David Grossman - Sleeping on a Wire - Conversations with Palestinians in Israel

Their faces are now close to each other. Their hands, waving excitedly, hit one another, and at times intertwine for a moment. Both are solidly built, with black hair and tough faces. Both look older than they are. Mohammed is about fifty, balding a bit, more careful with his words. Every so often he throws out a bit of legal jargon at Jojo in a lawyerly tone, looking at him over his glasses, putting on a tolerant and didactic expression. It drives Jojo crazy.

Jojo, thirty-eight, is in a blue undershirt and shorts. His sunglasses remain glued to his forehead even when he jumps up in indignation. He has lived on the beach since he was four years old—“Everything I know about life is from the sea.” In his youth he was a violent criminal, terrorizing this beach until he won himself a place and was pacified. Ever since his appearance on television, politicians from all parties have been courting him, and he, “even though I’ve been Likud from my mother’s womb,” meets with them all, listens, gives advice — lively, heart-winning, knowing well that they all think that through him they have gained a direct linkup to “the people’s voice.” His face has infinite expressions, and he talks in a very loud voice, at a shout, taking control of the conversation, hyperemotional, undulating like a cat across the table from Mohammed, ambushing words and arguments. He manages the entire beach as he debates — giving advice to a young soccer player who approaches him, giving a contribution to a needy family, trading secrets with a party activist — a one-man band.

The two minutes passed. The conversation lasted close to four hours, and in the process it slowly became clear to both sides how much trouble they were having bridging the gap between them. It was easy for the onlooker to realize that, despite the goodwill, their first line of defense was also their last. Jojo would never give up Israel as the Jewish state; Mohammed would never retreat from his goal of full equal rights with Jojo — that is, that Israel be “a country of its citizens” and not “the country of the Jewish people.”

As this became apparent, the two of them became impatient, trying to catch hold of each other, to put it into other words, words that would circumvent an abyss. They did not want the victor in this confrontation to be familiar political differences. They wanted victory to go to those nameless things whose potency and insistence could be felt when Jojo’s and Mohammed’s faces came close together — that same link of expression and warmth, the mirror dialogue of mimicry, and the hidden thing that synchronized the two of them, as in a ceremonial warriors’ dance. It was easy to imagine them changing roles and arguing, in an opposite state of affairs — each one making the other’s points with the same fervor.

Mohammed: “The truth, Jojo: you too have suffered discrimination during your life in Israel, right?”

“Suffered?” Jojo guffaws. “I grew up on discrimination. I grew up on inequality. I grew up with the word ‘Moroccan.’ I grew up with everything you’ve felt. Compared with the Ashkenazim, I was discriminated against here, too.”

“So you are the first one who should understand the violent response of the Palestinians in the territories, and the desire of the Arabs in Israel for equality.”

“No, no,” Jojo rebuffed him. “Me, my whole outlook now is against violence. Ask why. Because all violence brings counter-violence. Mohammed tells me, ‘You’re strong in your country and weak in the Middle East.’ But the Arabs are strong in the Middle East and weak in the world. The world, pal, is built like a ladder. For every strong man there’s someone stronger than him, and what we’re talking about is not how to be strong but how to reach an understanding. So that I can turn my back to you and sleep peacefully, and you the same. Look, Mohammed, for instance, wanted to be a lawyer. The country didn’t try to trip him up, he went and learned law…”

“It certainly did try to trip me up!” Mohammed shot him down. “I’ll give you a simple example. When I was studying they put me, in my second year, before exams, on house arrest, to keep me from passing the exams. I stayed at home for an entire year just for having quote unquote ‘dared to protest’ the injustices we spoke of before.”

“But you studied and finished and became a lawyer, right? They didn’t even give me the option you had! That is, between Jojo and Mohammed, Jojo was the one more discriminated against!”

“Look, Jojo. The Sephardim were discriminated against and are still discriminated against. When I was in school, it hurt me to see that less than 1 percent of the students in the university were Arabs, and the same for the Sephardim!”

“Not only in the university! Also in the officer corps, and in the government!”

“It’s very interesting how and why they block cooperation between the Sephardim and the Arabs here, even though, from a theoretical point of view, logic says that both of us, the underdogs, should work together. Let me remind you that here in your Ashdod the government — indirectly but deliberately — uses the Sephardim against us, and when there’s an Arab attack against Israelis, it’s you who go out to beat up the poor Arab laborers! You, the Sephardim! In my opinion, the response of the Sephardim, so hostile to the Arabs, derives first from them not having been given an education. They were not given a chance to study. They’re a simple, unsophisticated public, and when the newspaper headlines and the radio stir them up — and that’s directed very well from above — that public gets hot and blows up. Second — discrimination. You and I, Jojo, both our groups get screwed here in this country, because of the historical reality that the early waves of immigration were Ashkenazim, and after a period of hardship here, they became the ones who eat the cream. Then you became disadvantaged, and it’s well known that the disadvantaged — it’s very simple — wants to compensate himself by discriminating against others.”

“I don’t agree!” Jojo jumped up from his seat. “Take the most extreme anti-Arab movements we have, Kahane and the Moledet Party who want to transfer all the Arabs out of Israel, in all their hierarchies you’ll hardly find a single Sephardi! The entire leadership is Ashkenazim! Americans! So tell me, how can that be? Where’s your theory? Listen to me, Mohammed, don’t go looking for university explanations. When it’s a matter of life or death, there aren’t any Ashkenazim and there aren’t any Sephardim. Everyone comes together. Just as an Arab from Sudan hates me when I send my army into Lebanon, we’re all against you when you butcher one of us. And precisely because you and I have the same mentality, you should understand that, and I’ll explain to you: Our behavior, Mohammed, will be different from Grossman’s in many ways, different from the Ashkenazi’s. If he has a guest who comes in and talks to his wife, it won’t bother him at all. If a guest comes and talks with my wife, he’ll never enter my house again! That means with us, with you and with me, my wife, and to put it more generally, my honor, is a higher priority than my work, before everything. With the Ashkenazi, no. First his work, first advancement. With us, a guest comes to my house, even if two hours beforehand he ran over my son, the minute he comes to my house, first I welcome him in. I’ll get him afterward — but that’s separate. Our commitment is to honor. Our mentality all plays accompaniment to the first violin — our honor. And I, Jojo Abutbul, don’t hate Arabs, but I would make a law that every Arab who throws a stone in the intifadah should be shot. Because for me the act of throwing a stone is not just throwing a stone. I’m not afraid of a stone!” Jojo shouts, the veins in his neck bulging. “But with me, in Morocco, who do you throw stones at? At a dog! At a snake! It insults me! I’m not his dog, not his snake! And don’t forget, Mohammed, that same stone you throw at us today, we grow up with it, we remember it!”