtering in Hebrew, thrown off by having to speak on the phone, handicapped by not being able to look at her lips as she spoke, my brain unable to process the visual formation of the words. So I stuttered. Wife. Hebrew University attack. You were lawyer.

  After I finished rambling, her first question was: “How did you find my number?”

  How did I find her number? “It was in the White Pages, Orit.”

  “Eh. Call me at my office tomorrow. Not now.”

  She gave me her number and hung up while I was still scribbling it down on a coffee-stained napkin, which I filed officially in a pocket.

  At the courthouse, a small line of people had formed, waiting outside the steel security box as police combed through the belongings of those already inside. I approached its door and tried the handle, being the type who, coming to an elevator with people already waiting, presses the illuminated button. I’ve never trusted the masses. The handle was locked.

  I backed away and filed into the queue as an officer poked his head out and said, “Ode dakah.” – One minute. When the door finally opened, we were ushered in. I placed my cluttered backpack on a counter as a middle-aged security guard pulled out its contents. It looked as though he was pulling a continuous stream of colorfully-tied handkerchiefs from a magician’s top hat – not delighted, simply waiting for the trick to end. Small black notebook. Dell laptop. Tape recorder (miniature). Altoids (cinnamon). Pocket English-Hebrew dictionary. Cell phone charger. Woven knit hat. Loose change (American and Israeli). Then: something that elicited shouting.

  “Ma Zeh?” – What’s this?

  It was the knife I’d taken with me to Silwan.

  “And you wonder why we have to check all these bags?” he projected to everyone else in the small cell while looking at me, holding up the knife. “Why do you have this?”

  “I forgot. I’m so sorry. I didn’t remember it was in there.”

  “Why do you have it?”

  “It’s just something I carry. I forgot. I’m sorry. Please – ”

  He waved it in the air, showing it to the other security guards as people sighed and tapped their feet, anxious to get to their destinations.

  “Do you have anything else?”

  “No. That’s it. I promise.”

  He turned my backpack upside-down and began shaking, then slid it down the counter as another guard took the knife and filled out a form.

  “Sign here. You can have it back when you leave.”

  After scribbling my name in Hebrew, I was motioned to pass through a metal detector. I prayed it wouldn’t go off. It didn’t.

  “Thank you,” I said, scooping up my backpack and its contents and scurrying up the court’s stone steps and into the main hall. Scanning the signs, I saw an arrow for the mazkirut (secretarial office) and followed its lead until coming upon a long room full of file-stuffed shelves. A beautiful, red-headed twenty-something woman with green-framed glasses and blue eyes was seated beneath a sign reading “Secretary.”

  I approached, placed my hands on the counter, and smiled. “Hi, I’m trying to find court records for a particular trial from 2002.”

  “Were you one of the parties involved?” Her voice was sharp, tough.

  “Um. No. Well, yes, kind of.” Then the sympathy-producing song-and-dance, feigning shyness, uttering the words “my wife was injured” and “terrorist attack” and “I’ve traveled all this way.”

  “So, you’re not a citizen?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry. You’ll need someone involved in the case to sign off. Otherwise, we can’t help you.” The secretary looked past me, ready to help the next person.

  I had no intention of backing down. “What if I were a citizen?”

  “You’re not.”

  “I know, but what if someone who was a citizen requested the documents. Would they get them?” I punctuated the question with raised hands, as though I were ready to catch a cheerleader I’d just thrown into the air.

  “No, you have to be a party involved or an official organization able to access such information.”

  “Wait. So why’d you ask if I was a citizen, then?”

  “Staam” – just because.

  “Just because? Okay, tell me what I can do. Is there anyone I can contact who could give me permission or help me with this?”

  “Do you know any of the lawyers? Or anyone else involved?”

  I pivoted toward the door. “Thanks for your help,” I said, already heading to the main hall with my phone in hand. Pulling out the coffee-stained napkin, I dialed Orit Blubstein’s office.

  “Hallo?”

  “Hi. I’m trying to call Orit Blubstein.”

  “This is Orit.”

  “Hi Orit. This is David. I called you at your home last night. I’m the American whose wife was injured in the Hebrew University bombing.”

  “Um. What do you want?”

  “Well, you were the prosecutor for the case against the terrorists. And I’m at the Jerusalem District Court right now trying to get documents from the case.”

  “Yes? So?”

  “They say I need someone who was involved to help me get them. Could you help?”

  “Me? No. I cannot help you. I am not who you want. Ask the judge, maybe.”

  “But they said you could – ”

  “This is wrong. They give you wrong information.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is that all?”

  I thought for a moment. It wasn’t. “Orit, I’ve traveled all this way. I’m trying to learn more about Mohammad Odeh – he was the one who perpetrated the Hebrew University bombing. Can I meet with you?”

  “What? Meet with me?”

  “Just to get some of your memories. Could you meet me for coffee – just a half hour – and maybe talk with me about what you remember about Mohammad? What he might have said during the trial?”

  “I do not remember anything.”

  “You don’t remember anything? It was a huge trial.”

  “No, I cannot be of any help to you. I’m sorry.”


  “Did Mohammad express remorse?”

  “I’m sorry. I do not remember many details. This was a long time ago. There have been many cases since then.”

  “So you won’t meet?”

  “I can meet if you like, but it will be no use. A waste.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is that all?”

  I hung up the phone. Two judges wearing black robes shuffled down a marble staircase bisecting the main hall. Looking up and past them, a second floor revealed itself, a floor which contained a wrap-around balcony and private offices and chambers for court officials. It was off-limits.

  I retrieved my backpack, sat down, and waited patiently for the space to clear. When the security guard stationed in front of the central entrance stepped away from his position for some reason, I scurried up the stairs and found the directory to the private offices bolted on the stone wall. Find the judge, I thought, and scanned for the name, Ya’akov Zaban, hoping five years later he would still be sitting on the Jerusalem court. Room 204, it showed.

  When I approached the appropriate door, three men in suits were arguing before it. Unable to understand the contents of their heated back-and-forth, and unsure whether Judge Zaban was among them, I waited for a lull, standing by idly. At a break in the conversation, I asked, “Judge Zaban?”

  “Inside,” said a lawyer, pointing to a closed door as everyone turned to look at me. “But you can’t go in just yet.”

  I gripped my backpack and squeezed past them, turning the handle and pressing myself into what looked like a miniature courtroom. His chambers. Two columns of polished wooden benches stood five rows deep before the judge’s raised bench, which was empty. Below it, a blond woman squinted up from her typing and said, “Can I help you?”