Robert Tanenbaum - Counterplay

However, her eldest brother, Jamal, had joined the Palestinian Liberation Organization, promising his worried parents that he was working for a “political solution” to create a Palestinian state and wouldn’t get involved in the violence. Ten years older, strong and handsome, he’d been his little sister’s hero, carrying her around on his shoulders whenever he came home, saying it was practice for the celebration on the day of liberation. But then there’d been the terrible night when a man from Arafat’s office arrived to tell the family that Jamal had been killed by Israeli soldiers near the border with Syria.

The Israelis claimed that Jamal had been part of a team that had tried to ambush one of their patrols and had been killed in the fire-fight. The family was sure the Zionists were lying; Jamal had promised them that he was working for a peaceful resolution. Nevertheless, the next day the tanks with the blue Star of David on their turrets had roared into the Palestinian enclave accompanying a bulldozer. The family was allowed only ten minutes to pack up their meager belongings before their home was razed as punishment for Jamal.

Suddenly, the family found themselves out on the streets-sometimes living in the van, other times with friends for a day or two. The situation grew worse when Nathalie’s mother was fired from her job by her Israeli employer because of her dead son’s activities. Humiliated that without his wife’s income, he was unable to support his family, her father loaded them into the van one night and left for a refugee camp just inside the Jordanian border. He was sure that the taxi business would be better and they would not have to live humiliated among their former neighbors.

Nathalie was twelve years old when Jamal died and she went with her family-her father, mother, and younger brother, Ishmael-to live in the rat’s maze of the refugee camp. They were fortunate to get an apartment in one of the insect-and-rat infested cinder-block government housing projects-the four of them crowded into a single room with blankets strung up for privacy. But they were lucky; many others lived under whatever roof of wood or tin they could scrounge up.

The taxi business wasn’t much better, but somehow they managed to survive for the next six years. Yet, fate was not through kicking the Habibi family. On a visit back to the West Bank to visit friends and relatives, Ishmael was arrested when an inspection at the border of the VW van-which had been loaned for the trip-uncovered a box of detonators packed inside a crate of oranges.

Though Ishmael denied knowing the detonators were in the crate, he was taken to an Israeli prison to await trial. But he’d died before he ever saw a judge. A virulent strain of pneumonia, the Israelis said. Another lie, thought the distraught family. Adding insult to injury, the Israelis had confiscated the van. The taxi business was no more.

It had been too much for her mother, who could not get over the deaths of her sons and the loss of her home. She lay down to sleep one night complaining of a headache and didn’t wake up the next morning. A stroke, said the doctor. But her family knew that her death was due to a broken heart.

Upon the death of his wife, Nathalie’s father had essentially given up as well. He spent his days begging for money to buy hashish to deaden his pain and railing against the “Zionist pigs.” He paid little attention to the comings and goings of his remaining child, until one evening, while crossing the street in a daze, he was struck by, ironically, a speeding taxi and killed.

Just nineteen years old, Nathalie burned with a desire for vengeance against the Israelis. As she got older, she became enamored with the poetry and writings of Samira Azzam that exposed the “liar claims” of the Jews to Palestine. She swore that she would carry on her hero’s struggle, but with guns and bombs, not words. Soon after her father’s death, when a recruiter from Hamas came to the camp looking for young people willing to kill and die for Allah, she’d eagerly signed up.

Nathalie, who took the name Samira Azzam when she swore to give her life to jihad, grew into a beautiful woman on the outside. Only a large mole on her right cheek marred her perfection, but even that seemed only to make her other attributes-the green eyes, olive skin, thick dark hair, and perfect body-stand out all the more. But inside there was little room for anything but hatred. Early on, she hoped to be granted the honor of blowing herself up in the middle of a crowd of Jews. However, a Hamas leader had taken a fancy to her and, under the guise of “training” for important missions, also took her virginity. He smiled whenever she begged istish-haad and promised that her time would come, but for now she should accept whatever role she was given. She was, after all, a woman and therefore subject to the commands of men.

This went on for a year before Nathalie/Samira found a way to pursue her dream. The man’s wife received an anonymous letter telling her of the affair. He suspected that his young lover had sent the letter herself, but regardless he had no choice but to send Azzam away. He arranged for her passage to an al Qaeda training camp in Afghanistan, allowing himself a certain satisfaction in knowing that his betrayer would probably not be long for the world. Too bad, he thought. A wonderful body, but there will be other young desert flowers to nurture.

Azzam turned her hatred into her motivating force to learn martial arts, especially the killing techniques, as well as weapons training. She’d excelled and soon returned to Jordan. There she led sorties into Israel and detonated roadside bombs to kill passing Israeli army patrols. She also ambushed a school bus full of Israeli children.

The first time she’d seen a dead child as a result of her work, Azzam experienced a curious regret. The lifeless eyes of the child, the strangely pale skin, and blue lips had haunted her sleep. Once, the face had been that of her brother, Ishmael, and for the first and last time she’d questioned the morality of her actions. But then she’d remembered that Ishmael had died at the hands of the Israelis, and she’d quickly suppressed any more feelings of remorse. After all, she reasoned, her own childhood had been destroyed by the Israelis, why shouldn’t their children suffer, too. There are casualties in every war, she told herself and thought no more of it.

The only downfall to her new path was that she was still alive. Several times, she’d accompanied some young man to the entrance of a disco or shopping mall, and then waited at a safe distance, listening with envy for the sound of the explosion, the screams, and the wailing of the ambulances.

After a time, Azzam learned that she was to be arrested by authorities in Jordan who were under pressure from the United States and Israel to crack down on militants coming over the border. She’d fled only minutes before the Jordanian secret police kicked down the door of her apartment. Watching the agents rush her building, she’d listened for the “CRUMP” of the booby-trapped land mine she’d set and then left the country.

She’d arrived back at the training camp in Afghanistan, where she’d been noticed by a high-ranking lieutenant in the al Qaeda organization who took her under his wing and into his bed. Hamas has grown soft, he said. Now they talk about negotiating with the enemy. All they care about is a Palestinian state. Their leaders fail to understand the big picture of Islamic jihad and the drastic measures and sacrifices it will take to achieve a world-encompassing Islamic state. Join us, Samira, and you will find the martyrdom you seek.

Tired of being put off from her destiny by the leadership of Hamas, disgusted by the “peace talks,” and flattered by the offer, Azzam switched her allegiance. She liked how her new masters thought in terms of big blows against the infidels, right where they lived-not these insignificant attacks on the Israelis, who merely picked up the pieces, retaliated against some Palestinian neighborhood, and then moved on. She hoped someday she would be allowed to lead such a mission, so she remained with her current mentor/lover.