A grave in Gaza oy-2

by Matt Beynon Rees

  “Eyad was arrested because of something that happened at the university, not because of his work at the UN school,” Masharawi’s wife said.

  “Why do you say that, Missus Masharawi?” Cree asked.

  The woman paused. That form of address must have sounded as odd to her as it did to Omar Yussef. “I am Salwa Masharawi. You are welcome to call me Umm Naji-the mother of Naji. This is Naji, my eldest boy.” She gestured to the lanky kid, folded on the armchair in the corner.

  Cree nodded, with a hint of impatience.

  “Fourteen armed men came to our house very early this morning, when everyone was asleep,” Salwa said.

  “Israeli soldiers?” Wallender asked.

  “Palestinian security agents.”

  “What did they want?” Wallender took out a small notebook and a pen.

  “The agents asked my husband for his papers.”

  “His identity papers?”

  “No, his papers from the university. There have been exams at the university recently and he kept the test papers here.” Salwa pointed at the bookcase in the corner. “They took all the papers from that empty shelf.”

  “Why did they want these papers?”

  “There has been trouble at the university, Mister Wallender.” Salwa closed her eyes and touched her forehead. “Well, at least, Eyad has done things which, as I believe one says in English, are asking for trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Three days each week, Eyad teaches at your UN school. He likes to be there, because he is from an old Gaza City family, and he often says that we should work with the refugees to show that they are always welcomed here. It seems silly, perhaps, because they are just as much Gazans as anyone else, after sixty years in their camps, but they are still the poorest people in town and Eyad thinks it’s his duty to work on their behalf. The other two days each week, he works at the university. He teaches in the Education Department.” Salwa hesitated and glanced at her friend, who gave her a nod. “Unlike his UN job, the work at the university is no longer a source of pleasure for Eyad. It is a battle.”

  “Against whom?” Omar Yussef asked.

  “Perhaps you think that the corruption of Palestinian life should not infect the university, Abu Ramiz? That academia should be above such dirtiness?” Salwa shook her head. “Sadly, this is not so.”

  Cree drank the last of the coffee in his tiny cup, wiped the thick dregs that clung to the tips of his mustache, and put the cup down on the side table with a rattle.

  “Naji, make tea, now,” Salwa said. She puckered her lips and blew out a breath, as though in relief that her son would be spared her story.

  “He’s a good boy,” Omar Yussef said, after Naji left the room.

  “He looks just like his father, even down to the ear. You saw, it sticks out?” Salwa said. “But he’s quiet and calm. Not like Eyad.”

  “What went wrong for Eyad at the university?” Omar Yussef asked.

  “Eyad discovered that the university is selling degrees to officers in the Preventive Security.”

  “Preventive Security?” Wallender frowned. “What’s that?”

  “The plainclothes police force,” Cree said.

  Salwa nodded.

  “Why would a policeman need a degree?” Omar Yussef said.

  Umm Rateb put her hand on Salwa’s wrist and took over. “To be promoted quickly, these policemen need to show that they have studied law or had some other higher education. It puts them on what you’d call the fast track to the highest posts. Of course, that means a better salary and more power.”

  “So the university gives them the degree in exchange for payment?” Omar Yussef said.

  “Yes, they have to show up to a couple of classes, but they don’t really study,” Umm Rateb said.

  Salwa clicked her tongue and her tone edged into anger for the first time. “They couldn’t study if they tried. They aren’t qualified to be at the university. These men didn’t even graduate high school. They were on the streets making trouble when they should have been in class. But now the troublemakers are the law in Gaza and they want to receive something valuable without working for it.”

  “What did Eyad do when he discovered this?” Omar Yussef said.

  Salwa shook her head. “My husband is not a calm man. If he sees something he dislikes, he has to act against it. I always say to him, ‘Please, Eyad, slow down. Let us live in peace.’ But that isn’t what he wanted. Three weeks ago, he set an exam for his class at the university.”

  “The exam that was confiscated this morning?” Omar Yussef said.

  Salwa handed him the folder. “They didn’t get this copy of the exams. Eyad left it on his bedside table.”

  Omar Yussef translated from the first page: “ Write an essay about corruption in the government.” He looked at Cree, whose face was measured and unreadable. Wallender bowed over his notebook.

  Umm Rateb spoke up. “The head of the university, Professor Adnan Maki, was very angry. He called Abu Naji to his office and they did a great deal of shouting. When Abu Naji left, he forgot even to say goodbye to me at my desk outside Professor Maki’s office, though I am a good friend of his family. For the rest of the afternoon Professor Maki was extremely irritable.”

  “Did the university punish Eyad?” Omar Yussef asked.

  “My husband didn’t wait to be punished,” Salwa said, with a sad laugh. “He went straight to his classroom that afternoon and set another exam for his students. Have a look.”

  Omar Yussef turned to the second page in the file and read: “ Write an essay about corruption at the university.”

  “All the students wrote about the university selling degrees to the plainclothesmen,” Salwa said. “Professor Maki immediately suspended Eyad.”

  Wallender looked up from his notebook. “If the students already knew about the selling of the degrees, why would Eyad be punished?”

  “It was not something to talk about in public, not something to set exams about,” Umm Rateb said.

  “It’s more than that,” Salwa said. “It became personal.”

  “Between Eyad and Professor Maki?” Omar Yussef said.

  “Worse.” Salwa waved her hand. “Colonel al-Fara.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Cree.

  “Who’s that?” Wallender asked.

  “The head of the plainclothes police. One of the most powerful men in Gaza and certainly one of the nastiest bastards you’ll ever come across.” Cree slapped his thigh. “He’s tortured more prisoners than you’ve had pickled herring and Aquavit, Magnus.”

  “James,” Omar Yussef said, flicking his eyes toward Salwa.

  Cree looked at the woman’s solemn face. “Sorry, dear,” he said, with a little cough.

  Salwa nodded, but her mouth was tense. She shivered slightly before she continued. “Professor Maki told my husband that he had embarrassed him in front of Colonel al-Fara. As you point out, Mister Cree, that’s not a favorable situation in which to find oneself in Gaza these days. With men like Maki and al-Fara, all kinds of politics are involved which, as I told my husband, he couldn’t possibly know about.”

  “Shouldn’t the head of the university protect academic freedom?” Wallender asked.

  Salwa and Umm Rateb shared a glance that suggested the Swede might as well have dropped in from Mars. “Professor Maki didn’t become head of the university because he’s a notable academic. Rather, it was because he’s involved in politics,” said Salwa. She turned once more to Umm Rateb, who nodded with grim approbation. “He’s a member of the Fatah Party’s Revolutionary Council and very senior in the PLO. So is Colonel al-Fara. No doubt many secret deals could be strained by a conflict between them. I warned my husband they would need a scapegoat to allow them to patch up their differences.”

  “After he was suspended, what did your husband do?” Wallender asked.

  “He should have waited until next year and the suspension would have been lifted, when everyone had forgot
ten about what he did. But he went to one of the human-rights organizations, which has campaigned against corruption. They decided to make this an issue of academic freedom. They wrote to Professor Maki about my husband’s case.”

  Omar Yussef felt a darkness enveloping him. He thought of this woman’s impulsive husband, determined and arrogant. Those aloof eyes in the photo were too proud for Gaza, debased as it had become. To live here, you would have to accept the shadows, swelter in airless rooms, choke on your resentment.

  “They also wrote to Colonel al-Fara,” Salwa said.

  Omar Yussef knew where that letter must have led. The boy returned with a tray of small glasses filled with mint leaves and dark tea. Omar Yussef saw a flicker of fear on Salwa’s face and her lips tightened, as though the boy before her were in as much danger as her husband. Naji set a cup before Omar Yussef and glanced at the open file on the older man’s knees. Omar Yussef reached for the tea. His hand shook and he withdrew it. His pulse raced.

  “Did Colonel al-Fara make any reply to the letter from the human-rights group?” Cree said.

  “The arrest was his reply,” Salwa said.

  “You said they asked for his papers,” Omar Yussef said. “We can see from the empty shelf that he gave them the papers they wanted. Why did they arrest him, as well?”

  “The policemen insulted him. I heard one of them say that the papers looked very suspicious and that they would need to interrogate him about them. Eyad lost his temper and shouted at them. I’m sure they wanted to provoke him, so they could arrest him.”

  “Where were you?” Omar Yussef asked.

  “I was upstairs. As I came down, I saw them taking Eyad through the door of this room and out of the front of the house. He was in handcuffs and one of them made him bend forward as he walked, pushing his neck down. I called out to him, but an agent stood at the bottom of the stairs and refused to let me pass.”

  Omar Yussef heard the desperation of that moment even now in Salwa’s voice. “They were Preventive Security agents?”

  “Yes. They wore leather jackets, even though it wasn’t cold. They took Eyad through the garden and went away very quickly.”

  “Did anyone tell you why he was arrested?”

  “First thing this morning I went to their local office. They told me Eyad was held at their headquarters in the south of the city. They said he was being investigated, that perhaps he worked for the CIA.”

  “The CIA?” Cree shouted.

  “That’s right.”

  “Jesus Christ, they’re aiming for the bloody top.” Cree clapped his hands. “No messing around with piddling accusations of collaboration with the Israelis here. No, he’s a big CIA hotshot. Christ.”

  Salwa drew herself straight. Her voice was soft and precise. “I agree, Mister Cree. If my husband is a spy, then take him to Palestine Square and shoot him, I told them. But he should be put on trial first. There should be justice.”

  “They didn’t mention a trial to you?” Omar Yussef said.

  Salwa shook her head.

  Cree scoffed and waved his hand. “Trial? No chance.”

  Magnus Wallender looked up from his notes. He rested his elbow on his knee and rubbed his short beard. “Your husband will have the backing of the United Nations, Umm Naji. We will see to it that he’s freed or, at least, allowed to have a fair trial. We will work with all our contacts here in the government, and we will inform our diplomatic representatives.”

  “Thank you,” said Salwa.

  Omar Yussef sensed the meeting was at a close. His hand felt steady enough to lift the glass of tea from his side table. He put it to his lips and took a sip.

  Umm Rateb sat forward. “Perhaps, Mister Wallender, you will visit Professor Maki at the university to discuss the case?”

  “Yes, Umm Rateb, I think we shall.”

  “Leave it a few hours,” the plump woman said. “He was in Rafah this morning, and he’ll go home for lunch and a siesta before he goes to the office. You will find him there after four or four-thirty. Go to the main entrance of the university and ask directions from there.”

  “Thank you.”

  Umm Rateb stood, resting her weight on one leg and pushing out that hip. Omar Yussef liked the way she held herself. “Salwa, I have to go and prepare lunch for my family. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Salwa stood and kissed Umm Rateb’s round cheek.

  Umm Rateb smiled at Omar Yussef, showing the teeth in her wide mouth. “I’ll meet you later today, Abu Ramiz.”

  Omar Yussef was taken aback. Had she sensed his attraction to her? Could she be propositioning him in front of these people? His hand shook and dropped splashes of tea onto the manila file and the crotch of his trousers.

  Wallender covered Omar Yussef’s embarrassment. “At the university, Abu Ramiz. Umm Rateb is Professor Maki’s secretary, you remember.”

  “You will have to pass my desk to reach his office,” Umm Rateb said.

  Omar Yussef put down his tea and cleared his throat, composing himself. “If Allah wills it,” he said.

  Chapter 3

  Omar Yussef heard gunfire as the UN Suburban pulled down the drive of the Sands Hotel. Wallender looked toward him nervously. The guns sounded close, short resonant bursts.

  “You boys get nice and comfy here and I’ll pick you up later this afternoon on my way to the university,” Cree said. He winked at Omar Yussef, and the UN car spun in the drive and left.

  The hotel lobby hid behind smoked-glass doors smeared with splashes from a dirty rain. Despite the brightness of the day, Omar Yussef could feel a dust storm’s approach in the building air-pressure and the tiniest of headaches threading like a burning needle from his right eye to the center of his ear. The hotel workers didn’t bother fighting the elements: there would always be another dust storm and it would end by settling in a layer of filth, no matter how much they cleaned.

  The reception desk was cut in dark, stained wood. Beyond another set of smoked-glass doors on the far side of the lobby, Omar Yussef saw the white tablecloths of the breakfast room. To the right of the reception desk, an open staircase of polished stone led to the rooms. The landings on the stairs overlooked the front desk and each was decorated by a pair of crossed scimitars mounted on the wall above a small, crimson carpet in a thick Bedouin stitch.

  The woman behind the reception desk turned from her computer. She was small, slim and young. She wore a blue headscarf and her eyes were big and dark and long-lashed. She took Wallender’s passport and Omar Yussef’s ID card.

  “You’re lucky to find a room, gentlemen,” she said, as she photocopied their documents. She handed them forms to fill out with their names and addresses. “The Revolutionary Council is meeting here in two days. Many of the most important Fatah men and their staffs have come to town already. They like to stay at our hotel.”

  “What do they like so much about it?” Wallender clearly had seen more attractive lobbies. “Not that it isn’t a fine hotel.”

  Omar Yussef turned to the Swede. “Fatah’s the biggest faction in the PLO, which owns all kinds of things, from airlines to chemical plants. And hotels. I’d guess that this hotel’s owned by the PLO and that the party hacks like to stay here because, as the owners, they can behave as badly as they like.” He laughed.

  “Is that so?” Wallender said.

  “Of course, only the PLO has enough money to afford the most polite, educated and beautiful staff.” Omar Yussef smiled at the receptionist.

  The woman laughed. “ Ustaz, you should tell that to my poor father. He has a simpler way of judging his daughter. A woman with good, wide hips brings a dowry of seven camels, because she will bear many children. I am small and I have narrow hips. So even though I have my degree in Business Administration, my father complains he will receive only one camel for me.”

  Magnus Wallender joined the joke. “Abu Ramiz, you can surely afford a single camel.”

  “Let’s go,” Omar Yussef said. “We’ll come back wi
th a camel.”

  The receptionist laughed again.

  “How much could a camel cost, after all?” Wallender said, pretending to count the cash in his wallet.

  A voice called from the door of the breakfast room. “Sir, put away your money. Your friend is a Palestinian. He will steal the camel.”

  Omar Yussef turned from the reception desk. Brigadier Khamis Zeydan came out of the breakfast room, laughing. He wore a checked sports coat and a cream shirt open at the neck. His thinning, white hair was cropped short and combed forward. His scalp, usually protected from the sun by a military beret, was starkly paler than his face. He stubbed his cigarette into a glass ashtray on the reception desk, breathed the smoke over his nicotine-stained mustache and kissed Omar Yussef three times on the cheeks.

  “Magnus, this is Bethlehem’s police chief,” Omar Yussef said. “Abu Adel, this is Magnus Wallender, from the UN.”

  Khamis Zeydan shook hands with Magnus Wallender. He lit another cigarette.

  “Have you known Abu Ramiz a long time?” Wallender said. He pointed to his cheeks, to show that he asked because of the kisses.

  “We go way back and, then, even a little further back than that,” Khamis Zeydan said, with his hand on Omar Yussef’s shoulder. “I’ve known him since we were at university in Damascus together. I remember him when he had nice, curly black hair and a little black mustache. He looked like Charlie Chaplin.”

  Omar Yussef noticed Wallender squinting with curiosity at the black leather glove tight on Khamis Zeydan’s left hand as it rested on his own shoulder. He wished he’d had an opportunity to tell the Swede about the prosthetic hand beneath that glove. He thought of the hatred Khamis Zeydan felt for the plastic limb when he was drunk and miserable. He didn’t want the Swede’s glance to draw his friend’s attention to it and infect his mood with memories of the grenade that had maimed him during the Lebanese Civil War.

  “I didn’t recognize you without your uniform,” Omar Yussef said.

  “Am I so scary that you can’t imagine me in human clothing?” Khamis Zeydan said. “Actually, it’s simply less hassle to pass through the Israeli checkpoint into Gaza without a uniform. But I’m wearing blue socks so that you can tell I’m a policeman.”