Commune of Women (28 page)

“‘Also, evangelical churches from America have been using the Copts to proselytize among the Muslim majority and this is causing widespread and explosive anger, both because of the unpopularity of America in general and because changing religions is considered to be a grave disrespect to Mohammed. There are numerous instances of Muslims who converted being killed. Random violence against Copts is increasing, as well.

“‘Also, Jamal explained to me that in some villages, young Coptic girls are kidnapped and forcibly married to Muslims, and appeals to the authorities to find the missing girls are rarely followed up, nor are strong penalties for abduction enforced.

“‘These are the tensions that grew to surround the Faleh family who had lived a peaceful pastoral existence on their lands for generations. In 2001, their fields were seized by the government and parceled out to relocated Muslims from the Cairo area. Numerous complaints to the government failed to bring restitution.

“‘Then, in 2002, two events brought disaster to Jamal’s family: his grandfather, the patriarch of the family, was caught grazing his sheep on his ancestral lands and was summarily beaten almost to death. Shortly thereafter, Jamal’s sister, Yasmin, was kidnapped and forcibly married to one of the Muslim intruders – an action that the family, quite justifiably, considered as rape.

“‘The Faleh family assembled and marched, en masse, to retrieve the girl, armed with pitchforks, shepherd’s crooks and shovels. They were met by unequal force, however. The new settlers had guns and, in the melee that ensued, the entire Faleh family, including the kidnapped girl, was massacred. Jamal, who was home on vacation from his first year at university in Alexandria, was the sole survivor.

“‘Although badly injured, he had the presence of mind to play dead and then, in the night, to crawl away and take refuge with the Bedouins, who nursed him back to health. Through the intervention of one of the evangelical churches active in the area, he was able to come to the U.S. on an academic visa, and that is how he came to be one of founding members of the Kultur Klub.

“‘He has survived a terrible physical and psychological calamity. And yet, Jamal is emotionally open and sensitive to the stories of the other members. Often, it is Jamal who leaps into the fray to calm arguments and to insist on the efficacy of peaceful communication.

“‘Although he was slow to share this part of himself, it gradually became known that Jamal is a poet. Only once was I able to convince him to recite for the Klub and it did not go well. Ibrahim was a disruptive influence, whispering and nudging the fellow members to either side of him throughout Jamal’s presentation. After that, Jamal refused to try again.

“‘Nevertheless, Najat has told me shyly that Jamal favors her with his newly minted poems. Also, he is apparently a scholar of the 13
^th
-century poet Rumi and Najat reports that he can recite Rumi’s verses in Farsi by the hour.’”

Jamal stops reading and turns accusing eyes on X. “You have talked about me to Father Christopher, Najat?” She is shaken by the anger in his voice, but also that he has, after so many weeks, used her true name again.

“Jamal, be careful! You know Ibrahim has forbidden it.”

“So...is Ibrahim here tonight?” Again, Jamal looks around the apartment, suspiciously.

She sighs. “You know that he is not.”

“Then I will speak to the woman I love in the way that
I
choose!” His jaw is rigid with anger. “And you discuss me with Father Christopher, Najat?”

She hangs her head. “Yes,” she whispers, “I have talked with Father Chris about you...but only because I am so proud of you and so happy that we are together.”

He does not respond, but resumes reading, his dark eyes liquid with turmoil.

“‘Jamal’s professors are impressed by his brilliance, by the quality of his attentive listening and by his respect for all whom he encounters. Several have expressed the opinion that he should become a diplomat due to his charismatic charm and his obvious skill at compromise and negotiation. Of all the Klub members, I would judge him the closest to that model of diversity and peaceful coexistence that the Imam and I have envisioned for this group.’”

Jamal stops reading, so she is able to insert her mollifying thought. “See how respectful Father Christopher is of you! See how he honors you with first place in the Klub!”

But Jamal’s eyes are dark with mistrust. “He is collecting this information for a reason, Najat. Something is not right. Do you imagine the Dean asks for information about the members of the ski club, or the debating team?” Without waiting for an answer, he continues reading.

“‘By far the most controversial member of the Klub is Ibrahim. The Imam and I actually argued over his inclusion, a thing we have never done before or since. That is because Ibrahim is older than the rest by nearly a decade and, therefore, has more mature leadership abilities. This would not be a bad thing under most circumstances, but Ibrahim has another striking quality: his outspoken Muslim fundamentalism and his overt rage against the Israelis.

“‘The Imam and I expected that each Klub member would present certain religious and cultural attributes that are deep-dyed and rigid. Indeed, it has been our hope that the very tragedies that bring these young people to America might also be the catalyst to break through certain cultural barriers and insensitivities that are the essence of international conflict. With Ibrahim, however, the prejudices are excessive and I confided in the Imam, and ultimately argued with him, that Ibrahim is too fully cast in iron ever to have his heart melted – even by the tragedies of the other members. Allowing his bid for leadership, then, appears to me to risk leading the Klub astray.

“‘Nevertheless, the Imam carried the day, arguing that Ibrahim is the very model of the student we seek: orphaned, traumatized, confused and, therefore, vulnerable to persuasion. Certainly, on hearing his story, one would have to admit that he is in need of the solace we hope the Klub will provide.

“‘Ibrahim is Palestinian, born on the southernmost border of the Gaza Strip in Rafah Camp. It is a refugee center of 95,000 souls that, under the Camp David agreement, was split down the middle between Egypt and Israel. At the time of that division, families were arbitrarily torn apart. In this way, Ibrahim was separated from his extended family when he and his parents were forced into the Egyptian side, while the remainder of his relatives stayed on the Israeli side of the divide.

“‘Although only a hundred yards or so separate the watchtowers of the Egyptian and Israeli sides, the refugees have neither the money nor the papers to cross over, even for a short visit. So each day of his childhood, trudging through sand and heat, Ibrahim was brought by his mother to the border of the Egyptian camp. They would come to the barbed wire and lean against it, squinting into the desert glare across two paved patrol roads, one Egyptian, one Israeli, to the opposite fence line where the women and children of their family would also be gathered, waving at them.

“‘In the moments when the desert wind fell and there was a hush, the women shouted news to one another across the divide, holding up new babies to be blessed or wailing the sad tidings of death. And they shouted out the reassurances that keep the bonds of family alive: “I miss you!” “I love you!” “Give my love to Mother; to Aunty; to my sister.”

“‘Ibrahim told of a day when he was about ten and he and his mother were at the wire. He was playing war in the sand using rocks for tanks when his mother suddenly reeled back from the fence, collapsed to her knees and buried her face in the sand, a posture that did nothing to muffle her agonized screams. Terrified, Ibrahim ran to her, thinking she had been shot.

“‘Her head veil came loose and slid onto the sand and her long hair came undone and spread around her head like a black cloud, as she pounded her forehead against the ground, shrieking and flooded with tears. Her agony so alarmed him that he claims he was infected by it from that moment onward.

“‘“I will never forget it, as long as I live,” he told me, vehemently, “and I will never forgive it, either.” His tone held such cold menace that I could not help but believe him. And I confess, he frightened me a little with the power of his venom.

“‘As suddenly as she had flung herself onto the sand, Ibrahim’s mother leapt up and threw herself against the barbed wire again, screaming to her relatives across the way. Her cheeks were gritty with tear-annealed sand and she scrubbed it away with the cuff of her dress.

“‘She was hoarse from shouting before Ibrahim understood what was happening. Someone on the Israeli side had attacked a guard and, in retaliation, the Israelis had launched a rocket attack. As her parents sat innocently over their midday meal inside their makeshift house, a rocket tore into the house next door and a huge explosion and fire erupted. Ibrahim’s grandfather, two of his aunts and five of his cousins were killed outright. His grandmother, burned almost to a cinder, was still alive and, most terrible for his mother, was calling plaintively for her daughter, over and over.

“‘Ibrahim’s mother was frantic to get to her mother before she died. She ran down the fence line to the first guard she encountered, grabbed him by his shirtfront and screamed at him that she needed to get across the divide with no delay. A guard in the nearest watchtower, thinking she was attacking his fellow soldier, simply raised his rifle and shot her, without hesitation.

“‘Ibrahim’s mother did not die immediately. Instead, she lay in agony for five days, weeping both from pain and for her mother, until the simple flesh wound in her thigh festered, became necrotic and finally killed her.

“‘“In any decent place, in any civilized situation, my mother would not have died. The doctor would have stitched her up, given her antibiotics and she would be alive today. But no...” Ibrahim told me, his eyes reddening with the internal flames of rage. “No. She was condemned to die because no one cared. No one came to help her. There was no doctor. No medicine. Not even clean water for my poor father to clean the wound. My mother died in agony because of the cruel stupidity of the international community that does not recognize the existence of individuals. My people are a ‘humanitarian dilemma.’ We are ‘refugees.’ In the eyes of the world, the Yassin family does not even exist! And to the Israelis, we are no more than targets!”

“‘After his mother’s death, Ibrahim’s father, formerly a political moderate, became more and more radical until he finally joined the Palestinian Liberation Organization under Yasar Arafat. He trained with the PLO militia and carried out several daring adventures outside the wire before he was shot and killed, somewhere in the no man’s land between the Egyptian and Israeli sides of the camp.

“‘By this time, Ibrahim was eighteen, old enough to join the PLO himself. He spent several years training with their militia before his application to university in America was accepted and, under a student visa, he came to this country.

“‘In his introductory talk to the Kultur Klub Ibrahim said, “Do you know, there is a saying among the United Nations soldiers in our camp:
If you think you understand the Middle East, you have not been properly briefed.
They think this is hilarious.

“‘“But I will tell you something else. My people, the Palestinians, are intelligent, well-educated people. Liberated and united as one people, we could control the Middle East. All the big players know this – the Russians, the Arabs, and especially Israel and the United States. Oh, they very well understand the situation in the Middle East!

“‘“Now do you understand why the Palestinians cannot be allowed to be reunited in our homeland? We are a political threat to the big powers, that’s why. And because it serves their interests, they hold us in slavery and destitution!” He slammed his fist into the dais.

“‘The others listened respectfully, without a murmur of dissent. What could they say, after all? They, who understand all too well the gravity of the captive state?

“‘In talking to Ibrahim’s professors, I find them divided in their comments, just as the Imam and I are divided. Some find him intelligent, articulate and engaged. Others find his obnoxious, dominating the class with his rhetoric, anti-Semitic to an alarming degree and outspoken in his hatred of this country, although it shelters him. All agree, however, that he is a good student. Not a brilliant student like Jamal or Najat, but thorough, well prepared, and with a deeper than average understanding of the subject matter.

“‘Personally, I still reserve judgment. While I respect the progress he has made in overcoming a life of tragedy by coming to this country and challenging himself to attain a university degree, I cannot feel comfortable with the intensity of his emotional fixation on his perceived enemies, nor with the distortions of Islam that attend his fundamentalist stance. In particular, I object to his treatment of Najat, a fellow Klub member and Muslim, whom he treats despicably simply because she is female.

“‘Only because the Imam is so firmly set on his inclusion in the Kultur Klub do I tolerate Ibrahim Yassin. And even the Imam has expressed his doubts.

“‘“You know,” he said to me when we were alone together after Ibrahim’s first interview, “I am among those born before the camps existed. I remember how my people were. The Land of Milk and Honey was never a paradise, my friend, but it was a pleasant place. There were olive groves and fields with crops and herds of sheep. People lived simply but they had enough – and they were free.

“‘“Then, in 1948, when the land was taken and my people were herded like their own sheep into the camps, that generation – my parents’ generation, the first in the camps – expended all their energy just surviving. My generation had the benefit of their hard work and some of us were able to get educations or to establish small businesses. The children of my generation, though – that’s a different matter. They were born in captivity and they are angry. They have no outlet for their energy and intelligence. Their rage and frustration grow by the day.... Even we are afraid of them.”