The Third Cell

by Anthony D'Egidio

  In Ramallah, Nasih’s grandfather was both nervous and furious as he continued shouting at Ahman, “Can you find out any information on what has happened to Hussam? It’s been three days and no one knows anything about the family.”

  “Father, it’s impossible for anyone to get any communication while this war is raging. The Jordanians cut all phone lines between here and Syria. The only thing we know is that they left Daŕ Ǎ. on Wednesday and have not been seen since. Maybe they’re held up in Irbid, since it borders Syria and fighting has broken out in the town.”

  Mahmoud shook his head in frustration. He knew all of this, but hearing it again somehow gave him hope that all was well. The authorities in Jordan or Israel were of no help. Being Palestinian he was regarded by both countries as the enemy.

  Ahman saw his father’s frustration. “I’ll speak with Father Bruno to see if he can help.”

  This was a task Ahman dreaded. He had known Father Bruno most of his life having grown up and attended school within the walls of Holy Family Catholic Church. Ahman was no longer that Catholic schoolboy who blindly accepted the teachings of the church. He had given up Catholicism, embracing the teachings of Islam and the Qur’an, and was a devout Muslim. Father Bruno knew of Ahman’s religious convictions, and had attempted to bring him back into the church. The two had heated discussions about religion and what was the true way to God. Never agreeing, they both had respect for each other’s religious convictions. This left an uneasy truce between the two and though they parted as friends, the tension hampered their relationship. His father and mother living within the church compound made it uncomfortable just to visit them. He hurried across the schoolyard to the rectory.

  Finally locating Father Bruno, Ahman said, “Father, being a Palestinian has hampered every effort we’ve attempted in locating Hussam and the family.”

  “They’re missing?”

  “They disappeared after visiting Syria and we need your help. The only thing we know is the family left on Wednesday and we haven’t heard from them.”

  At seventy-one Father Bruno’s health had been failing for years. His one sin in life was his addiction to cigarettes, which he smoked almost constantly. In his raspy smoker’s voice he said, “I’ll try to find out any information I can. Your family is my family. I’ll begin to search for them on Monday.”

  “Why wait?” Ahman asked.

  “All the government offices are closed. I’ll arrange for another priest to assume my duties here while I’m gone, but of course all of this takes time.” Father Bruno moved slowly to pick up the phone and placed a call for assistance. It had been many years since he had a secretary to handle the mundane daily tasks.

  “Thank you, thank you,” Ahman said as he left. Returning to his father, Ahman explained the situation.

  Mahmoud was agitated as he shouted, “More days of delays?” He kept pacing the floor, wringing his hands, saying over and over again, “My little Nasih, my little Nasih, may he be safe, may they all be safe.”

  Monsignor Scala was in charge of The Church of the Annunciation, in the town of Nazareth in northern Israel. The church was considered to be one of the holiest in the Catholic religion and had a predominately Palestinian congregation.

  As Father Bruno entered into the rectory of the church, Monsignor Antonio Scala, who coincidently came from the same town of Portofino, Italy, greeted him.

  After a brief period of pleasant exchanges, Father Bruno asked, “Do you have any contacts that could find out about the missing Rahman family? Mahmoud’s son Hussam, his wife and son Nasih have disappeared while returning from Syria. The family had been in touch with Hussam’s sister-in-law Johara on Wednesday and she told them they had left for home.”

  “Is there any word on their whereabouts?” Monsignor Scala asked.

  “No, and the family is worried sick.”

  Monsignor Scala paused for a moment before he spoke. “I have a good relationship with the authorities and I’ll ask about the missing people. Go home and tell the family that we’ll do all we can to help.”

  As Father Bruno rose to leave he noticed the troubled look upon the monsignor face, but dismissed it as an inadvertent gesture.

  Monsignor Scala hurried to his desk to read the note left by his secretary, from the Israeli Army headquarters at Afula:

  A vehicle belonging to the Catholic Church in Ramallah has been stopped. The occupants were two adults and one child. They are identified as the Hussam Rahman family. Please contact Major Zevi at once.

  The monsignor quickly telephoned the number given. After several minutes of waiting and transferring he was finally in touch with the Major.

  Major Zevi was very professional and to the point. “Monsignor Scala, we’ve two adults who were mortally wounded and a child who is in the hospital at Afula.”

  “How terrible, what happened?”

  “Our forces fired upon their vehicle when they tried to circumvent a roadblock. I need someone to identify the bodies and to retrieve the child who is recovering and should be able to travel in a couple of days. Here is my direct number. If you have any problem with border security, have them contact me.”

  The monsignor felt his heart sink. “Thank you, Major.” Hanging up the telephone he mentally prepared himself for the task ahead. Even after all of these years of dealing with the sick, the injured and death, it always bothered him to face a family, knowing he had to be the pillar of strength in their time of need. He hurried to the church and spent the next half hour praying for the souls that were lost and for the fortitude to face the Rahman family.

  The monsignor entered the rectory. A puzzled look came upon Father Bruno’s face as he saw Monsignor Scala. “I didn’t expect you so soon. What’s wrong?”

  “I have some very bad news. I believe that Hussam and his wife have been killed and the child is in the hospital at Afula. I’ve made arrangements for the Rahman family to travel there. A Major Zevi of the IDF will provide passage for them. Here’s the Major’s phone number and the address. You should bring the family to the rectory and we’ll explain the situation, but don’t mention the deaths of Hussam and his wife. Let the Israeli authorities deal with the tragedy.”

  For a moment Father Bruno sat praying at his desk, dismayed by the news. He rose and rushed out to the cottage. The family warmly greeted him.

  “You’ve news for us,” shouted Mahmoud.

  “I have. Monsignor Scala from Nazareth will explain the situation. Please come to the rectory.”

  A hush fell over the room as they rose to follow the priest.

  The monsignor was uncomfortable explaining the situation, having heard of the volatility of Ahman and his Islamic beliefs. He spoke in a soft and even voice. “We know that your family has been taken to Afula and we do understand there have been some injuries.” As he spoke he watched the tension welling up in Mahmoud and Ahman’s face. “It has been requested that you travel to Afula to take them home.”

  “Why don’t they just release them?” shouted Ahman.

  “I’ve no idea,” answered Monsignor Scala. “It’s in the hands of the Israeli Army and they made the request. Here are the arrangements and contact numbers. Tomorrow you can travel with me to Nazareth. I’ll get you through Israeli border patrol and checkpoints. Once you’re in Nazareth you can travel by bus to Afula. I’ll provide you with the name of the Israeli Major that has assured me of your safe entry into Israel. You must at all times follow the instructions given to me by the Major; any deviation could result in your arrest. These are horrific times and everyone is suspected to be the enemy.”

  Ahman was half listening. What is so wrong that they can’t communicate? Are my brother and sister-in-law under arrest? Where is Nasih?

  All of these questions just added to the confusion, but Ahman knew tomorrow it would all be straightened out.

  The following morning Monsignor Scala, Mahmoud and Ahman set out for Nazareth. Arriving at the Israeli border and checkpoint, three heavily armed sol
diers surrounded the car, their weapons pointed at the men. The soldier closest to the driver’s window said, “Identification.”

  The Monsignor handed him the papers.

  The soldier closely scrutinized the paperwork while the other two kept their rifles aimed at Mahmoud and Ahman. “Everything looks in place.”

  The soldier held out his hand for Mahmoud and Ahman’s identification then left to the small guardhouse. It seemed to be an eternity before the soldier returned with their identification and special travel permits.

  Handing the permits to Mahmoud and Ahman, the soldier curtly announced, “You must possess these at all times. If you lose the permits or overstay the three days, you’ll be arrested. There are no exceptions.”

  Monsignor Scala said, “Thank you,” and sped off, driving as rapidly as possible to Nazareth. It was dangerous having the two Palestinians with him, for some trigger-happy Israeli soldier might open fire on the vehicle just for spite and claim it was in self-defense. He had watched over the years the persecution and maltreatment of the Arabs by the Jews and he was aware that his own life was always in jeopardy.

  The Monsignor drove the vehicle to the center of town. There he dropped off Mahmoud and Ahman at the coffee shop that also served as the local bus stop. After verifying that indeed a bus would be coming through heading to Afula, he bid them a safe journey and goodbye.

  Mahmoud and Ahman stepped into the café. Ahman ordered coffee and sandwiches in fluent Hebrew. Ahman had learned the language as a teen because of his brother.

  “Ahman,” had bragged Hussam, “you’re either a genius or a fool. I bet you can never learn enough Hebrew to order a cup of coffee. If you want to survive in this world you’ll need to communicate with the Jews even if you despise them. Don’t be a fool and allow yourself to be used by anyone. Learn the language and then use it to get back at them.”

  Back then, Hussam had meant the statement in the context of business, but Ahman, whose hatred for the Jews had already begun, realized his brother had spoken a greater truth. How better to destroy your enemy than if you looked, acted and spoke like them?

  Ahman immersed himself into the language and within two years he had accomplished not only speaking, but also writing and reading Hebrew. This was a remarkable achievement for such a complex language.

  Ahman had always excelled in school, being gifted with a photographic memory. Unfortunately being a Palestinian, he had no chance to obtain a higher education unless he was sent abroad. He gave up his quest for higher education to help his father and brother in the family business. While his thoughts wandered about the conversation with his brother, the bus pulled up to the café.

  A long, hot and dirty route lay before them. It would be seven hours before the bus would arrive in Afula. Afula was a town with little distinction except for the fact it was located near the West Bank. Dating back to biblical times, it hadn’t changed much over the past thousand years except for a few modern buildings.

  Once there, Mahmoud and Ahman attempted to contact Major Zevi, but being late in the day they found he had already left. No one would provide any information, especially for two Arabs, and trying to find Hussam and Adara was proving to be frustrating.

  Mahmoud and Ahman were tired and hungry. They found a small hotel, whose very suspicious owner reluctantly provided them a room after seeing the Israel Army provided travel permits and making some phone calls. They ate only sandwiches for supper and retired for a night of restless sleep.

  Rising early the next morning, neither Mahmoud nor Ahman could take breakfast. The tension and nervousness was gnawing away at their stomachs and the anticipation of finally reuniting with the family made eating impossible.

  Mahmoud and Ahman arrived early at the site given to them by Monsignor Scala. It was a small army post with several armored vehicles and jeeps.

  Mahmoud said, “I don’t see anything resembling a hospital. Maybe we’re in the wrong location?”

  Mahmoud and Ahman were approaching the guardhouse when two guards brandishing rifles came towards them. “Stop and lie down!”

  Doing exactly as they were told, Ahman waved the papers in the air and yelled out in Hebrew, “Major Zevi gave us a three-day travel permit.”

  After hearing the major’s name, Mahmoud and Ahman were thoroughly searched and finally allowed to enter the compound. Two wary guards escorted them to a small building where Major Zevi had his office.

  An hour passed before Major Zevi entered the room. One guard paced back and forth the entire time. Major Zevi was only there to finish the unpleasant business and he handled it in typical military fashion.

  The major raised his eyebrow when Ahman spoke to him in Hebrew, “Anachnu po lakachat et ha mishpacha habayta. (Sir, we are here to take our family home.)”

  Major Zevi looked puzzled. “You were told your family is well?”

  “Yes,” replied Ahman, “and we’re anxious to get underway since the bus ride to Nazareth is extremely long.”

  The major sat down and for a minute didn’t respond. Finally he removed photographs from the envelope and placed them on his desk face up. “I have some rather bad news for you. We identified Hussam and Adara Rahman’s bodies from identification in the vehicle and these are the photos we’re asking you to verify. I don’t know who told you they were alive.”

  “They’re dead?”

  The major’s voice was unemotional as he spoke, “The vehicle was fired upon when it tried to circumvent a key checkpoint at the Jordan River. The only surviving person is a boy in the local hospital.”

  As the major spoke, the faces of both Mahmoud and Ahman whitened, and their eyes widened as they viewed the gruesome photographs.

  Ahman did everything in his power not to reach out and strike the major, as his father collapsed on the floor.

  The major shouted to the soldiers, “Help him up!” They quickly revived Mahmoud, helping him to stand as they supported him.

  “What about the child my sister-in-law was carrying?” Ahman asked.

  “Regretfully,” replied the major, “he did not survive. The only survivor is the young boy in the hospital and he’s doing well at this time.”

  “Can we see the bodies?” asked Mahmoud.

  The major shook his head no. “They’re in wooden coffins and because of the delay in contacting you they have already started to decompose. We can make arrangements to ship the bodies to Nazareth, but at this time with the hostilities between the Jordanian Army and the PLO, we’ll not transport anything over the border.”

  Mahmoud was stunned. “I can’t even have my son buried in his own country, with his own people? How cruel is this to our heritage?”

  The major glared across the desk. “If it wasn’t for your son’s arrogance we wouldn’t be here discussing the destruction of your heritage. I’m not responsible for this tragedy. Go to the hospital and take the child home.”

  He then turned to the two guards and gestured for them to escort Mahmoud and Ahman out of the room.

  Ahman was churning inside. He wanted to rip the rifle from the soldier and empty its contents into this egotistical bastard, but his emotions calmed down as he silently repeated from the Qur’an Al-Fatiha (The Opening) Chapter 1 Verses 1-7.

  “Bismi Allahi alrrahmani alrraheemi

  Alhamdu lillahi rabbi alAAalameena

  Alrrahmani alrraheemi

  Maliki yawmi alddeeni

  Iyyaka naAAbudu wa-iyyaka nastaAAeenu

  Ihdina alssirata almustaqeema

  Sirata allatheena anAAamta AAalayhim ghayri

  almaghdoobi AAalayhim wala alddalleena”

  (In the name of Allāh, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.

  Praise be to Allāh, the Cherisher and Sustainer of the worlds.

  Most Gracious, Most Merciful;

  Thee do we worship and Thine aid we seek.

  Show us the straight way,

  The way of those on whom Thou hast bestowed Thy Grace,

  those whose portion is
not wrath and who go not astray)

  Ahman repeated the verses and was able to control his emotions, at least for the moment.

  Once off the base Mahmoud and Ahman found their way into town, locating the Ha’emek Hospital where Nasih was reported to be. Within minutes they were escorted to a room.

  Upon seeing his grandfather, Nasih smiled for the first time in days. The heaviness in his heart lifted and he felt the rush of emotion that had been kept inside, burst out. He sobbed uncontrollably while being held by his grandfather, whose heart ached with sorrow at seeing his grandson so distraught.

  The bus ride to Nazareth was lonely and painful even though they had each other. Mahmoud did his best to cheer up Nasih, but the child would only smile once in a while. His calls for “Aba” and “Uma” were heart wrenching to the two adults and the bus was no place to explain to the child the loss of his parents.

  Nasih couldn’t stay asleep. As the images of his parents lying motionless in the car continued to surface, he would grasp his grandfather’s arm so tight that Mahmoud’s face would twist in pain.

  “What is the matter?” asked Ahman quietly.

  Mahmoud shook his head. “I’m not sure. Maybe Nasih is having a nightmare. He’s terrified.”

  Anger was the only emotion that Ahman had at this time; anger at the IDF for killing his brother and sister-in-law, and anger at all the Jews and Zionists who had persecuted the innocent Palestinian women and children. Most of all, he felt anger at the United Nations, especially the United States and the British for supporting the formation of the Jewish State.

  Ahman had more hostility than one man could keep inside, but he knew that his silent plotting would be the method to strike at the will and the hearts of his enemies. With Allāh as his guide he knew that no one could stop him and his plans.