Catch The Jew!

by Tenenbom, Tuvia

  The proceedings are in English. A Jewish speaker stutters in bad English, an Arab speaks clearly in both English and Arabic, and a guest from Norway speaks the clearest English and tells us that he’s here of his own will, which means that he is not paid by anyone. A righteous man, and it’s great that he makes it public. Since he’s already here, by the way, and he’s so great, he will be stepping in as our key speaker, to replace the one that cancelled.

  There is one problem, of course: most of the people here don’t understand English. When I approach them in English, asking for example, “Where are you from?” I get an answer, not in English, whose meaning is: “Good morning.” KAS, I guess, wants to be “international,” and so English is great. Kidding aside, it’s probably a great idea to collect people who don’t understand one another and make sure they can’t talk to each other. It’s a deep concept and I’m going to discuss it in a multi-volume book I plan to write about this.

  Speeches done – that is, for now – the session starts.

  An Israeli peace activist tells us to move the chairs away and stand and form a circle. We are not to touch hands, she says. Arabic music starts and we are to think that we are in a kitchen cooking.

  Next step, after we have “prepared” our mutual food, we are to face each other and talk. I offer my hand to a Jordanian lady with a hijab next to me, in clear violation of the rules, but she doesn’t shake the hands of a man, she says. A Jordanian man, who does shake my hand, asks me if I’m a “Jew.” I tell him that I don’t remember who I am, but that if I’m not mistaken I’m neither Jew nor Arab. He counters this and says that I must be one or the other. I say I’m German. Welcome to His Excellency King Abdallah’s land.

  Next step: Western music comes up on the speakers and we are told to dance. I look at the dancers, none of whom can move in any graceful manner, and for a moment I think that I have just been dropped into a mental institution. It’s really bizarre, but the people here seem to have a good time. It’s kind of a sport for them, I guess. Burning calories in the gym doesn’t need rhythm, does it?

  It’s a big mess, and a German lady suggests that we break for coffee. The lack of leg coordination must have been torture for her.

  ***

  In the coffee break I meet some Jordanians from the city of Zarka and some Palestinians from Jerusalem, but I can’t locate any Palestinians from the West Bank. There’s a delegation here from Ramallah, I’m told. Where are they? A man volunteers to show me to the Ramallah delegation. He finds none. But this does not mean they are not here; they are. Where? In the toilet, he says. All Ramallah people are urinating at the same time.

  Time passes and he locates one of the pee-makers. Right there, he says, is the Ramallah group. I approach the person shown to me. He’s from Ramallah. He says, that’s true. What school in Ramallah does he teach at? Oh, no, he teaches in Jerusalem. And where are his friends, the other Ramallah people? They are in Ramallah, naturally. Not here? No, not here. In Ramallah.

  Ramallah is better, cooler.

  There’s a big difference between having people from Ramallah and having people from Jerusalem in this hotel. Jerusalem is governed by Israel, and its Arabs don’t need to come to Jordan to meet Jews. But there are no Jews in Ramallah, home to the Palestinian government, and if its Arabs are to meet Jews, KAS would be able to claim to be a great matchmaker. But the Ramallah delegation is either urinating in some Jordanian toilet or joyfully eating falafel in Ramallah.

  What does KAS really think?

  This German peace event costs about 200,000 shekels (around 45,000 euro), I’m told by an official. At least it’s cheaper than the hamam in Al-Quds University

  I look at the people and notice a striking difference between Arabs and Jews. The Jews are overeager to please, while the Arabs walk with their heads up and with pride. And as much as the Jews try to hide their culture, with not one of them wearing or showing any distinguishing Israeli or Jewish symbols, the Arabs show theirs with great self-esteem.

  After coffee break the groups are divided into three, each assigned a different room: Palestinians, Jordanians, and Israelis. I guess that’s how you make people love each other, by separating them. There’s one interesting rule: the groups are not supposed to talk politics.

  I go to check the Palestinian group, but I’m not allowed in. So I wait till they are done to find out who they are. A blond, a brunette, another brunette, and a few Jerusalemites come out, all talking to one another in English. This “Palestinian” group is composed of foreign nationals who teach in Palestinian schools, plus the Jerusalemites.

  ***

  I take my time to chat with a Brit named Warwick, general manager of the Dead Sea Spa Hotel. His wife, he tells me, is a Palestinian from Bethlehem.

  Muslim?

  “Christian. Church of England.”

  When did she leave Bethlehem?

  “In the 1950s, when the Israelis occupied the city.”

  Wait a sec: Were there Israelis in Bethlehem in the 50s?

  “Let me check.”

  He takes his smartphone and checks. “Oh, nineteen-sixty-seven,” he corrects himself.

  Good that he knows how to use Google to find out when his wife left Bethlehem. I love Brits like him.

  ***

  I go back to the KAS event.

  As I enter I offer my hand to one of the Arab men. He responds by asking: “Are you a Jew?” No, I say: I’m half American and half German. He shakes my hand.

  Evening comes. Dinner is done and we sit outside listening to loud Arab music by a local band. I offer one of the Israelis, for whom this is his first time in an Arab land, to show him Amman. Amman is nice, I say to him, and I wouldn’t mind driving to the capital with you. He is dying to see Amman, he tells me, but he’s not allowed to leave the hotel.

  Why?

  He was told by KAS that “I cannot leave the hotel. All of us were told this. It’s not safe for Jews in Jordan. Just a few days ago a Jordanian parliament member called for the kidnapping of Israelis in Jordan, if there were any, and to hold them hostage.”

  In between musical beats I sit down to talk to a Jordanian lady, “I’m a Hashemite Jordanian,” as she puts it, who is doing her PhD at the moment. She’s vivacious, independent, and still not married. No man has yet been found who is good enough for her, her mom says, and in her traditional society, Mom decides issues like marriage.

  This is not the first time she has taken part in a German peace initiative. She loves the Germans, and has strong opinions about Jews.

  “To be honest with you, I always believed that the Jews were some kind of animals.”

  And what do you think now?

  “I was taken to Jerusalem, to see al-Aqsa and the Holy Sepulcher, and when I was there I saw the country around and what the Jews built. I didn’t know they were building cities, but when I saw what they had built I realized that they were not going to leave the area.”

  Who are the Jews, what do you think of them?

  “Invaders. I have no problem; I tell you the truth.”

  Would you mind if some of them came to live here, in Jordan?

  “No, they shouldn’t come here. No!”

  How about Americans?

  “What kind of Americans?”

  Normal Americans, good Christians.

  “They can come here to live with us. No problem.”

  How about American Jews?

  “No, no. They should not be allowed to live here. No.”

  No Jews in Jordan?

  “Sorry. No Jews here.”

  Are you a believing Christian?

  “I am!”

  Was Jesus Christ a Jew?

  “No. He was killed by Jews!”

  Does this mean he couldn’t have been a Jew?

  “If he was a Jew, the Jews wouldn’t have killed him!”

  Who killed Saddam Hussein?

  “Why do you ask?”

  Who killed Muammar Qadafi?

  “What are you
trying to say?”

  You tell me. You want to get a PhD, you should be able to answer these questions.

  “They were Arabs, both of them, and Arabs killed them.”

  What does this mean, my dear PhD?

  “Okay, I got you. If the Jews killed Christ it is no proof that he was not a Jew. Right. I never thought of it but now I will have to think about it.”

  By the way: How do you know that the Jews killed Jesus?

  “Everybody knows.”

  What does the Holy Book say?

  “In Jordan they teach that the Jews killed him. They all teach this: the Romans, the Protestants.”

  But what does the Holy Book say?

  “I don’t know. I have to think about it.”

  Why think? Why not look at the Holy Book, open it and read it?

  “Not the Jews?”

  The Holy Book says the Romans killed him.

  “This is new to me.”

  Maybe today, or tomorrow, you will open the Holy Book and look.

  “Tomorrow I want to take a picture with you. Is it okay?”

  Anytime.

  We bid each other goodbye and good night.

  ***

  Ramzi Nazzal, the owner of the Dead Sea Spa Hotel, tells me how his hotel came into existence: A German tourist agency was for years bringing German psoriasis patients to the Dead Sea in Israel. In 1986 company executives came to Ramzi with an idea: they would divert their patients to Jordan if he built a hotel on the Jordanian side of the Sea.

  Some people would go quite far just to make sure Jews make less money.

  ***

  As KAS participants are busy with more dance-like maneuvers, I take my time to speak with the Norwegian “Conflict Resolution” man, the leading expert of our KAS gathering.

  Since he was not getting paid, I ask him to explain to me why he was here, why he even bothered, and what exactly motivated him. In short: How does a do-gooder man like him get created?

  What makes a hero?

  He’s befuddled by my question. Didn’t I know, he muses, that the essence of Norwegian culture is to care for people?! No, I didn’t. Do they? Does he? Does he, for instance, care about other conflicts: the Hutus and the Tutsis, the Kurds and the Tibetans, the Chechens and the Albanians, the Iraqis and the Copts, the Afghans and the gypsies, to mention but a few?

  He looks at me with nervous eyes and he wants to know on which side I am. Are you a J— he starts asking, but stops right before the “e” sound.

  It is a weird moment. I let it stand there for a minute, feeling it. But then I have mercy on him and I tell him that I’m German.

  He is relieved. Germans are good, and we continue to talk.

  What do your country’s people think of the Arab-Israeli conflict? I ask him. On which side are they? This is easy for him to answer, he’s an intellectual and he knows his stuff. Ninety percent of Norwegians side with the Palestinians, he tells me, because they think that Israel is racist and that Israel is an Apartheid state. And what do you think? I ask him. Well, he thinks his countrymen are right. Norwegians, he tells me, are attuned to the sufferings of weak minorities. Always have been, are, and always will be. This is the history of Norway and this will be its future as well. Good people.

  I ask him if he can tell me how the Norwegians acted during WWII.

  He wants to know why I’m snooping around his country’s history.

  I’m German, I remind him, and Germans talk of WWII. Strange habit of ours.

  He looks at me with some unease, but no Norwegian like him will lie to a German like me.

  We don’t like to admit it, he says in a low voice, but we collaborated with the Nazis.

  I push a little harder and ask if this included sending the Jews to some ovens.

  Yes, he says, his hands shaking a bit and a nervous tick showing on his face.

  But isn’t it a bit strange, I share an observation with this scholar, that people who are attuned to the sufferings of minorities as the Norwegians have always been, would send the weak minority of Jews to the ovens?

  He does not answer.

  Lucky for me he believes I’m German. If he thought I were a Jew he would probably tell me to stop complaining about “that WWII thing” again and again.

  Lucky for him, KAS switches course and decides to pay him nevertheless. His services to the organization, a man who thinks that Jews are racist and Palestinians are pure souls, are too dear as to not be paid.

  ***

  The KAS conference is over and I cross back into Israel on my own, taking the shorter route. I board a “Special,” a taxi for more than one party, into Jerusalem, sitting next to an intellectual-looking lady.

  We talk.

  She is from Bethlehem, and she works for an environment-conscious Non-Governmental Organization.

  How many NGOs are there in this land? I ask her.

  “Thousands. In Bethlehem alone we have about one hundred.”

  Her name is Nur, and she’s indeed an intellectual. She has studied much and she practices what she knows. She’s paid well, she says, and lives very comfortably, thanks to the Americans, Germans, and the rest of the EU, who are paying her salary.

  “In Palestine the economy is NGO. Palestine is an NGO country. We call it ‘NGO Palestine.’ Who pays our government leaders? NGOs. Almost nothing is manufactured here, nothing grows here or is produced here except for NGOs. That’s it.”

  Are you happy about it?

  “In the short run, yes. But in the long run, this will kill us. One day the NGOs will go and we’ll have nothing. It’s not healthy for a country to live on handouts. We have a weak government, and one day we’ll pay for it. This is not real.”

  Do you know of other countries that live like this?

  “Only Palestine.”

  The Western world cares only about you?

  “No. The Jew tells them to do this!”

  What?

  “They throw all their money here into Palestine because they know that if they didn’t give the money to the Palestinians the Jews would have to do it, because Israel is an occupying power and occupiers must pay the people they occupy.”

  Is that so? I mean, the Europeans and the Americans want to save the Jews money?

  “Why else would they do it?”

  Where in Jordan have you been with your NGO?

  “Aqaba.”

  What did you do there?

  “We had a three-day teachers’ seminar, to help them teach their students about the environment and about water resources.”

  Another teachers’ seminar, by another NGO, also in Jordan. It’d be great to know how many NGOs are having seminars in Jordan at any given time.

  Before I left the hotel, Warwick the Brit told me: “Here anything can happen. If somebody came to me and said, ‘There are goats flying over the hotel,’ I’d ask him, ‘How many?’”

  ***

  Back at home I sit down to read what’s new in the world, and here it is:

  Over five hundred Egyptian supporters of the Muslim Brotherhood movement were killed by the Egyptian government security forces; Brotherhood activists set forty Coptic churches and buildings on fire.

  The United Nations Secretary General is presently in the Middle East urging peace and stability.

  Sounds great, doesn’t it? Well, there’s one catch. The UN man is not in Egypt; he’s in Israel. Thousands upon thousands die these days in the Middle East, but the UN is busy with Israel. You have to be a Norwegian or a German NGO to think that this makes perfect sense.

  Gate Sixteen

  Cats, the UN and the Chosen Golden.

  WHEN HUMANS FAIL ME, I THINK IT’S TIME I MAKE FURTHER ACQUAINTANCE with my cats.

  I go to my garden, but when they see me they run away. They don’t want me, I figure, and I think of a scheme to get KAS to make them love me. I think of a KAS dance but then I would need an infusion of 200,000 shekels. Perhaps I should call Suhrkamp in Berlin; they are my publishers an
d they should wire-transfer the money for such a great cause. But then I think: Why not try treating the cats with the same respect with which I treated the Hashemite lady?

  I wish I had some bones here, but I don’t.

  Milk. That’s what I have. I go inside the house, take a soup plate, pour milk into it and put it outside.

  It’s kosher milk, and I hope the cats will be okay with it.

  I walk back inside the house and watch.

  One cat comes to drink, and she finishes the milk in a minute.

  Must have been starving, thirsty, or both.

  I give her more.

  Another cat wanders in. This one is bigger and stronger.

  The first cat, still hungry or thirsty, waits for the stronger one to let her have more, but the stronger doesn’t.

  The plate is clean again.

  I fill the plate once more.

  The strong cat gets the first shot, then moves a step back and the first cat tries her luck. She succeeds for four or five licks, until the stronger cat approaches the plate.

  The plate is empty again and I fill it up again.

  The stronger cat now lets the first cat drink together with her.

  They go on like this for another minute and then the stronger cat takes away permission and the weaker cat moves away.

  The stronger cat enjoys the plate by herself but then moves away a bit.

  Weaker cat comes back.

  I watch the cats, creatures I’m just getting to know, and think: cats are street smart, especially these stray cats, and they know the rules of nature better than I. The rule they have here, as far I can see, is this: Might makes Right. Are humans the same or are they different? The UN Secretary General, who is now in this land, represents a collective human body that decides, at times, to enforce sanctions against a country of their choice or even authorize an invasion of such a country. Practically, such decisions are voted on in the UN’s Security Council, which means the members who make up this council. Who are they? Well, the members of this council change, except for the most important of them, the permanent members who have veto power. They are China, France, Russia, the UK, and the USA. How did they get there? They are the victors of WWII. So what? Well, Might makes Right. As with the cats outside.