He laughs: “This question, I think, you should pose to the chancellor of Germany.”
***
I like the guy. Agree with him or not, this man has pride. He has no shame. He loves his people. And he is happy as hell being who he is, unlike many Jews.
To know Israel, I realize, you must come to Palestine. It is through this contrast that you understand Israel better, and Palestine as well.
It is at this point that I try to move away from politics, and have the man talk to me as Jibril, Jibril the man and not Jibril the master.
What does Jibril Rajoub do in the mornings when he wakes up? What’s the first thing he does in the morning? Does he, for example, kiss his wife?
“When I get up in the morning I read the newspapers. I have to know exactly what’s going on, because I always expect surprises.”
Tell me, how do you spend time with your wife?
“I dedicate 100 percent” to the Palestinian Cause. Since I joined Fatah (the PLO) I never, never, never had a vacation. I never had a personal or a private life. What else do you want to know?”
How much sport do you do?
“I walk twice or three times a week. Minimum twenty-five kilometers, non-stop. You can join me on Thursday and you’ll see. I walk from here to Jericho. Last time I walked with Fayyad [the previous prime minister] twenty-one kilometers in three and a half hours.”
It is at this very moment that the Israeli TV’s most-watched news broadcast starts and, like many Israelis, Jibril turns on his TV. I try to move my head away from the TV, since I’m not supposed to understand Hebrew. Occasionally, I do look and ask him to translate for me. Jibril does.
Jibril and I feel good together. We connect. And he shows it. He tells me he would like to go off record from now on, and just talk man to man.
I can’t stop laughing hearing what he says off record, on politics and other subjects. Obviously, I can’t share what he says off record, except to say this: at this point of our talk there’s not even one “sound bite” uttered.
Smart man, this Jibril, the way I envisioned him in my play.
When everything is done, he asks me what I’m doing this evening. I tell him I’m his and he invites me to join him at one of Ramallah’s luxurious hotels for a party, at the Mövenpick.
It is at the party that he delivers the keynote speech in which he thanks this German, me, on national TV, for joining him today. How could a man like him, master of espionage, not see that I’m not Aryan? I guess, if I may say so, that I did a good job. If the Israeli Secret Service were to get wind of this, they would pay me a very fat salary to join them.
Jibril is an excellent orator, he’s passionate; he’s the most charismatic man in Palestine. He calls Israel racist and fascist, and says that if Hitler woke up from his grave and saw Israel’s brutality, he would be shocked.
As I’m about to depart, Jibril gives me his business card. This is not your average card. In size it is, but that’s where the similarities end. The card is a gold-plated slab of impressive weight, protected by a nylon covering. It reads: Jibril M. Rajoub. Major General. Member of the Central Committee of the Fateh [sic] Movement, Deputy Secretary of Committee, President of the Palestinian Olympic Committee, President of the Palestinian Football Federation. Palestine, West Bank, Ramallah.
Man of power.
We get along so well that Jibril wants me to come back the next day.
I don’t know if I should. How long will I be able to play the Aryan?
I don’t let fear and doubt overtake me and I say that I’d love to come.
And I do.
***
After I leave the party, a van on the Palestinian side of the crossing picks me up. Lina, a lady of eastern beauty, sits in front, and a man sits in back. She and the driver are the guides, the man in the back has some function though I’m not clear what. Lina is from Saudi Arabia, previously married to a Palestinian and now divorced; she works for Jibril.
We are going to Hebron.
We drive, in a white Chevrolet van, on roads that never end. It would take half an hour between Ramallah and Hebron, Lina says, if not for the Israelis. Again blaming the Israelis, only in this case she’s right. The short cut would require passing through Jerusalem, and for this she would need a permit, hence driving around and about, on mountain roads and wadis. But this van does the detour fast, flying on Palestinian roads, allowing me to marvel at the beauty and secrets of mountains revealing themselves to us, kilometer by kilometer. Naked mountains, picturesque and cruel, dry and tall, each in striking different shape – just like the people of this land.
Why we’re going to Hebron I don’t know. I’m flowing with the currents, wherever they lead me.
We pass a National Park called Herodium. What is it? Lina doesn’t know. We see a bunch of ancient-looking pillars standing in front of us. We check a tourist brochure and read that these are pillars from two thousand years ago. Next to the pillars is a small house, with an old Arab couple sitting outside, making sure that the sun is moving well from east to west. Lina approaches them and asks what the pillars are; nobody in Saudi Arabia ever told her. The man answers: these pillars are here since about twenty years ago.
Who put them here?
“The Jews.”
In front of us there’s a mountain going up, way up, perhaps the abode of heavenly angels.
What’s on the top of the mountain?
“Jews from very long time ago.”
Up there, I slowly find out, is the Israel Nature and Parks Authority. What are they doing here? Well, this is a site from thousands of years ago, a palace that some archeologists assume is also the burial place of King Herod, a Jew “from a very long time ago.”
Yo. That King Herod. From the Temple Mount.
This place doesn’t square all too well with the Palestinian narrative, but I say nothing. I’m a dumb German.
We get back to the van. We drive further and further, and in no time this flying van reaches Hebron. As we get out I look at the van’s license plate. This is not a normal plate. Nope. This van belongs to the Palestinian government.
Good to know.
We walk the streets of Hebron, on its Palestinian side. Last time I was in Hebron, I chiefly stayed in the 3 percent section of the Jews, and only a few minutes on the other side, at the beginning of it. Now I’m at the center of the city. What a nice city. Alive and kicking, teeming with people and activity, and quite big. “33 percent of West Bank Palestinians,” Lina tells me, “live here.” On the streets I see USAID signs, which denote projects funded by the US government. They too are in Palestine.
It is here that I see much clearer the difference between Hebron’s Arab and Jewish sections. No desolation here, no ugly trash, and no ghetto. Much ink has been spilled by foreign media journalists describing the hardships caused to Hebron Arabs by the Jewish settlers, habitually neglecting to mention the riches of this city and the comfort of its residents. Why don’t the various foreign tourist guides do tours in this part of Hebron, in the captivating 97 percent of it?
Lina, probably on orders from Jibril, wants me to visit the Ibrahimi Mosque, the “Cave of the Patriarchs” that I visited when I was in the Jewish part of the city, a holy place to both Muslims and Jews that is divided between them with two separate entrances, and I say that I’d be delighted. Once we get there, I am delighted indeed. The place is spotless, magnificent, and inspiring. Lina is praying, I walk around, trying to sneak a glimpse into the Jewish part, and then Lina says we have to go.
We go to see a youth soccer match, where Jibril is also waiting for us, in which the Palestinian team loses. Game over and another one starts: Jibril wants me to attend a protest tent, where he says a demonstration is taking place, somewhere in town.
We get there fast, to a tent on the ground. Many posters. Plastic chairs. People sit next to a sad-looking old man, with red eyes and hardly a spark of life, and they mumble words into his ears. The old man stares at a distant
place, as if he can see his son who is miles and miles away. He can’t. His son, Mahmoud Abu Salakh, is a prisoner in an Israeli jail, sentenced to many years behind bars for terrorist acts.
What did he do? I ask Lina. “Nothing,” she says, and adds that he’s suffering from incurable cancer. These days, as Israelis and Palestinians are negotiating peace, Israel is releasing a number of Palestinian prisoners, but it won’t release Abu Salakh. In minutes Jibril shows up and gives a short speech, asserting that Israel’s “fascist occupation will not succeed.” This demonstration seems to have been hastily organized and I think Jibril is behind it, performing a little show for Tobi the German.
***
As it turns out, there’s a wedding not far from here and Lina says that Jibril wants me to go there.
Gently, and fast, I’m pushed into the van again, by the man from the back of the van. We drive. Faster than fast. The van stops. Right by a huge crowd in the open air, with blaring music and hundreds of people all around. The people here have obviously been waiting for me and I am accompanied out of the van into the center of the happy event, as if I were a Saudi prince. Did I say prince? No way. King would be a much better word. People are standing in line to greet me, to shake my holy hands. King. Yes. If you watch Saudi TV and see the crowds greeting the king, which is what Saudi TV shows millions of times a day because they won’t show anything else, you would recognize my honor in a second.
I feel great. I own oil fields.
People look at me, smile at me.
As I keep walking, it occurs to me that some of the people don’t know who my honor is, but since they saw their friends shake my holy hands they do as well. They are as curious as I am to know who I am. Yeah. And between you and me, I have no clue what’s going on. A horrible mistake must have occurred, but only Prophet Muhammad knows. He is in Heaven with Allah and he knows all. I know nothing.
Though, I must admit, I quickly get used to my new status. It takes no time to get used to being worshipped; it feels natural in seconds. King Tobi the First. The speed at which I get used to power, to being a prince and a ruler, to being worshipped and admired, mixed with the knowledge that these worshippers are under my full control and I can do with them whatever I want, that I am the real King Herod, is amazing and shocking.
I’m shown to my chair, a plastic chair at the center of honor.
And just then, as I’m about to sit down on my throne, Lina says we must leave.
What!
From a powerful King Herod I turn back into just another German, a Tobi. What a fall!
What happened? Nobody tells me. Nobody shakes my hands on the way out. Easy come, easy go.
We speedily drive away from the wedding. Did somebody discover my real identity? I really hope not.
The van stops. Tomorrow, Lina says, General Rajoub will do his famous walk, from Ramallah to Bethlehem. Would I like to come?
Yes, I say, happy that my suspicion has proved wrong.
I guess I don’t need Gideon Levy to show me around Palestine. I’m managing on my own.
Lina drops me by a checkpoint near Jerusalem. I can cross into the Jews, she can’t. We shall meet tomorrow.
I cross. In minutes, Lina sends me an e-mail. No walk tomorrow, she writes. What has happened? I don’t know. And maybe never will.
I go back to Jerusalem, to see how the stray cats are doing, and I feed them kosher milk.
Gate Twenty-One
Homeless Palestinians park their Range Rovers in front of their gated villas.
WHAT SHOULD A JEW DO WHEN HIS WALK WITH A PALESTINIAN IS CANCELLED?
Become a Palestinian himself.
Which is exactly what I do on the next day. But not just a Palestinian. I prefer a Palestinian with a special touch, something that will show my appreciation and thanks to the EU.
How could I achieve such a feat? Lederhosen. I have a pair, and I put them on.
I don’t know if anybody will notice my Lederhosen, as I don’t know how many people recognize this special piece of clothing, but it’s worth the try. I look at myself in the mirror and for a second there I’m reminded why I initially brought my Lederhosen with me. I wanted to compare two occupied lands, but as soon as I think of it I forget it. Sorry, Tyrol, but you are just a little fly facing a lion, Jerusalem.
I walk leisurely through the souk of the Old City, somewhere between Bab al-Amud and al-Aqsa, and stop by a man selling Arab headdresses. How much? I ask. “One hundred twenty shekels,” he says.
This rate, let me enlighten you here, is the opening shot between two learned, hardened men. None is willing to move a penny toward the other. A perfect opportunity for the EU and the USA to get involved, not to mention host an NGO conference in Jordan to solve the issue via dance.
Sadly, none of them cares about a little Arab head covering.
And so, having no allies, we negotiate.
“Twenty,” say I, “One-hundred,” says he. We go on and on, each enlisting Allah’s help in the matter, and Allah finally declares this heavenly ruling: forty-four shekels.
Deal done, I walk my way to the Western Wall.
It will be interesting, I amuse my heart, to see how the Jews will react to Sheikh Tobi of Austria in their midst. After all, I don’t remember ever seeing an Arab, at least an Arab dressed like one, at the Western Wall.
I get a first inkling for my strange appearance at the security gate before the Wall. This gate is manned 24/7, as nobody takes this holy area lightly. Two cops who stand by an x-ray machine can’t believe their eyes when they see me walking in, as if I had just dropped from a mental institution in the sky. They stare at each other. Evidently, they have never been taught what to do under such circumstances.
But then, one of them has this great idea: he takes out his smartphone and tells his friend to snap a photo of himself and me standing next to each other. Sheikh Tobi likes all people who like him and I immediately stretch out my hands in a warm embrace. You want to take a picture of me? You can take twenty! We stand next to each other, like two lovebirds, and Mr. Security takes a pic of the Sheikh. Then another one. And another one. And another one. They are so excited, these security people, that they neglect to check me and they let me pass. I, Salah ad-Din with Lederhosen, gleefully walk on to capture the Holy Mount.
I enter the area, continuing to the Wall or, more precisely, al-Buraq, as if I were the owner of the place. Jews look at me. They have no clue how I landed in their Holiest Shrine, but they say nothing. I walk and walk and walk, like the king I really am, but no one comes to kiss my hands or bow to my kingship. This area, which is guarded by the best of Israel’s security apparatus to make sure no Arab terrorist shows up to make some trouble, strangely and weirdly accepts me, albeit with no words. There are security cameras all around, must be a thousand eyes looking at every single move anybody is doing here, but none reacts to mine.
The Saudi-Tyrolean King that I am, I get offended that nobody notices me. And so, in order to get some attention, I pass near a group of Sephardi religious teenagers, separated into males and females, and slowly walk to the females, as if I want to pluck one or two of them for me. The male guardians of female purity notice me and some yell, “Death to the Arabs.” Not only them. A New York Jew then approaches me with the greeting, “Fuck you!” Hearing these two words coming out of his mouth, I transform from a king to an imam in a split second. This is a holy land, I tell him. Here we don’t use such words. Go back to New York, Jew, for you don’t deserve this holy ground!
What can I tell you? Honestly, I think I was born to be an imam.
As I leave the area, one of the teenagers approaches me. “I think that you are a leftist Israeli and you tried to provoke us into saying something ugly,” he says to me.
How dare he talk like this to an imam like me!
***
Night falls and I go to have dinner with an American friend who’s in Israel these days. After dinner he takes me around his neighborhood, not far from the
Hebrew University. We pass a number of magnificent houses in what seem to be gated communities, with Range Rovers and Audis waiting to serve their lords.
Who lives there? I ask.
“These villas belong to the Lifta people.”
My friend, who happens to be a leftist activist, knows the history of the place much better than I do. There are no poor Lifta refugees, he tells me, an impression I also had after visiting the deserted village of Lifta with Itamar. Lifta, located at the entrance of Jerusalem, used to be a pirates’ village in the old days, and the villagers made their living by forcing pilgrims to the holy city to part with their earthly goods.
Historically, those villagers owned much land all around, and to this day their descendants are some of the richest of Arab clans, and they own these beautiful houses.
Who knows, maybe the EU will soon donate another €2.4 million to “preserve Palestinian cultural heritage” here.
I go back to my stray cats, which by this time I have a colony of, and I sit down to read the free paper of Israel, Israel Hayom. The most-read paper of Israel is this right-wingers’ daily funded by Sheldon Adelson, an American tycoon whose reported net worth reaches $35 billion. To get the pulse of this paper’s readers, I look at the ads section. Here is a sample of goods highly desired by the Israeli public: German, Austrian, and Polish passports, plus natural Viagra.
Sheldon Adelson, by the way, is only putting in the money. It is Haaretz, the most-left daily paper in Israel, that has been physically printing Israel Hayom for quite some years, making it one of Haaretz’s biggest financial backers.
I try to explain this to my cats, with whom I start developing a cautiously friendly relationship, but they give me this strange look, as in: Did you lose your mind?
They are smart, my cats.
Gate Twenty-Two
A Jewish pilot with a mission: Catch the Jews!
I HAVE BEEN WALKING HOURS ON END, ALMOST EVERY DAY SINCE I ARRIVED in this country, going where the people are and trying to reconnect with the land I left so long ago. Perhaps it’s time I sit down and have people come to me, just like a native. I choose to do this in Tel Aviv, the cultural center of Israel.
Catch The Jew! Page 17