by Noah Beck
Chapter 12: The Native Arabic Speakers
Enjoying some off-duty time, Boutrous went down to the lower deck, looking for Samir in the electronics room, where the chief engineer was reportedly working. Distinguished by his light brown hair, and green eyes, Boutros was often wrongly assumed to be of European ancestry. His dimpled cheeks, good-natured smile, and amiable demeanor could conquer any grudge. At age 20, he was the most junior sailor on the Dolphin, and far from being married with three children, like the 35-year old Samir. But despite their different ages, naval ranks, family situations, and religions, their common native language created a natural bond between the two submariners.
To get to the electronics room, Boutrous first had to pass the small crew’s quarters on the lower deck. He was pleased to see that they would have some privacy because nobody was there at the time although the area still had that distinctive, moldy smell in the air, like the living room of an apartment shared by a handful of men. Boutrous continued on to the electronics room, where he saw the chief engineer checking on some instruments.
“My parents really enjoyed meeting you,” he said to the senior officer in Arabic. It was the first time the two submariners had spoken privately since the reunion at their base.
“You have a lovely family,” Samir said. “I could see that your mother is a bit worried about you, with this being your first mission. But next time you see her, you can tell her that I have your back. If you have any problems on board, just let me know.”
“Thanks, Samir.”
“And don’t let Yisrael get to you. He can be arrogant and bossy, but he’s not the most important guy on this ship. Remember that. And remember that Daniel is the best captain any sailor could hope to have.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The crew’s two Arab members had in the past – in rare moments when they were close enough to each other and no one else – exchanged a few thoughts or jokes in Arabic while on the submarine, as they did in the electronics room. But they were extra circumspect on the few occasions when this happened, lest others think that they were somehow trying to be secretive. About half a dozen Jewish submariners knew some Arabic from their high school studies, so the idea that Samir and Boutrous could tell each other secrets on the submarine by speaking Arabic underestimated the odds of an Arabic speaker overhearing them. But because most of the crew wouldn’t be able to understand them, and because most of the 22 Arabic-speaking states were implacably hostile towards Israel, it didn’t feel right to speak to each other in their native tongues when on the submarine. So they both knew that their private Arabic chat would be short-lived.
“Say, what do you think of the news about Iran and the Leviathan?” Boutrous asked.
“I was thinking about those things a bit after Daniel’s announcement. But my advice is this: don’t dwell on bad news you can’t control. I know it’s not so easy to do. But you have to try to think about stuff that makes you happy because we have a long journey ahead of us and you don’t want to be worried and stressed the whole way,” Samir said as he patted Boutrous on the shoulder. “We had a great picnic just now. Let’s think about that,” he said with a smile, before turning his attention back to his work.
“Good idea,” Boutrous beamed, as he left the electronics room. He sat for a moment alone in the empty quarters nearby. With this latest Arabic conversation fresh in his consciousness, Boutrous more easily and naturally replayed in his mind the shore visit that he had just enjoyed with his family in that language. The picnic had provided him with the vital emotional benefits that the other submariners had experienced: a much-needed dose of fresh air under the open sky; a reconnection with loved ones feasting together on delicious food; and some precious time to relax and return, however temporarily and incompletely, to one’s private life. But for Boutrous (and the chief engineer), after weeks of speaking only in Hebrew on the submarine, the family reunion on shore had also offered a welcome linguistic recess of sorts.
****
As they indulged a lengthy reunion hug, Boutrous’ parents could not have felt prouder. He was their eldest child, and the first Arab Christian in the history of the Israeli military to be admitted to the submarine force. Deeply connected to his religious identity, Boutrous wore a necklace with a silver crucifix that emerged just above the collar of his sailor’s uniform. His devout parents also prominently displayed symbols of their religion: his mother’s bracelet had a cross dangling from it and his father had a Coptic cross tattooed to the underside of his wrist.
“So how does it feel?” his mother asked; she could barely contain her excitement at seeing her accomplished son. She and her husband had recently read that, at a price tag of one billion dollars, the Dolphin was the single most expensive piece of equipment owned by the Israeli military. They were honored that their son was entrusted with and selected to operate something so important.
“Incredible. Like you’re running an underwater spaceship or something.”
“I wish I could tell everyone about what you do,” his father beamed.
“So do I…But almost nobody knows that I’m a submariner.”
“Well, we know. So can’t you share a bit more with us?” his mother asked.
“We promise we won’t tell anyone else,” his father added. “Even though we’d like to.”
“I tell you as much as I’m allowed, which isn’t much. That’s why we call it the ‘Silent Service.’ We try to stay silent whether we’re below or above water – including on land.”
“Yes, but what’s it like to ride in the belly of that big, metal whale?” his father persisted.
“Amazing – diving below water is like being in a plane that’s landing.”
“I hate riding in planes,” his mother replied.
“Well, it’s a little different…But it’s hard to describe to someone who hasn’t been on a sub.”
“How are you sleeping on the boat?” his mother asked.
“Better. I’m still getting used to warm-bunking.”
“Remind me: what’s that again?” his father asked.
“We call it a warm bunk because there are a lot more submariners than beds. So when a sleeping sailor wakes up and switches with you, the bunk you lie down in is still warm from his body.”
“I see,” his mother replied. “That must take some getting used to...How many hours of sleep do you get?”
“About five to seven a day, although sometimes it can be less, if something comes up.”
“It’s enough?”
“Yes. You know, there are no windows or natural light – so there’s no night or day for us.”
“How strange.”
“Yes, at first I thought that would mess up my sleep. But by the time you actually crawl into your bunk you’re so tired from the long work hours that you sleep every minute that you’re in the bunk.”
“How big are the beds?”
“Tiny. And each bed is about half a meter in height, so that they can stack a few on top of each other. The joke is that the bed prepares you for the grave.”
“I don’t like that joke,” his mother said.
“I should have figured that,” he replied with a chuckle.
“How many bathrooms are there?”
“Three. That’s also where we shower and store things. And the place where we sleep converts into an eating area or a lounge.”
“It sounds very cramped.”
“You get used to it.”
“So are you ready for your first mission now?” his father asked.
“I don’t know if you ever feel 100% ready for your first mission. I guess that’s why it’s the first. Ask me when I come back,” he said, with his pleasant smile.
“Do they feed you enough?” his mother asked.
“Yes, Mom – stop worrying! The food is fine. But not quite like what I see waiting for us here.”
“How do you like the rest of the crew?” his father asked.
“They’re a great bu
nch of guys. Come on, I’ll take you around and introduce you to some people.”
The first person that Boutrous wanted his parents to meet was Samir, so he walked them over to meet the senior officer and his wife.
Samir spoke to him in Arabic: “It’s my pleasure to meet you…Your son is turning into a fine sailor. You have a lot to be proud of.”
“It’s a pleasure to be speaking Arabic with an officer at this reunion,” his father replied with a grin. “And Boutrous already told us all about you.”
“Yes, we were very impressed,” his mother added. “Actually, I wanted to ask you: how did you decide to enlist?”
“Well, for the Druze it comes from a tradition of loyalty to the host country, which is a survival tactic when you are a minority with no country of your own. My father and grandfather also served in the IDF, going back to 1948.”
“So you do it out of tradition,” Boutrous’ father concluded.
“Yes, but it’s much more than that. Our freedom as a religious minority is probably safer in Israel than anywhere else in the Middle East. And we like our lives here. So we are honored to defend our preferred home by serving in the IDF.”
“So our stories are not so different,” Boutrous’ father said. “We Arab Christians are also a minority in the Middle East. And we are persecuted in this region even more than the Druze, I think. But the Arab Christians in Israel tend to prefer the path of Arab nationalism because that is the fastest way for social acceptance by the majority Arab Muslims here.”
“So why did you send your son to the IDF?”
“My story is a little different. My father is a Copt who stood up for the rights of Christians in Egypt and he is alive today because the Israeli government granted him political asylum. And my mother is an Armenian Christian whose grandparents escaped the genocide perpetrated by the Ottoman Turks. So you can see how my family history would make me feel a certain loyalty to Israel.”
“Yes. And what about you?” Samir asked, turning to Boutrous’ mother.
“I am from a Christian family in Jaffa. And when I hear about how Christians are treated in Gaza, Iraq, Iran, and the rest of the Middle East, I share my husband’s loyalty. Israel is where we are safest in this region, and we should protect this state.”
“Well, I am honored to have your son on our crew.”
“And we are honored to have him serve under officers like you,” Boutrous’ father replied.
“Yes, we are very happy to have met you. I already feel better about my son on the submarine now,” his mother added.
“So can you finally tell me what each crewmember’s nickname is and how he got it?” Boutrous asked hopefully, with a simper. “I hear some of the stories are hilarious.”
“I know you’ve been waiting for this, but we have our traditions in the submarine force. That’s a privilege that you earn only on your first mission. And only your commanding officer can tell you all of the nicknames and stories. So speak with Eitan once we’ve officially begun our mission, and then he’ll decide when to tell you.”
“OK.”
****
Just as Boutrous heard Eitan’s name in the recollection of his shore visit, his commanding officer came down to the crew quarters on the lower deck, inadvertently bringing the junior navigator back from his reverie to the present. Eitan wore a thin, black, suede yarmulke and a gold Star of David around his neck. Unlike the other religious submariners, including Zvi and Ambesah, he had no facial hair. Arching above his brown eyes were two nearly connected eyebrows that moved like an emotional thermometer when he spoke.
“There you are!” he began. “I was looking for you. What are you doing down here alone? Everything OK?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I was just thinking a little and lost track of time.”
“Some guys are getting together for a poker game and we thought you might want to join. Are you in?”
“Sure.”
Boutrous followed Eitan to the upper deck.
Chapter 13: An Emotional Checkup on the Medic
In addition to his role as deputy captain, Yisrael served as the main medic on the Dolphin. He was highly experienced with medical issues, although one other submariner had also completed the medic course and could provide an emergency backup, in case anything happened to Yisrael or someone had to be treated while he was on duty as deputy captain.
When Ambesah arrived, Yisrael was standing in the medic area waiting for some submariners to come by for their standard checkups. The deputy captain was deeply engrossed in the printout of his grandfather’s diary that Netta had prepared for him.
“Hi Yisrael.”
He looked up, a bit startled. “Oh hi, Ambesah. How’s it going? You’re not scheduled for a checkup today, are you?” he said, turning to look at the list of submariners he was expecting to see.
“No, I think I’m next week.”
“That’s what I thought…So what’s up? Do you have a medical issue you want me to look at?”
“No, I just wanted to see how you’re doing…I figured if the medic is always checking up on the crew, someone should check up on the medic once in a while. You know, just to make sure he’s doing alright.”
“Thanks,” Yisrael replied with a smile.
“You want to join us for a game of poker, once you’re done with the checkups? Some of the off-duty guys are playing a few rounds, so I’m gonna join them. We should be there for a while, in case you want to come by and give me some more of your money.”
“No, thanks,” Yisrael replied, in a tone that was noticeably heavier than Ambesah’s.
“Is everything OK?”
“What do you mean?”
“It seems like something’s not quite right. Like maybe something’s on your mind.”
“Because I’m not in the mood to play poker?”
“No, I got that feeling earlier too. When you didn’t respect the captain with ‘Sir.’ And then when we were joking about the update he gave us over the intercom…You seemed so serious when we were trying to make a little light of the situation.”
“It’s a tough situation.”
“I know. But maybe talking about it can help. I consider you my closest friend on the crew. You helped me so much in my career here. I hope you feel that you can trust me too.” Yisrael was tempted to open up but he still wasn’t sure enough about the facts to make an accusation against Daniel and he didn’t want loose lips to make the tension any worse.
“Thanks, Ambesah,” Yisrael said, putting his hand on the officer’s shoulder. “I consider you a close friend as well. And it’s good to know that I can talk to you.”
“Any time,” he replied with a smile. “And if you change your mind about poker, you know where to find us,” he said as he turned and started to walk away.
“One thing, Ambesah.”
“Yes?” He stopped, a little surprised, as he turned around.
“This is sort of a random question, but did you notice Netta pass a note or an envelope to anyone at the picnic?” Ambesah stopped and tried to recall if he saw Yisrael’s wife do something like that. Yisrael tried dropping a hint to jog his recollection: “This was back when you, Bao, and I were all talking and eating.” Ambesah struggled to search his memory some more.
“No. I didn’t see anything like that…Why?”
“Oh nothing. I just thought I saw something, but maybe I made a mistake. Never mind. Enjoy your poker game.”
Ambesah left the area and Yisrael returned to his grandfather’s diary.
Chapter 14: Geopolitics Over Poker
When Ambesah returned to the mess area a few minutes later, Bao began shuffling the deck of cards in his hands. “OK, he’s here. Let’s get started. We’re playing with Dolphin submarine rules.”
Ambesah sat between Bao and Eitan. Next to Eitan was Boutrous, who was seated adjacent to Michael, the redheaded, hazel-eyed junior officer. Michael, who was sometimes called “Grouch” by his crewmates, always managed to look a
bit grumpy even if his mood was fine. His propensity to gesticulate when speaking also led his crewmates to joke that, “if you ever want to shut up Michael, you just have to tie his hands behind his back.” Other than his views on religion, Michael’s worldview substantially overlapped with Eitan’s and grew out of similar experiences: each was raised as an only child born in Israel in 1988 to parents who had escaped anti-Semitic persecution overseas – Michael’s family from the Soviet Union and Eitan’s family from Iran.
Michael and Boutrous, on the other hand, came from communities that tended to have a somewhat adversarial relationship in Israeli society and politics, although the sailors managed to keep things civil on the submarine. Michael’s family belonged to the large community of Russians who moved to Israel in the 80s and 90s. This demographic inclined towards right-wing views, as a firm rejection of both the Communist system that they had fled and any political ideology that questioned their right to resettle in the land from which their ancestors had been exiled long ago. Boutrous, by contrast, came from a group that traced its connection to the land of the Bible as far as ancestral memory could recall. The Christian Arab community in Israel generally viewed Russian immigrants with the same suspicion as most Israeli Arabs regarded them: they often saw them as relative newcomers who competed with them for resources on the basis of dubious claims to the land.
Michael’s father was a Soviet Refusenik who came to Israel in 1987, after suffering three long years in a Siberian work camp. He had a PhD in biochemistry but couldn’t become a full university professor because he was Jewish. Realizing that he had no professional future as a Jew in Russia, he applied for an exit visa. But such a request was itself considered an act of treason by Soviet authorities and, shortly after he tried to obtain a visa, he lost his university job as a teaching assistant. He began organizing and attending protests and campaigning for the rights of Refuseniks. Through his political activism, he met Michael’s mother, a talented violinist who lost her job at Moscow’s state conservatory after she requested an exit visa for Israel. They soon started dating but – after nine months – their romance was cut short by the incarceration of Michael’s father. In her letters to him, Michael’s mother promised to wait for him and continue their struggle. In his replies, he begged her to maintain a low profile so that she wouldn’t end up sharing his fate. She managed to stay out of prison while continuing to raise awareness about the plight of her boyfriend and other Refuseniks. In 1987, a year after famous political prisoner Anatoly Sharansky was finally freed, many prominent dissidents, including Michael’s father, were released. Soon thereafter, both of Michael’s parents were granted permission to emigrate to Israel, where they got married shortly after their arrival.