Assaf Gavron - Almost Dead

Zoom in — Palestinians and Israelis.

Zoom in — Orientals and Ashkenazis, right and left. Keep zooming in, to the cities, the quarters, the neighbourhoods, street against street, house against house, flat against flat, husband against wife, brother against brother. Now zoom out, flying fast, with the cacophony speeded up into twittering gibberish, and do it all over again.

I opened my eyes. Another thought fluttered down from the trees and settled in my head. Here is where Tel Aviv ends and Jerusalem begins. This is what I thought. I told myself, again and again. Here is where Tel Aviv ends and Jerusalem begins.

I don’t know how long it took before I returned to the car. Humi still lay on the ground. I heard ambulances arriving. I didn’t know what I should do. Part of me wanted to get into the car and drive away. It was over, and there was nothing I could do to help anyone. The road ahead was clear, except for squad cars and ambulances arriving against the direction of the traffic. Either my ears or phone were ringing. But as I approached the driver’s side, somebody blocked me.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘What “yes, sir?” My phone’s ringing.’

‘You just came from the forest out there, didn’t you?’

I looked back to where I’d come from.

‘What were you doing there?’

I lay on my back and flew out of the atmosphere. What did he want from me? Who was he?

‘Who the hell are you? What…’

‘The question is who are you and what were you doing there?’

I hadn’t even registered that he was a cop. I had to fish out my ID card. He went to his car and confirmed that the car was mine and only then did he let me enter it. I stretched my hand out to the phone and then I saw that its display had been shattered: perhaps I’d heard its final dying cry. Could a telephone be considered a victim of hostilities?

Hostilities — what a word. Did the snipers feel any hostility? I guess they did.

I stood around for several minutes, near more people who were standing around for several minutes. The paramedics did their jobs, and we stood around them and looked bewildered. Many people were on the phone, in the talking-on-the-mobile-after-a-terrorist-attack posture: the phone is pressed against the ear more tightly than usual, than necessary, as if the words coming in are more important on such an occasion, and mustn’t be allowed to escape. A slight bending of the back and the neck thrust forward as if setting oneself to attack an enemy or climb a mountain. The eyebrows frown, the forehead is creased, and the other hand — this is strange — the other hand is always held to the other temple, thumb to ear, fingers over the forehead. Perhaps it’s to listen better, or perhaps it’s a way to cover the eyes in a gesture of ‘Oy vey’. A whole roadful of people gesturing ‘Oy vey’.

The policeman wrote down my details. The ID card was fished out again. I was told I would be invited to give evidence. I signed something. I checked the car. Apart from the shattered rear window and the shards of glass in the back, nothing had happened. Not a bullet, not a scratch, nor even a bloodstain. Even the phone holder hadn’t got a scratch. Only the smell of Humi the soldier, sour sweat mixed with gun oil, lingered in the car. And his gun was still there, too.

I took it out and laid it gently next to Humi’s body. I was beginning to feel the adrenalin of the survivor, the euphoria of the saved. Everybody there was, I think. We were alive! The bodies spread around us, the groans of the wounded, the medics working, the smell of cordite, the ringing in our ears — and we were alive! More alive than we’d ever been. Our bodies were trembling with life, our hearts greedily beating, the blood pumping double speed in our veins. My body was working and warmed up and craving motion. I had to get out of there. I got into the car and drove away at a speed I could scarcely contain, and the radio came on with the engine and took me straight back to the moment before it all started. When was it, an hour ago? The sound of the radio, the way the reception faded and the soldier had said something and then started screaming. I changed to a station from Jerusalem and there it was, of course, the old song of mourning: Bab al-Wad, remember our names for ever, Bab al-Wad, on the way to town . How many times was I going to hear it in the coming days? It occurred to me that every time I heard it from now on, I’d remember Humi.

Either Humi or Giora Guetta. And if them, why not me? If people shoot at each other, blow each other up? You feel your turn waiting for you round the next corner. Yours, or someone you love. It is embodied in the geography. It is encoded in the national genes. With every attack the feeling gets stronger: that the death of someone close to you is getting nearer by the moment: next week, the next street, tomorrow, today, and then suddenly it’s right there. You imagine the mourning, the funeral, the pain, the request to say a few words. What are you going to say? How much better than you with words the deceased always was, how eloquent and funny and unafraid of public speaking? Maybe just stick to that, and not too heavy on the clichés, please. And after the funeral — the rehabilitation, the getting-over-the-pain, the guilt after spending a whole day not thinking about them, the guilt after you laugh again without restraint; the guilt when you’re enjoying wild sex or daydreaming or just returning to life. But who was this person I was thinking of? I couldn’t make out their face. Bab al-Wad, on the way to town.

I opened the door to my parents’ house and silently eased myself in. I ate everything in the refrigerator. I didn’t realise how hungry I was. Or how tired. In my childhood room, wrapped in sheets smelling of my childhood, my stomach filled with the food of my childhood, I finally slept, and the last thing I thought before I lost consciousness was: I’m still alive.

‘ Is the ice ready, Svetlana? ’

‘ Yes, Dr Hartom .’

Ice?

‘ We’re going to do an EVM test today. Torch, please .’

Oh, please, not the torch! Not the…aaiiii!

‘ Good. Verbalism? Talking? Any of that in the last days? Clap your hand next to his ear, please. Thanks. And the other one. Thanks. Hold this card in front of his eyes. Yes. And this one .’

‘ Sometimes, when he’s angry, he makes these gurgling sounds and twists his face… ’

Goddam you, you Jewish bitches. Can you not shut up for one second?

‘ Here! Exactly like this, Doctor! ’

‘ I see. Mmm…impressive reactions to loud sounds. And these movements too? Bending the shoulders, converging? ’

‘ Converg…what? Sorry, I don’t understand… ’

‘ Ice, please .’

Fuck this ice. Fuck this…aaaiiiiii!!

‘ Nice. Very nice. His EVM is up a bit. Maybe we’re seeing a little improvement. Continue with the therapy as before. Deep massaging, muscle movements… ’

‘ Yes, yes, of course .’

Oh, you gang of whores…

If this dream is never-ending then I’m in hell. But I’m not here. I’m floating in the sea. I’m riding a white horse. I’m in a car with the Croc, holding an apple.

Bilahl wanted more. He wanted bigger. Halil Abu-Zeid, on the other hand, was careful. He was worried. He knew the Israelis were furious. The smallest error and they would attack with all their claws unsheathed. The night’s events revolved endlessly through my mind, trapped in there perhaps because I couldn’t share them: the walk, the smells, our eyrie on the ridge, the waiting, the bus climbing up the slope in the far lane, the three minutes when it seemed as if my body was one huge shuddering heartbeat. I thought of Grandfather Fahmi, and of Mother. Abu-Zeid told us to keep our heads down for a week. But Bilahl wanted to get going.