Through a glass

I kissed Chava and the kids goodbye and went to open the caf?. The
joggers pass by, kids work out on the beach - yes, that's the same. But
something is different now, a tension at the base of the skull, an
insistent buzz, a straining to see or feel danger.

I caught Yael practising one morning, walking around the room with his
eyes shut, bumping into things. 'If I can see things without my eyes,
daddy, I can keep us safe'. Seven years old and already he's concerned
to keep us safe, already he's trying to see without his eyes.

I look for men in big coats, women too. I flicker over everyone's eyes.
It's become automatic. In the mornings I'm more aware of it, but at
busy times, when it really matters, I seem to forget. I just hope it is
still there and that I can still see that nameless and terrible thing
if it were to pass before me. Perhaps it has, perhaps it brushed past
me on the way to someone else's caf?, or bar, or market stall.

Old Petya comes in for his morning coffee and takes out a chess set.
Sometimes someone comes for a game, sometimes no one. His opponents of
a few years ago are being replaced by young men, sunburned. I used to
be able to tell the Russians before they said a thing - they had that
dazzled look. Now they look the same as everyone else, now they feel
the same thing.

Filling up now, Dasha arrives with her violin and sets herself up a few
metres away. Petya shuffles over to place a few shekels in her violin
case. Pnina's little daughter climbs out of her stroller and begins to
dance and clap to the music, singing nonsense words.

Rotim has had an argument with her boyfriend. She's off duty and with a
face like thunder, hands tense around her rifle. Tersely she orders an
orange juice. I see Yanir, a few metres behind her, attempting to
convey to me the source of their disagreement with his hands alone. She
turns and scowls, he smirks and scuttles off.

The old gossips take their usual seat - I don't know their names; I
can't get a word in edgeways, but to listen to them is always amusing.
The medical ailments of friends' husbands, the vicissitudes of their
children's married lives, the joy and pain provided plentifully by
their grandchildren. I eavesdrop gently as I clean the tables nearby
and wonder how it is we all make it through this life.

It is then I hear it, like a peal of thunder, the declaration that ends
my life 'Allah Akbar.'

------------------------------

'God is Great', incomparable brightness. End.

It was busy enough, there were many people. God had given me the
strength and the power to bring His judgement upon them and upon me. He
was making me his instrument.

At the last moment I threw off my coat, I saw their faces and I tried
to think of God. For a moment my desire to die wavered. For a moment,
then God gave me strength. I had greeted people on the way, waved to
the shopkeepers to builders who I'd worked with.
To think I built here. They gave us a few hours to go back to the site,
to dig through with my hands, to find my brother's body. He was at home
that day; they had closed his school down without warning, without
reason. Asad - he looked like he was sleeping in the dust. Only the
traces of blood around his mouth and nostrils. No air moved from them.
Mother screamed and fell to the ground - she would not let go of his
cold hand until the last possible moment.

I was already part of the al-Aqsa brigade then. I had thought myself
not worthy of the ultimate task, but Asad had been taken from us before
he was old enough to take the chance to be one of the Blessed. It was
then I knew that I would never forgive them; who could do this except a
people that hated us utterly and would surely be crushed by God?

Our blessed leader was overjoyed, the others delighted. We sang songs
to celebrate my martyrdom. Proud and blessed though I felt, still I
could not tell Husna. I felt she might not understand. I loved Husna,
but perhaps she is not made for the deepest, most powerful feelings.
Sometimes she talked of reconciliation. Poor Husna! That could never
and will never be. I mean nothing as a human being, I am a warrior, one
of countless who will die and die again.

I left with joy in my heart. We had prayed. Majid had strapped the
explosives to me and we prayed again. We rehearsed the plan; others had
gone ahead to check that our route was still clear. Our blessed leader
had cried and kissed me many times, as did my comrades.

It had been very early, still dark. Husna and the children were
sleeping so I had kissed them goodbye silently.