20
Back in Wilmington, after settling into the autumn semester’s routine, I walked into a classroom in Morton Hall one morning and sat amidst my creative writing students. I placed a cell phone on the conference table and announced to the assembled masses, “I just want you guys to know, before we start, that I may be getting a call from Israel that I have to take. Probably won’t, but it’s due, so I apologize in advance if it happens.”
Weeks earlier, Leah’s translator, Mariam, had written to me, reporting that the family had visited Mohammad in prison. They had asked pointedly about my request to meet with him. He had responded, and they had in turn relayed his response to Mariam, hoping it would be passed along to me:
at first Mohammad was hesitant and did not under stand why someone whom he has hurt would want to meet him but then as they discussed your visit and told him about your intention which is reconciliation, he agreed so Mohammad is more than willing to meet with you
The words felt true, they felt honest, that this man wouldn’t understand my request, that he would have been perplexed as his mother pleaded with him to meet with me, to meet with someone who should want him dead. I imagined his mother crying, begging, Mohammad having already caused too much pain for her, for the family, and him leaning into the glass and agreeing to do it, saying, “I’ll meet with him,” even if he didn’t mean it, even if they were just words to pacify a broken mother, to make her stop sobbing. It didn’t matter. Regardless of his intention or sincerity, I believed the words were spoken – “Mohammad is more than willing to meet.”
I decided to hold him to it. I decided to believe in the possibility of holding him to it by making two determinations:
1. Armed with new evidence to wave at the Ministry of Public Security, I would re-open my request for a meeting, asking for Israeli authorities to check with Mohammad again.
2. It was time to return to Israel.
My students gave me curious looks as I tried to focus on the task of teaching, unable to help but wonder what the complexion of this trip to Israel would look like, the complexion of which I wouldn’t know until the final verdict on my request came from the Ministry of Public Security. The verdict I had been expecting. The verdict my cell phone was anticipating. My students wanted it to vibrate. They wanted it to dance on the faux oak tabletop and interrupt class. They wanted it to sing.
“If they call, are you going to speak in Hebrew?”
“That would be so cool.”
“Say something in Hebrew right now.”
I told them to shut their mouths – stohm et ha’peh – which they found exceedingly entertaining, before beginning to workshop an essay written by Alice, a thirty-something single mom doing her best to juggle school and life among beach-clinging sorority girls and surfers. Ten minutes into a discussion on the structural integrity of her piece, the phone buzzed. I scanned the incoming number.
“Guys, I’m so sorry.” Everyone smiled.
“Hello?”
A woman on the other end spoke in Hebrew. “David, this is Hadar Cohen from the Ministry of Public Security.”
“Hello Hadar.”
“David, I’m calling about your request to meet with the prisoner.”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid it has been denied again. The prisoner has refused to meet.”
“He has.”
“Yes, David. I’m very sorry about this. If there is anything I can do, I will try to help.”
“But I’ve spoken with the family of the prisoner. They say he wants to meet. How am I supposed to view what you’ve told me?”
“I don’t know what to say about that. It has been passed on to me, to tell you, that the prisoner has refused, and that no meeting can take place without his approval.”
“Why not?”
“It is a law.”
“Is there anything I can do differently?”
“You could try sending him a letter, maybe?”
“To the prisoner?”
“Yes.”
“Through the Prison Service?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so. Listen, this is what I’ve decided. I’m going to travel to Israel anyway, and I want to meet with people to learn firsthand what I might be able to do. Can you arrange a meeting for me with someone from the Prison Service?”
“Umm. I can try to do this, yes. When do you plan on traveling?”
“The first week of December. It would be much appreciated if you could do that. Oh, and I also want to meet with someone from the Ministry of Public Security. Maybe I can meet with you?”
“You want to meet with me? Why?”
“To talk about things I can do while I’m there.”
“David, I would be happy to meet with you. But I’m not the right person – I don’t know if there will be anything I can do.”
“That’s fine. I just want you to show me in person that my request has been rejected. I just want to see the written denial. Do you have a file?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been told by my superior.”
“Avi Dicter?” I asked, referring to the Minister of Public Security and one of the most prominent politicians in Israel. The line was silent.
“Never mind. Can I send you an email to review what we’ve discussed about my trip and everything?”
“Of course, David.”
“Great. I’ll also give you the details of my travel schedule once it is set.”
“Okay, David. Is there anything else I can do?”
“No. Thanks for calling and helping again. I appreciate your efforts.”
“I’m happy to help.”
“Okay. Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
I closed the phone and returned to the world of perplexed undergraduates watching me.
“That was Hebrew?”
“Yes.”
“Cool. What did they say?”
“That they were happy to help.”
Happy to help. No government official in Israel has ever, since its formation as a bureaucratic state, been happy to help. Even on the rare occasions when someone actually is happy to help, culturally it is a requirement to feign displeasure and boredom. This isn’t meant as derogatory – it’s simply the way things operate, generally. (There’s a reason Israelis collectively have referred to themselves for some time as Sabras – prickly cacti that have a sweet pulp hidden beneath a rough exterior.) It’s not really all that surprising once you get to know the country, which is, in essence, one large, dysfunctional family – for Jews, at least – the family that survived Nazi Germany, pogroms, and global anti-Semitism to arrive on a sliver of land where they now fight simultaneously for survival and the right to a good wireless plan. Combine Old World Jews, with their shtetls and collective traumas, with Middle Eastern disorganization and machismo, and you have the foundation for a maddening, twenty-first-century techno-village filled with God’s chosen clan, my clan, a clan I know fairly well. So when, after the hundreds of emails I’d brazenly sent to Hadar – functioning as continuous taps on the shoulder, waiting for her to turn around and respond – she said dryly, “I’m happy to help,” the words dripped with irony. And it was this irony that made me suspicious. Which words were true? Was she happy to help? Had Mohammad refused to meet? Had the Israel Prison Service refused to ask him? The answer alone wasn’t particularly important, except that it directly impacted my ability to attain a meeting with Mohammad, a chance to face him and ask, Why? To trade justice for truth.
After hanging up with Hadar and finishing my class, I headed to a computer lab on campus, resolved to begin choreographing my trip to Israel, hoping to find a path toward some elusive and blurry idea of reconciliation.
If I can’t face Mohammad, I want to meet the family, I thought, remembering Leah’s words, the family welcoming my efforts with open arms, inviting me to visit them, an invitation I was now eager to accept. I sat down and composed a letter to Mariam, asking if she could try to arrange a visit, and if so, whether she would be my interpreter in the event the Odehs actually meant it. A few days later, I had my response:
david i am glad you are coming and of course i will be with you …
i contacted the family again
mohammad has no objection what so ever to meet with you and talk
you are more than welcome to visit the family in december
i am planning to spend my xmas in egypt but do hope to be here when you come as i am personally looking forward to meet you
anyway i am now sure that the family and mohammad want to meet you and i dont know why the prison keeps giving a negative response
take care
Mariam