Hesh Kestin - The Siege of Tel Aviv

“Cobi is alive,” he says, almost whispering as though it is a secret that must be kept between them. “Cobi is alive and we will start again, our little family.”

“We’ll start again. With Cobi.”

“With Cobi,” he says, this time not whispering, almost too loudly for the distance between them. “We will start again.”

“We’ll go to the States. Miami. You have an American wife, remember. I’m the most valuable asset that exists in Tel Aviv, an American passport.”

“I have a wonderful American wife,” he says, drawing her close. “And we will build a new life.” His voice drops an octave. “But not in Miami.”

“Darling, there’s nothing here.”

“Not at the moment,” he says.

IN A SHALLOW CAVE in a west-facing slope in the Judean hills, Cobi lies on his back half asleep. The cave is little more than an indentation in the rocks. Clearly Bedouin shepherds used it recently; there is enough dry sheep dung for a fire. This hardly matters. Even had he anything to cook, his father had not brought up an idiot. On the narrow roadway below, Syrian mounted infantry patrol like clockwork day and night, poor military practice because it is predictable, but less predictably helicopters of the Royal Jordanian Air Force—he still has his binoculars, though one lens is shattered—circle overhead from time to time, looking for just such a sign of Israeli stragglers.

Cobi considers there must be small groups of young conscripts like himself who were effectively passed by in the initial onslaught, or farmers, or settlers. One evening, from the mouth of the cave, he sees jeeps enter the settlement on the hill opposite, then hears gunfire: Kalashnikovs, the Russian-manufactured semi-automatic rifles that are coin of the realm in the Arab world. This is not, he knows, the gunfire of battle. There is no returned fire. He sees little, a grove of olive trees covering part of the view, the settlers pre-fab houses and trailers blocking the rest, but he knows what he cannot see. This was the sound of firing squads, a dozen rifles going off at once. The Syrians depart soon after, their vehicles loaded with household goods, pillows, televisions and microwaves, while behind and above them the settlement burns, the smoke of many fires rising in the still air like white pillars stretching to a moon so full it might be not be real. What , he asks himself, is?

He is thinking of that, half-thinking, half-dreaming, and then he hears something move close by, too close. He grabs his rifle and instantly is on one knee, the rifle at his shoulder: At the entrance to the cave, a silhouette.

“Cobi,” the silhouette says in the dulcet Hebrew of a rural Arab. “By all that is holy, kindly endeavor not to kill your friend. It is bad manners. And it causes discomfort in my bladder.”

“Fuck, man. Bang two rocks together four times. How hard is that to remember?”

“You were sleeping.”

“I haven’t slept for a long time.”

The Bedouin enters the cave so that now Cobi can see his face, dark, unshaven, smiling. He drops a plastic-string bag on the cave floor.

“But you eat well.”

“Thanks to you.”

Abed watches the young man tear into the food, homemade pita, white sheep’s milk cheese, onion, tomatoes, and olives. Wrapped in grape leaves, a sticky clump of ripe dates. Those in the palms above them are still green.

From the time the Bedouin found him, unconscious in the grove of palms that had been planted by the settlers from the hill opposite, Abed showed up every day with food and two full plastic liter bottles of water. He brought aspirin, and alcohol to clean Cobi’s wounds. The wounds are superficial, but under present conditions might easily become infected.

When he first came to, the young soldier thought the Bedouin intended to kill him—for his gun, or his boots, or his watch—or turn him over to the enemy for bounty.

The Bedu chuckled at this. “You are my guest,” he said. “And thus your life is my responsibility. I am obligated to protect you.” Very quickly Abed revealed more. For twenty years he was a tracker in the IDF, officially still is, but he burned his sergeant’s uniform and buried his military ID when he saw how the wind was blowing. Should they discover he was not merely another Bedouin shepherd, the Syrians who held this area would rape his wife and kill his children before his own eyes, and then torture him to death with not even so much as a pause to think about it. Syrian hatred for the Bedouins was never a secret, and for those who joined forces with the Zionist enemy there could be no mercy. If Abed is glad of anything it is that his father is no longer among the living. The old man preceded him as an IDF scout, and the entire modus operandi of his life was to find a way to die gloriously. He fought in three wars, the old man, with the decorations to prove it, was wounded twice, almost willfully seeking a glorious death. His father alive would have got them all killed.

Abed considers himself a modern man. He can wait to die. His job is to stay alive in order to protect his family and small clan.

“My father, may he enjoy the fruits of paradise, was pure Bedu,” Abed told his guest in the cave in the first days. “But I am compromised. I have responsibilities.”

“Then you’re foolish to risk your life for a stranger.”

“You are not a stranger. You were, then not.”

That was ten days ago. Sometimes Abed did not show up for extended periods, waiting until it was safe, difficult hours for Cobi as he recuperated from blood loss, shock, fear, and the gnawing perception that it is criminal for a soldier not to be in battle, though where that battle is he does not know. Maybe something happened to Abed, or his protector changed his mind. He knows that as a people the Bedouin are, as a reflection of necessity, not the most consistent of personalities. Perhaps a greater responsibility had presented itself, and Abed chose to protect his family and clan by turning him in. Cobi could understand that. Abed has six children. He loves his wife so much he has not taken another. If it comes to a choice, Cobi will understand. But always Abed returns, twice during the day with a herd of sheep as cover, though mostly by night.

Cobi finishes the bread, vegetables, and cheese and turns to the dates. “Abed,” he says as he chews the sweet fruit he learned in school was the original honey of this land, his land, flowing with the milk of sheep and goats and the honey of dates. “I can’t stay here forever. It’s dangerous for both of us. And I have to get back to my unit.” He pauses. “Any unit.”

“A poor Bedu you’d make. Do you not know patience is a principal virtue of the Bedu?” He grins. “Maybe the only one.”

“What’s it like out there?”

“What is it like? Fucking Syrians steal everything. Last night a patrol took four lambs. Inshallah , to be again in uniform. Some believe we Bedu enlist for money. Cobi, no one can buy the Bedu. For the first time since the prophet, my tribe is not spat upon by Arabs. Why? Because we wear the uniform of the IDF. Why do we do this, work with the Jews? In twenty years no Jew, officer or enlisted, looked down upon me. It is disgusting what has happened.”

“What has happened? Does anyone really know?”

“We will see soon enough. I must get you to Tel Aviv. That is your only chance.”

“And how will you accomplish that? How do we do that if it’s as you say—that the enemy is all over the land. Under every rock. In the shade of every tree. Your words.”

“Fuck words,” Abed says. He pulls from beneath his robes a worn, dusty suit of Bedouin garb, replete with headgear and a pair of battered sandals.