Raba'i al-Madhoun - The Lady from Tel Aviv

I went from the baggage inspection to another kind of inspection, this one performed by a handsome, well-dressed young man who asked me, with excessive politeness, to step away from my bags. He said he would go through them item by item and that he would personally put everything back in its place when he was through. He wiped down everything in my bag, and put the device on my passport as well — perhaps to search for anthrax spores in the pages inside.

All that took two hours. And then there was an additional hour of waiting in front of another window for my exit visa.

I was able to sit by myself on the airplane. I did not have to sit there feeling like I was under surveillance by the person sitting next to me. The five hours went by without any Dana Ahova. No drama, no sobbing. I spent most of the time finishing Cruel Weddings . Little Ludo grows up inside a sanatorium. In my mind, I compare it to the mental institution I just left. I am grateful that my sanity is still intact.

When I arrive home, Julie is there waiting for me with open arms. She hugs me tightly, and in her arms the three weeks of separation dissolve. I tell her about my mother and about everyone else, conveying their greetings, hugs and kisses. I promise to fill her in later about everything that happened during my trip, including how the experience messed with my novel. I tell her about the surprise meeting with Adel El-Bashity.

Later, I check my emails and see that on the morning I left Gaza, I had received a second email from Dana. In it, she tells me she is returning to London in two days to attend a ‘Jewish documentary film festival’, and that if I am free, she would enjoy meeting up with me.

Then she continues: if we are to meet again, she must tell me something very important. And she writes:

Meeting you on the plane was the first time I’d ever spoken to a Palestinian up close. I could not say what I wanted to say then, so I write to you now. Maybe you noticed my reaction when you told me you were on your way to Gaza.

I wanted to tell you what I know of Gaza. First let me tell you a little more about Dani, who left me and Israel as you know, but also left me a great experience at the time. Dani was drafted into the IDF. The idea of facing off against rock-throwing kids every day made him crazy. He wrote to me: ‘Why do we go on prolonging this occupation, and until when? Has anyone ever been able to occupy another country for ever?’ I admit that his words touched something deep in me.

When I heard about the incident at the Erez crossing, I wondered where you were and sent you that last email. Your fleeting ghost carried me back to the time of my military service. Like Dani, in a way. You see, I, too, was in the army. I, too, went to Gaza. I will never forget it, my night at the Amal Refugee camp: it is burnt into my memory.

On the evening I am speaking about, just before nightfall, I left the base to catch a breath of fresh air. The afternoon was perfect. I watched the sun disappear behind sand dunes, dragging along behind it the last rays of orange light. My friend Pinchas suddenly appeared from a long way off, gripping in one hand the strap of his leather shoulder bag, and in the other he carried his gun. I went back to the base to tell Eila, another soldier and Pinchas’ girlfriend, that he had returned from Natanya. She was cleaning a rifle. She put it down and rushed out to meet him.

About 10am the next day, demonstrations broke out in the Amal camp near the base. They came right up to where we were. And suddenly rocks began to rain down on us. Pinchas was hit in the head with a stone. We told him to get to the clinic, which was right there, but instead he opened up with his gun, firing live rounds right into the crowd. A girl fell to the ground not far from where we were. The crowd split as everyone began to run back to the camp.

Without thinking, I ran to the girl. I bent over her and took her pulse. Immediately I realized that I was too late.

She was twelve.

A few days later, we were surprised to learn that Pinchas had been transferred to the Golan Heights. Eila began to lose it. When the girl was killed, she had had no problem keeping it together, but now she went berserk. As Eila started looking for ways to join her boyfriend in the Golan, I started looking for a way out of that madness. I lost both Pinchas and Eila on that ugly morning, and I began to think I would lose myself too if I stayed. The spectre of the girl began to follow me everywhere. And inside me, a voice began to cry out, the voice of the girl asking me: Why didn’t you stop him? Weren’t you standing right next to him? Why didn’t you take his gun away?

I made the decision to get out of the Gaza Strip then and there. I demanded a transfer anywhere. I was ready to do anything, anything to get out of Gaza.

That’s it. Now I’ve told you.

Dana

Walid looks at the monitor for a long time before replying. Dana’s story does not shock him. In fact, he thinks, it seems to logically follow — or precede — the long story she had recounted on the flight to Tel Aviv, about her relationship with the Ukrainian she named ‘Dani’. It also follows the cold logic of the country Dana calls home …

He sends her a reply, but only to suggest a meeting the day after her arrival, in the evening at an Italian restaurant in Southbank Centre. On his way to work next morning he receives an email from Dana in return, warmly welcoming his invitation and saying she’s looking forward to meeting him again. Neither of them has mentioned this new long story she has just told him; neither of them has to.

The following day, Walid finishes work just before 6 pm. Leaving his office, he walks past Green Park Station toward Piccadilly Circus. He enjoys watching the evening descend gently across the city, and feels as though he is seeing the beauty of twilight for the first time. He catches glimpses of faces in the street crowds. He arrives at Piccadilly Circus and descends the stairs into the Underground. He hears footsteps behind him, and voices that seem to call him, and he falters and turns around: there are only two girls there, dragging heavy suitcases on rollers and speaking loudly.

He sprints down the remaining stairs toward the platform, and leaps into the carriage. The doors close and the train begins to speed out of the station. Within seconds, the dark tunnel has swallowed Walid.