Friendly Fire Alaa Aswany (no david read aloud .TXT) 📖

be afflicted by rage when I speak. Fury will ignite in their hearts, and for this reason I must beg you, my dear Air Conditioning Attendant, to turn up the cooling from time to time.

And you, my dear Sound Engineer, when I start to speak, seek to divert the attention of the listeners from me. Give them, my dear Engineer, yet more loud music.

As for you, my dear Acrobat, you must entertain the ones that grow furious. Fall flat on your face or walk on your hands. If necessary, Acrobat, let forth a cry like the braying of a donkey. What matters is that good cheer be unconfined, and anger dispelled.

Ladies and gentlemen,

My story starts with a bit of bad luck, the sort of wretched ill-fortune that brings an innocent child into this world with a disfigured face or body, the sort of unjust fate that bereaves the tender-hearted father of his youthful son and sows cancer in the breast of the up-and-coming man.

Such a black fate it was that made Jenin an Arab city. Had Jenin been located in Switzerland, had its orange groves been covered with the sparkling snows of Europe, had its many mosques been Catholic churches, had the people of Jenin belonged to the superior, white-skinned race, or had Jenin not known—God forbid—the chanting of the Qur’an or the performance of the five daily prayers, what befell it would never have done so. Blind fate, however, created Jenin an Arab city and, not content with this ignominy, made it a Palestinian city to boot. Finally, that no humiliation might be spared, fate chose to set it on the West Bank, right on the border with the respected Jewish State. Yet let God, High and Omnipotent, bear witness—as do the reports of the various intelligence agencies—that not one of the people of Jenin was given to wanton acts of violence. It was both small city and large house, and its people were peaceable.

The good-natured peasants were skilled at the growing of oranges, and that was all they knew. They were careful to say their Friday prayers and they loved to drink arak.

Nor did it ever happen that anyone from Jenin was heard to raise his voice or say a foul word, not even in the days of folly, when black thoughts about Israel ran like poison in the veins of the Arab world and when the Arabs where addicted to talk of the liberation of Palestine, socialism, nationalism, and other such bunkum. Even in those days, Jenin remained the same, and the people of Jenin set off, as they always had done, to the orange groves, knowing nothing else, to cultivate and harvest.

Truth to tell, this good conduct had a considerable impact on the hearts of the Jewish authorities—so much so in fact that they considered a number of times presenting a large reward to their peaceable neighbors, and indeed this almost came to pass, and would have done so, had there not occurred the unfortunate, the most extremely unfortunate, events that Jenin witnessed during the spring of 1967.

Dear Mr. Air Conditioning Attendant, one degree colder, if you please.

I shall relate what happened all at one go.

In May 1967, Jenin decided to enter the war. Picture, good people, the farmers of Jenin bearing weapons and setting off to fight. And to fight whom? The State of Israel. Surely, it is an ironic fate that drives man to seek his demise with his own hand.

Flat on your face, Acrobat!

June 1967 began, and the crisis deepened and dug in its heels and war was on everybody’s lips. On a day as terrible as the sun and as towering as a mountain, the Jordanian army took a deep breath, raised its mighty arm, and entered Jenin.* This was according to plan, because Jenin was on the front line and the Jordanians had to move into it in order to defend it.

Jenin will never forget that day. “Welcome, Heroes of Jordan!” read the broad banners that dangled proudly as they waited and the men assembled in the narrow lanes. Some sat. Others were unable to do so, so great was the yearning, and they went up to the hilltop, returning with exciting news: “In half an hour the heroes will be here! They may already be on the outskirts!” Meanwhile the women had made themselves busy that day as on no other—and how could it not be so, when the heroes would arrive after a hard journey and must find something ready to eat and drink? And that something was produced. Dozens of sandwiches, fried pastries, casseroles, and every other kind of dish were born, along with bottles of arak in long rows, nestled in palm-leaf wrappers.

Even the children in Jenin were looking forward to the arrival of the Jordanian army with the greatest zeal, the children having their own reasons, which included seeing a real army in the flesh, and rifles, for the first time—an army next to which those of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer would look like a bunch of outmoded and badly made toys.

What a lovely dance, dear Sound Engineer!

The Jordanian army arrived at one o’clock in the afternoon and the appearance of the first soldier at the edge of the city and the sight of his green uniform and shining brass badge were the signal, the magic signal, for the release of all the emotions that had been waiting since the morning—all in one outburst and at one time. The ululations of joy, the plaudits, the patriotic songs, and the shouts broke out. Veritable showers of welcoming roses were thrown over heads. The heroes had come to defend Jenin and all Jenin embraced the heroes. Everyone sang and waved and no one felt embarrassed to express their feelings—it was a moment of truth that permitted no standing on ceremony. Even the sheikhs and notables were hurrahing. Every individual in Jenin was careful to make sure that their greeting—their own personal greeting—reached the warriors, and all these greetings seemingly came together