The Third Cell

by Anthony D'Egidio

  Ahman’s plan would begin with the radical Muslim, Cleric Omar Khamayseh. It was Khamayseh who had given Ahman his vision and he would see that the young and impressionable Nasih would also have the wisdom of Islam to help him heal from the terrible memory of seeing his father and mother perish at the hands of the Zionist.

  Ahman looked at the child in Mahmoud’s arms. Nasih will someday make Israel and the United States pay for their cruel oppression of the Palestinian people.

  CHAPTER 7

  FINDING THE FAITH, 1975

  Mahmoud Rahman turned to his son Ahman. “Why do you insist on a memorial service at the Mosque after having a church funeral?”

  “You don’t understand, father,” said Ahman. “There are many Muslims who knew Hussam that wouldn’t attend the service at the Catholic Church. This would be their way of paying respect.”

  “Does your religion not allow you to even acknowledge a death in anything but a Mosque?”

  “It’s not the religion. It’s the individual and this was his choice.”

  “Then it’s my choice not to have the service.”

  Ahman shook his head as he walked to the door. “I will discuss this again tomorrow when you cool down.” With that, he left his parents’ home.

  Amila took her husband’s hand. “Please understand he only has good intentions. I see no harm in having a service at the Mosque.”

  “I don’t like Muslim Cleric Khamayseh. He is filled with hate and only preaches a message of death. What man of the cloth would say such things?”

  “I can’t speak for the cleric. I only know that our son, who chose this religion, wishes to have his deceased brother and sister-in-law remembered by his fellow worshippers. Please reconsider.”

  Two days later Ahman returned to discuss the service at the Mosque with his mother and father.

  Mahmoud left Amila’s side and walked up to his son, taking him in his arms. “Your mother has convinced me that it would be okay to have the service at the Mosque. Please make the arrangements.”

  Ahman kissed him on both cheeks. “Father, I would be proud if you and Nasih will attend the service with me.”

  “Nasih is very young. Do you think he will understand?”

  “He attends church, does he not?”

  “Yes he does. I guess it would be okay.”

  “Father, I would like to have Nasih spend the next couple of days with me. I will explain the differences in the religion.”

  “I think that would be a great idea,” said Amila.

  Mahmoud nodded in agreement.

  Nasih left with his uncle. Ahman brought him to a shop that sold items of the Muslim faith.

  Ahman, picking up a small prayer rug, held it for Nasih to see. “What do you think about this one?”

  “It has pretty colors, Uncle.”

  “We’ll take it.” Ahman took out his wallet and handed the money to the proprietor. “Tomorrow, Nasih, I will bring you to meet Cleric Khamayseh. He has a great vision for our land and people. I have learned many things from this outstanding leader.”

  Nasih entered the Mosque with his uncle. His young mind tried to comprehend what he saw. It looks different than the church.

  The Jamal Abdel al-Naser Mosque was traditional in its design, having many mosaics on the walls and floors. The main prayer room had an elaborate mosaic of the Qur’an as revealed to Muhammad during battle. Within every Mosque is the Mihrab, an alcove in the Qibla wall that faces Mekka. There were separate men and women prayer rooms, as well as an extended prayer space and rooms for religious instruction.

  Ahman took Nasih by the hand. “We will wait in the religious instruction room for the cleric.”

  Cleric Khamayseh entered with his trusted bodyguard of the past fourteen years, Sharif Hussam Bakhi. Sharif, always diligent, was never far from the cleric’s side. He had vowed to give his life to protect him.

  “I see you have brought the boy.” The cleric reached down and squeezed Nasih’s shoulder so hard Nasih winced. “Good, I can begin to instruct him. Please leave us.”

  Ahman said, “I thought I would be helping also.”

  “It is not necessary. I have the wisdom of the Qur’an and Allāh’s greatness to help him overcome his grief. You may go now. Return in four hours.”

  Reluctantly, Ahman left the Mosque.

  The cleric, who had little contact with young children, treated Nasih as an adult. “Your parents were the victims of the Zionist who have taken our land and our heritage.”

  Nasih gave the cleric a blank stare. The cleric knew the boy didn’t understand.

  Grabbing the boy by the shoulders the cleric’s face turned beet red as he shouted into Nasih’s face. “The Jews, have killed your mother and father and you will never see them again. They are gone and will never return!”

  Nasih’s little body shook from fright. In all of his tender four years no one had ever raised their voices to him. Looking around he called out, “Uncle, please take me home.”

  The cleric was not moved and continued to badger the boy with his message of hate of the Jews for five minutes.

  Tears were streaming down Nasih’s face as he said, “Ureed Az-Zihaab Ila At-Twalet. (I want to go to the toilet.)”

  Turning to his bodyguard Sharif, the cleric said, “Take him.”

  Sharif gently took Nasih’s hand and led him to the bathroom.

  Entering Nasih ran to the sink and vomited.

  Returned to the instruction room, Nasih was subjected to three more hours of the cleric’s psychological torture in which Nasih became emotionally attached to him.

  The cleric, satisfied that he had achieved his first day’s goal, said to Sharif, “Take him around the Mosque and explain the mosaics and tapestries.”

  By the time Ahman arrived back to retrieve Nasih, the boy had calmed considerably.

  “Did you learn anything from this great man?” asked Ahman.

  Nasih only nodded his head yes, not wanting to disappoint his uncle.

  Nasih was more interested in the design on the rug with its multitude of blue colors and its depiction of Islamic architecture than the memorial service for his parents.

  The Mosque had overflowed its capacity, with the faithful pouring out into the courtyard. The Rahman family had touched the lives of the majority of people in Ramallah and all felt the loss.

  Cleric Omar Khamayseh seized upon the moment. “The Rahman’s died because the Zionist believe they can kill any Palestinian and not be held accountable. The Jews believe that the Great Satan will protect them but no one is safe from Allāh’s wrath.”

  Many in the congregation were shouting over and over again, “Death to America, death to the Great Satan.”

  The cleric hammered his fist on the podium. “All Palestinians must be free. Free from Jordan, free from Israel, free to have our own country. I call upon you to become martyrs in the name of Islam, by sacrificing one’s self in suicide attacks against the infidels. Your reward will be your rightful place in Paradise.”

  The concept of a suicide attack was something they had not heard previously from the religious community. For Islam was a religion of peace.

  A murmur grew among the worshippers, as the cleric spoke. The persecution of the past twenty-three years had become unbearable and throughout the crowd an overwhelming majority agreed that this was the only way to strike back.

  The cleric, sensing he had an accord with the masses, continued to stir up emotions. “Let us rise up against the Jews and their allies! Let us rise up against the Americans. Return our lands to the rightful ownership of our people.”

  The throngs of worshippers were shouting their own death threats and soon the entire Mosque was as one great sea of hatred and revenge.

  The mass of worshippers spilled out into the streets of Ramallah and many who hadn’t attended the ceremony were caught up in the fervor of the moment. Many young boys joined the march.

  The Jordanian Army quickly mobilized as the crowd grew, but were s
everely undermanned.

  The mob was shouting, “Death to the Jews, death to America, death to King Hussein.”

  The young boys were throwing stones at the Jordanian solders that dodged for cover. Seeing the soldiers cowering, the mob grew bolder and intensified their assault.

  One young soldier witnessing the crowd approaching him, isolated from the rest of his unit, opened fire. His first shots went over the heads of the mob and did little to stop the onslaught. He then aimed directly into the mob and fired several rounds from his automatic weapon, each round hitting a target. A blood-curdling scream came from one of the fallen boys whose lower spine had been shattered by a bullet. The mob stopped and then turned to retreat. The retreat became a stampede with those in the middle being pushed to the ground and trampled upon. Four boys lay bleeding on the ground.

  The wounded were in front of the soldier. He walked up to one boy who was crying, “I can’t feel my legs, I can’t feel my legs.”

  The young soldier collapsed in the street, horrified by the sight of so much blood and the obvious pain that he inflicted.

  The incident resulted in the death of one boy, two with minor wounds and the last boy permanently paralyzed by a bullet that had shattered his lower spine.

  When told of the dead and wounded, Cleric Khamayseh, who had safely stayed at the Mosque and out of harm’s way, coldly stated, “This is the sacrifice we make for Allāh and for the destruction of Israel.”

  During the entire disturbance Mahmoud was stunned. He turned to Ahman, “I have never seen such a rebellion against authority. I came to the Mosque with Nasih by your request.”

  “Father, I never expected this.”

  Mahmoud grabbed Nasih who was still clutching his prayer rug and stormed out of the Mosque shouting, “I am a man of peace and so was Hussam. How could you subject a four-year-old to such a terrible scene. Never again will I allow you to bring Nasih to this Mosque and be in contact with this cleric who is obviously crazy.”

  If only fate hadn’t intervened, Nasih may have grown into a different person, but within a month Mahmoud was stricken with a debilitating stroke and was bed-ridden. Unable to speak or walk, Nasih was in the hands of his uncle who had taken him to his home to relieve the burden of the child from his mother who had a full-time job taking care of her husband. Ahman now had the means to bring up Nasih as he wished.

  The Qur’an would be first and foremost in Nasih’s education. The child exhibited an uncanny ability to memorize large sections at a time and repeat them back word for word. He had the same gift as his uncle: an exceptional memory.

  The instructions by Cleric Khamayseh were long and intense. Young Nasih, not knowing any better, would do all in his power to please his teacher. The cleric continued with his perverted torture by constantly reminding him that the Zionist’s were responsible for his parents’ horrific death.

  The next four years of Nasih’s life revolved primarily around Cleric Khamayseh and his Uncle Ahman. His grandfather had made a little progress in his mobility and his speech was still severely impaired.

  Nasih had grown into a handsome young boy with dark curly hair and almost jet black eyes. He had his mother’s dark olive completion and would have been, at this tender age, the fascination of the local girls if he were allowed the opportunity. But under the watchful eye of Cleric Khamayseh, he had little time to socialize with the boys of his age, much less the girls who were in his neighborhood.

  Nasih was eight when Ahman advised him, “You need to learn other languages. I know Cleric Khamayseh is against this, but for you to survive against your enemies you must learn English and Hebrew.”

  “But Uncle, where do I to learn these languages in Ramallah without the cleric knowing about it?”

  “I have found an American Jew who is teaching at a school in Jerusalem. He has agreed to give you private lessons in his home. I’ll cut your tongue out if you utter one word of this to the cleric.”

  Three times a week, in the evenings, Ahman and Nasih made the eighteen-kilometer trip to the Jew’s home. The event was taxing because of the various checkpoints and the always suspicious Israeli soldiers.

  Ahman was amazed at how quickly the boy was able to converse in English and Hebrew. Within a year they could speak many phrases in either language and understand each other.

  Hidden beneath Nasih’s composure and intellect was the dark secret that Nasih kept to himself: his reoccurring nightmare, the theme always the same, with the location or circumstances changed. He would be searching for his parents until he saw both as darken images. Approaching them he would see those images change, fading to the scene of their death, hearing the blaring of the car horn and the blood of his mother pouring across the car hood. If he was lucky enough to have someone wake him, the nightmare would be broken, but on many occasions he would be kneeling between the bodies praying to Allāh and swearing revenge for his loss. Over and over again he heard Cleric Khamayseh’s voice calling, “Jihad, Jihad, to purify your soul and those of your parents, Jihad!”

  “Nasih, Nasih,” called Ahman as he shook him. “Nasih wake up, you’re having a bad dream.”

  Nasih awakened out of the trance, composed himself. “Uncle, it was only a dream and I’m okay. Allāh has helped me overcome the demons.” He never revealed even to his uncle the substance of his nightmares.

  Nasih, nearing his ninth birthday, had two separate events that would change his life. On Tuesday March 5, 1975, his grandfather Mahmoud Abdel Rahman suffered another stroke and died in his sleep.

  For Nasih he had lost his great protector, who even when debilitated by the stroke would still protest in slurred speech what he called the corruption of his grandson by Cleric Omar Khamayseh. Nasih turned to his Islamic teachings to cope with the loss and ironically it was Cleric Khamayseh who helped him overcome his grief.

  Ahman was interested in broadening Nasih’s education and understanding of his adversary the Jews. The boy had excelled in all of his studies.

  Ahman met with Cleric Khamayseh. “I am considering sending Nasih to Israel to further his education. The more he understands of the enemy and their beliefs, the easier it is to infiltrate and destroy.”

  Cleric Khamayseh shouted in an uncontrolled rage, “I’ll not corrupt the pure soul of this future Islamic leader with the Zionist propaganda and the filthy language of the Jews.”

  Ahman had tried again over the year without any movement by the cleric, no matter what evidence he brought forward supporting his case.

  June 3, 1975: The cleric, after sharing prayers with the congregation and giving his Khutba (sermon), retreated to his private room to continue in solitude.

  Sharif, his bodyguard, after leaving the cleric, made his way into the main hall of the Mosque to secure the area and lock all the doors. As he approached the front door he heard a sobbing sound coming from the direction of the women’s prayer room. He immediately investigated to find two women, one lying on the floor with the other bent over her trying to get her to rise.

  Sharif asked angrily, “What are you still doing here so late and what is wrong with her?”

  The distraught woman looked up and explained, “She has fallen and I can’t get her to her feet. Can you help me?”

  “Why didn’t you call for help sooner?” Sharif knelt down to help the fallen woman. “It’s not right that you —”

  These were the last words Sharif was to speak as two bullets from a 9mm Lugar equipped with a silencer entered the back of his head. His body toppled over, landing on the fallen woman. Both women struggled with the limp body, finally rolling him over. The bullet cartridges were picked up and no words were spoken as they silently worked their way down the dimly lit corridor to the prayer room where Cleric Khamayseh was kneeling in meditation.

  Hearing the door open, Cleric Khamayseh turned to find out who would dare interfere in his unity with Allāh. Seeing the two women he became enraged and shouted, “How dare you poison the sanctity of the Mosque by entering t
his holy area!”

  The cleric rose to confront the women, when the “thud, thud, thud” from the bullets echoed repeatedly off the walls of the small room as they entered his body, including two well positioned shots in the forehead. First his head recoiled backward as his eyes widened in disbelief, then his entire body collapsed in a heap, blood oozing on to his prayer rug, soaking and distorting the green and white images.

  The following morning, the Mosque caretaker discovered the body of Sharif Hussam Bakhi. Alarmed at the sight, he went in search of the Cleric Khamayseh to tell him the tragic news when he came upon the cleric’s body. The caretaker’s wail was so loud that he was heard almost a half block away.

  News spread quickly through the community and as the multitudes gathered, the police formed a ring around the Mosque, afraid that the crowds would contaminate the crime scene. The police were mobilizing as quickly as possible to handle the crowd control and keep the situation from becoming volatile.

  The investigation effort was futile. There were no fingerprints, no empty cartridge shells, no forced entry, no eyewitness, no shots heard. Not one shred of forensic evidence. It was as professional a killing as the local police had ever seen.

  Immediately suspicion was raised that the Shin Bet, Israel’s secret police, was behind the killings. It was well known that the Shin Bet was monitoring Cleric Khamayseh for the past few years and concerned that he was inflaming the Palestinians to rise up and kill as many Jews as possible.

  Several months before, the Shin Bet had uncovered a plot by a group organized by the cleric to attack a small synagogue on Mt. Zion called the Tomb of David, considered by many as Jerusalem’s oldest synagogue. The attack was to be launched from Silwan, a small village just east of Jerusalem. But undercover agents of the Shin Bet had infiltrated the group. Eleven members who called themselves the Martyrs Against Injustice were arrested. Those captured soon talked under interrogation and implicated Cleric Khamayseh directly. The Jewish authorities wanted to arrest the cleric immediately, but the head of Mossad Special Operations, Benjamin Werner, overruled them. No more was said of the matter in public and interestingly, the cleric’s name was never mentioned in any of the Martyrs Against Injustice’s trials.