Catch The Jew!

by Tenenbom, Tuvia

  “I don’t want to get involved with this issue, and I would rather not go down that path.”

  Mark is made visibly uncomfortable by my question. We keep on talking, most of which is off record, and I leave.

  As I leave, Lina of Jibril Rajoub’s office calls. The man is going for a walk this afternoon, by foot from Ramallah to Jericho, and he wants company. Would I come?

  Well, why not?

  But before I meet the famous Arab walking by the mountains and the hills, let me first meet a famous Jew sitting in his living room in the Tel Aviv bourgeois neighborhood of Ramat Aviv.

  He is Amos Oz, arguably Israel’s most famous author.

  Gate Twenty-Four

  The Bus Stop University is alive and well in the land of Israel.

  AMOS OZ LIVES ON THE TOP FLOOR OF HIS BUILDING, THE TWELFTH, AND AT the entrance of his apartment on your left there is a big bookcase with Amos’s own books, the ones he has written, lying side by side. More bookcases, quite a number of them, adorn the living room, where Amos welcomes me to sit down with him.

  About thirty years ago he wrote a book about his encounters with Israelis, In The Land of Israel. Should I expect to find, I ask him, the same land and people that he did?

  “Yes and no. There are things that have changed, and there are things that haven’t changed in the last thirty years. First, Israeli society is still a multifaceted society. This society is composed of religious and secular, rightists and leftists, people of peace and settlers, Arabs and Jews.”

  Interesting phrasing: “Settlers” is to be self-understood as people of war.

  And what has changed?

  “First off, during this period a million Russians have immigrated to this country. Second, we now have hundreds of thousands of settlers in the territories [captured by Israel in 1967], that hardly existed thirty years ago.”

  The doorbell rings. A huge bouquet of flowers is brought in. Somebody loves Amos, or maybe he has bought it for himself.

  Tell me, did the new Russians and the settlers make Israeli society worse than it was before?

  “Society is not made of slices of cheese that I can tell you it’s better or worse. What I can say is: it is a different society.”

  Well, this says a lot, doesn’t it?

  Amos speaks in a low voice, mostly keeping the same tone. He hardly smiles and he never raises his voice. I think he went through some medical procedure lately, though I’m not sure.

  “Israeli society turned right within the years, but at the same period of time the rightists have greatly changed as well. Today the right-wingers also speak about peace and compromise with the Palestinians.”

  Left-leaning Israelis will have the word Palestinians or its sister word settlers come out of their lips within the first twenty-one to thirty-four seconds of your meeting with them. Amos is no different. He speaks of Palestinians as if they were living next to him and as though he were encountering them a million times a day. But where Amos lives, if I may be direct here, is where people with lofty bank accounts live. The ones who cannot live here are not the Arabs but the poor, of whatever religion. Yet in Amos’s mind this little fact doesn’t seem to register, for he is obsessed with Jew/Arab division only.

  Of course, Amos Oz is not unique in this regard. Many in the Israeli elite cannot stop talking about the poor Palestinians, while hardly mentioning the poor Jews. According to social political studies done in Israel this year, over 20 percent of Israelis live below poverty line, and more than 35 percent are in financial distress. Social justice, I believe, should not be dedicated to only one segment of the population, and if we really care about those doing less well than us, we should not be consumed with just a part of them. The Israeli left is ever consumed with the Muhammads of their world and rarely with their Yehudas. It’s a pity.

  That said, I don’t want to open a discussion about this and I simply swim along with Amos. It’s his ship here, after all. Will peace prevail? I ask him.

  “There is no other option.”

  Will two states be here, living side by side?

  “Yes. There’s no other possibility.”

  Why?

  “If the two states are not becoming a reality, we will end up with one state and that state will be Arab. I don’t want this to happen.”

  Amos does not observe either the Sabbath or Ramadan, but he wants a Jewish state. And like his daughter, Fania, he knows what a “Jew” is. “Other nations built pyramids,” he tells me, while the Jews wrote books. “The Jews never had a pope who told them what to do. Every Jew is a pope.”

  And so is Israel, he says of the little country of eight million. “Eight million opinions, eight million prime ministers, eight million prophets and eight million messiahs. Every Jew here sees himself as a leader, a prophet, a guide. This society is actually one huge seminary. You can stand at the bus stop and you see Jews who don’t even know each other and still they argue about religion, politics, security. The bus stop is at times a seminar. This is what Israel is, what Jews are.”

  Amos shares his thinking not only about the Israelis but also about the Europeans.

  “Europeans very often tend to wake up in the morning, read the paper, sign a petition in favor of the good guys, launch a demonstration against the bad guys, and go to sleep feeling good about themselves. Except that Israel and Palestine is not about good guys and bad guys, it is a clash between two perfectly valid claims over the same country.”

  Gate Twenty-Five

  Walking with the lions of Palestine and licking ice cream in solidarity with Adolf Hitler of blessed memory.

  A CLASH IT IS, INDEED.

  An attempt by a special unit of the Israeli army to arrest a suspect in the refugee camp Qalandiya, near the checkpoint between Jerusalem and Ramallah, has failed and three Palestinians were killed.

  Jibril would like to talk to me about this incident, Lina tells me when we talk on the phone right after I get out of Amos’s house. I thought he wanted to walk, I mention to her. Oh, yeah, she says, he wants to walk and talk. “Come to the checkpoint in Qalandiya and we’ll have a car waiting to pick you up.”

  That’s fine with me. Tobi the German always likes to be driven around and listen to Palestinian sufferings, just like the rest of his German brethren.

  I take a taxi from Tel Aviv to Qalandiya, and the driver drops me at the checkpoint, as he is not allowed to cross into Palestine. I look around and I can tell something is wrong here, because the checkpoint is almost empty.

  Lina calls. Would I mind to take a taxi to the Mövenpick Hotel and she will pick me up from there?

  What has happened to the car that was supposed to pick me up?

  “It’s hard to send a car to you because the traffic in Qalandiya is overwhelming.”

  What is she talking about? A cemetery is busier. But go argue with Lina, a Saudi Palestinian, and you’ll never win.

  I walk around to look for a taxi and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the place turns into a war zone. Teenagers, faces covered, burn tires on the road and throw stones at the Israeli soldiers near the checkpoint. Some of the stones are heavier than I am, flying over my head and at my sides.

  I should run away from here, but my curiosity is more powerful than any stone. I want to see the response from the other side, maybe live shots, but the Israeli soldiers choose not to react. Psychologically, I notice, this is the worst that can happen to these teenagers, and indeed they get exhausted pretty quickly. I hope they don’t turn their attention on me. If any of them finds out who I am, I’ll be thrown into the fire and a big party will take place here – without me.

  No wonder Lina doesn’t want to send a car over. If anything is to explode here, it had better not be a Palestinian government car.

  ***

  After some failed attempts I find a cab and drive to the Mövenpick.

  What gorgeous riches! The flags of Palestine and Switzerland stand high in front of the hotel, water is profusely sprayed on the gree
nery next to the flags, shiny German cars move in and out, and servants dressed in high fashion are at the ready to fulfill my innermost desires.

  This too, like it or not, is Palestine. Not the horrible images so frequently associated with it, the desolation and destruction brought upon it by the Jews. No. Sorry, iPad: you don’t supply me with the truth.

  Lina arrives and we drive to Jibril’s office, where a government car is waiting for us.

  “We cannot smile today, three of us have just been murdered by them,” says a guy in the office.

  This serious, sad welcome takes about a minute. Tobi the German is here, a man whose family has seen death as a result of the Allied Forces’ bombings in WWII, yet he still laughs, and so laughter immediately takes over.

  Welcome, brother.

  The car soon takes us to The Walk.

  The former Security Chief of the Palestinian Nation today is the Sportsman of Palestine. A man feared by many, a man in whom all the secrets of this nation lie as in a safe, a man whose middle name is Trickery, a man of iron will and mind, of a stone heart and soft soul, a man who can make you cry and laugh in the very same minute, a man who will shoot you at his will and pamper you if he so wishes, a man made of these sands, a man who will betray you at a moment’s notice and will kill you at the speed of light, a man compared to whom the heroes of legends are pale by comparison, a man with feet of flesh but nerves of steel walks the hills and mountains, high roads and low valleys, for the sake of Palestinian sports.

  You may laugh, you may cry, but inside of you the knowledge brews: there is no other like this man. The American president plays golf, the German chancellor sits listening to Wagner, the Israeli president eats Iftar with Obama wannabes, and the Russian boss goes for a swim with the fish. All of them do these things with tens or hundreds of security personnel watching over them, with limited or no public eye viewing them, or if so, for a relatively short duration of time.

  Not Jibril.

  He walks and everybody can see.

  There is security around him. Kind of. A car behind and a car in front, and he walks with about ten people or so. This security entourage doesn’t flaunt assault rifles and other impressive metals. Nope. What they have is of another kind and sort: water, ice cream, bananas, dates, yogurt, and other such smart weapons. Whenever they feel like it, in a wadi below or on a mount above, they open a bottle, lick a sweet, or bite into a fruit.

  So does Jibril. The feared man of the East is licking an ice cream.

  And whenever Jibril licks or bites into anything he makes sure I lick and bite as well. Him and me by now, as everybody can see, are Siamese twins.

  Jibril started the walk at around five or six in the late afternoon and has now been on the road for about three hours. I am with him for the second part of his delightful walk.

  As we walk, Jibril rages against Hamas. He really doesn’t like them. A few years ago he ran for a PLC (Palestinian Legislative Council) slot against his brother, Nayef, and Nayef won. Nayef is with Hamas, Jibril with Fatah. Fatah lost big in that election, and eventually lost Gaza. Jibril has much to tell me about those days, but he asks that this may remain private.

  We walk. Walk and walk.

  Human fingers could not paint the view surrounding us, not even the most talented of artists. The roads go in circles in and amidst massive displays of white-brown sand, narrow and wide roads hidden between hills and mountains as the wind blows softly on our wet faces. You walk and you walk, but the road never ends. Parts of the walk are inside Israel, parts inside Palestine, and parts in shared areas, but it is hard to tell when we enter one country and when we leave the other. I always thought that heavily guarded checkpoints separated these countries, but boy, was I wrong.

  For many people on the planet, those who for ages have read and heard about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the area in dispute must sound like a huge area, bigger than Canada, but as you walk with Jibril you realize not only how small the land is, both Israel and Palestine, but also how interrelated the two are. The only way you can tell which country is which is by the road signs: here they are in Arabic, here in Hebrew – some warning Israelis that entry is legally forbidden to them. And in between a car passes. Not an armored vehicle, not a tank, not a plane. Just a car. And a cat. Yeah, the cats don’t care about politics, they just want a little ice cream. My cats get kosher milk, this cat gets halal ice cream.

  We are walking on the road, the main road: cars and us, machines and Licking Sportsmen.

  We walk and we talk, talk and walk. Side by side, and at times hand in hand. We are: Number One security agent of Palestine, posing as a sportsman, and Tobi the German, a non-posing kosher Aryan.

  ***

  Then, at one particular section of our walk, and for no particular reason, Tobi decides to leave the guidance of Jibril of Arabia and examine the Holy Land on his own.

  “Don’t go there on your own,” Jibril of Arabia warns Tobi of Germania. “They will see your blond hair; they will slaughter you!”

  Who are they? I better not ask.

  “Did you visit our refugee camps?” the Olympic Walker asks his Aryan soul mate, as if refugee camps were Disney, a tourist sight not to be missed.

  No, not yet. But I’d love to.

  “Nidal!” Jibril calls one of the lickers, who immediately comes to serve the master. “You arrange for the German to see a refugee camp!”

  Nidal nods in obedience, and then offers me a banana.

  Palestinian bananas, let me tell you, are sweeter than honey. They are not the bananas I know in the States, tasteless and imported. Not at all. These are Holy Bananas, fresh and sacred.

  I bite into the banana, spiritually elated, and Jibril asks: “We have a good German doctor living in Jericho. Good German. Would you like to meet him?”

  This is the last thing I need. Meet a German that Jibril personally knows. God in heaven: I won’t be able to fool a real German with my pure German accent.

  How do I get out of this certain death sentence?

  This Jibril, I think to myself, ain’t no dummy. He is laying a mine under my feet.

  I will need to know how to dance on his soon-to-explode mine.

  How should I handle this?

  Well, like a real Aryan. Tobi the German, an original Aryan, loves German people and will do everything he can to meet them. Yes, I say to Jibril. It would be my honor and pleasure to meet a German doctor who donates his time and expertise to help the Palestinian people.

  At once Jibril tells Nidal to arrange a lunch that will include: Jibril, Tobi, the German doctor plus three more German friends.

  Oh Lord: How many Germans does this Jibril have in store?

  How will I be able to fool four Germans? Allah is great and he will send an angel my way to keep me from the probing eyes of my fellow Germans.

  We reach an intersection, and Jibril asks: “Would you like to turn right, into Jericho, or would you like to keep going for a few more hours?”

  How many hours?

  “Until midnight or, if you prefer, two o’clock in the morning. Whatever you want is okay with me.”

  I think it’s time we see Jericho. It’s the oldest city in the world, I heard people say. Is it true?

  “People say that. Yes.”

  How old is it?

  “Ten thousand years.”

  We should see it!

  “As you want.”

  We turn toward Jericho.

  It’s dark and I can’t see much, but Jibril has a house here, and people there are preparing dinner for us.

  We have been walking for an hour or two, and still have a long way before we reach Jibril’s home.

  A police car passes by and the officer driving it stops to bless Jibril with all the blessings of Allah. Jibril asks him what’s new. The officer gets out of the car and stands next to Jibril. I can only hear a few of the words they exchange, something to do with “the Jews,” but I don’t know in what context.

  Only a
fter the officer has left I ask Jibril what has happened.

  “The Jews asked him why I was walking tonight.”

  We share a laugh about the stupid Jews who don’t understand sports, and keep walking.

  I light up a cigarette.

  Jibril says that I shouldn’t, walking and smoking ain’t the perfect combination. I tell him that I’m addicted, that there’s no chance he could convince me to stop. This is who I am, a Smoking German.

  Standing next to Jibril is a young man, also named Jibril. Jibril the older puts his hand on the arms of Jibril the younger, and they walk together, step by step.

  “His mother named him after me,” Jibril tells me in pride.

  And then General Jibril has an idea, a brilliant one:

  “Your name, from now on, is Abu Ali.”

  I gleefully accept.

  For too long I’ve been playing with names, and I get tired of it. I want to be what I am, live openly with my real name. Abu Ali. It fits me. It’s the perfect name for me. Finally I don’t have to change names any longer. Abu Ali.

  ***

  Jibril and his closest and newest friend, me, Abu Ali, finally reach Jibril’s home – one of Jibril’s homes, to be more exact. Dinner is served. Everything is delicious. Humus, hot peppers, fresh tomatoes, fresh bread, scrambled eggs, tea, coffee, apples, and a host of other goodies.

  “Eat, Abu Ali, eat,” Jibril orders me.

  I do.

  Everything.

  Jibril, on the other hand, eats only vegetables. Tomatoes, cucumbers, onion. The healthy stuff. And halva. Yep. “I need some sweet, Abu Ali,” he says.

  An older man approaches me. “Do you know what ‘Abu Ali’ means?”

  You tell me.

  “The Brave. The Hero.”

  Fits me perfectly!

  All agree.

  What they don’t tell me, and maybe they assume I already know, is which other white man the Palestinians have honored with this very name.

  Adolf Hitler.

  Maybe I should go back to Amos Oz and introduce myself to him by my real name. But not now. Now I eat, and eat and eat. Another pita, and another pita and yet another pita. Abu Ali likes to eat, but Jibril has had enough with his flat food and tries to occupy himself with something tastier. He has a phone and he does what every man and woman without pitas do: he calls somebody. Who? The German doctor. They talk for a minute and Jibril hands me his phone. Jibril wants to hear Abu Ali speak perfect German.