Matt Rees - A grave in Gaza

On Rafah’s main street, Omar Yussef leaned out of the UN Suburban’s window to ask directions to the Salah home. He breathed a hot gust of dirt and cleared his throat, as he beckoned to a young man sheltering in the doorway of a hardware store. The man crossed the sidewalk slowly, hands in the pockets of his jeans and shoulders hunched under the red-checkered keffiyeh he had wrapped around his neck as a muffler. He glanced past Omar Yussef to Cree, who stared ahead.

“Where is the house of Lieutenant Fathi Salah?” Omar Yussef said.

“The martyr Salah?”

Omar Yussef thought he detected a smile around the ends of the man’s mouth. “That’s right.”

“It’s near the border at the far end of town.” The young man leaned his head inside Omar Yussef’s window as he gave his directions, avoiding the swirling dirt.

Cree groaned in concert with the growling gears of the Suburban, as he ground the car down a sandy lane and came to a halt behind the house where Fathi Salah had lived. He tugged on the handbrake, cut the engine and let his grip on the steering wheel relax for the first time in half an hour. “I bet you thought we wouldn’t make it, eh?” he said.

“Since when did a blow to the head and a mere sandstorm halt the Royal Scots?” Omar Yussef said.

“All right, so I’m a former military man who’s too pig ignorant to know when to quit. What’s your excuse for persisting?”

“I’m a Palestinian. I’m accustomed to eating crap.”

The Salah house stood alone across a small expanse of ground, a two-story block in unfinished concrete. On the roof, rusting rebar protruded from the supporting pillars like tufts of unruly hair, waiting for the addition of another floor. The silvery matte leaves of a few olive trees waved above the garden wall. In the lee of the wall, the black canvas awning of the family’s mourning tent whipped in the wind. It was two days since the funeral of Lieutenant Salah and the tent was empty, except for one old man.

Omar Yussef struggled toward the tent, his shoes filling with sand that scratched through his light cotton socks. The wind was hot after the cool of the car and he narrowed his eyes. Under the awning, the wind dropped, but he still tasted dirt on his tongue as he greeted the old man. Cree came up beside him, ducking under the edge of the tent.

The old man sat, neat and small, on one of the dirty white plastic garden chairs lined around the edges of the awning. He covered his face with the tail of his keffiyeh, wrapping it below his eyes to protect his nose and mouth from the dust. His eyes were brown and mournful and his handshake was limp. He stepped to the garden gate and called a name that was lost in the wind. While the man’s back was to him, Omar Yussef removed his shoes and tipped their sandy contents outside the tent. The old man rearranged his long, grubby white jalabiya and lifted it a little from the hips so that he could sit comfortably.

At the center of the tent, a small square of stones hedged a pile of burning coals and wood. The wood smoke made the dusty air acrid. A copper coffee pot, ornate and blackened, rested among the coals.

Along the garden wall behind the old man, posters announced the heroic death of Lieutenant Fathi Salah. A photo of the officer’s darkly threatening face was juxtaposed with an image of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. Fathi Salah was extolled as a martyr in a brief, devout panegyric across the top of the sheet. The corner of one of the posters flapped in the wind, a frenzied tenor counterpoint to the rumbling bass of the awning.

A teenage boy emerged from the garden and poured coffee from the blackened pot into tiny plastic cups and handed them to Omar Yussef and Cree. Omar Yussef enjoyed the brief hit of bitterness, clearing the dirt in his mouth. He turned to the old man and offered his wish that Allah should show mercy to the deceased.

The old man nodded and mumbled acceptance, removing the keffiyeh politely from his face.

“We’re looking for the father of Lieutenant Fathi Salah,” Omar Yussef said.

“I’m his father.”

“Your name, dear sir?”

“Zaki Salah. Abu Fathi.”

Omar Yussef repeated his wish for the protection of the deceased and once more it was accepted.

“Brother Abu Fathi, we’re here to discover the truth about your son’s death. We hope in that way to free our friend who has been kidnapped by the Saladin Brigades. He will be freed, if Bassam Odwan is released. We want to be sure of the circumstances of your son Fathi’s death.”

“It’s well known,” Zaki Salah whispered.

“Odwan denies that he killed Fathi.”

“That’s a lie. It has been investigated.”

“What did the investigators discover?”

“Exactly the story that was in the newspapers. Fathi was ordered to arrest the criminal Odwan. During the arrest, Odwan shot Fathi and fled. Fathi died instantly. Soon after, Odwan was arrested. Now he will face the death penalty, as is appropriate for a cold-blooded killer.” Zaki Salah’s eyes were angry and wet.

Omar Yussef watched those eyes. He didn’t want to push the bereaved man, but he felt the pressure of time. “Odwan says he went to meet Fathi, because Fathi wanted to sell something to the Saladin Brigades.”

“How do you know what Odwan says?”

“We went to see him.”

“At the jail?”

Omar Yussef nodded. Zaki Salah shook his head. The old man’s lips were a thin, bitter line. He stood. “Come with me.”

Omar Yussef put his coffee cup on the chair next to him. Cree rose.

“Just you, ustaz,” Zaki Salah said.

Cree sat, with a look of relief.

Zaki Salah led Omar Yussef through the garden. The wind slapped the olive branches against the wall. As they entered the house, the dirt in the air was overcome by the warm, rich scent of foule. The smell of the vinegary fava-bean mash made him wish to be in his own home, with appetizing aromas drifting to him as Maryam prepared lunch.

Salah shuffled down the corridor, his sandals slapping the cheap tiles. He was probably no older than Omar Yussef, but he moved even slower and was slightly bent at the waist.

In the sitting room, Zaki Salah stood before three degree certificates mounted on the wall in gaudy gold and silver frames. He lifted a dark, wrinkled finger and pointed at the first of them.

“This is the degree my son Fathi obtained from al-Azhar University. He studied political science,” Zaki Salah said. “Why would a man with a university degree and a good position in the security forces make shady deals in the night with a criminal like Odwan?”

Omar Yussef stepped closer to the wall and adjusted the bent frame of his glasses. He read the other two degree certificates. The first was a Bachelor’s in political science awarded to someone named Yasser Salah; the second, a law degree earned by the same man. Both were inscribed with the crest of al-Azhar University, the dome and minarets of a mosque set against an open book. “Who is Yasser Salah?” he asked.

“My other son. He’s an officer, too.”

“In which security force?”

“Yasser’s in the Preventive Security.” Zaki Salah tapped the frame of the last certificate on the wall. “After he obtained his second degree, he was promoted to captain.”

“Congratulations.” Omar Yussef paused. “Abu Fathi, the Saladin Brigades has demanded Odwan’s release.”

“It’s against all laws of justice.”

“But the Saladin Brigades are very powerful.”

“My son was part of the security forces. They’re very powerful, too.”

“Do you believe General Husseini will execute Odwan, even if it brings him into conflict with the Brigades?”

“I demand the death penalty. If Husseini is weak and releases him, I will kill Odwan.”