The Marsh Angel Hagai Dagan (kiss me liar novel english .txt) 📖

Kahane’s lecture hall, and he did his best to serve his role submissively and obediently. But occasionally, he couldn’t contain himself and to his own detriment found himself engaging Kahane’s arguments. For instance, he asked Kahane where exactly in the bible it said that all Arabs should be killed. Tamir always loved Arza Sheinbein’s classes, his old bible class teacher, and he vividly recalled her vehement objection to the biblical injunction to smite the seven nations of Canaan. It says Canaanites, doesn’t it? he asked Kahane as if in passing, momentarily suspending the scrubbing motion of his steel-wool pad over the layers of caked, burned oil on the bottom of a large steel pot. What, so you’re a rabbi now?! Kahane exploded. What the hell do you even know about the bible?! He angrily flicked his cigarette to the floor (which Tamir was to scrub later) and stormed out.

At the end of the shift, Kahane returned to inspect the cadets’ work. He was clearly after his evening shower. His hair was moist and slick; his body, clad in a pearly white cotton t-shirt, exuded the scent of cheap perfume, blending in with the noxious smell of cleaning supplies which pervaded the Submarine, just barely masking the stench of rotting food. The pots were stacked in a pyramid, bright and shimmering. Kahane approached the stack and ran his finger down the side of one of the pots. He stuck his finger out in front of Tamir’s face. It was immaculately clean. Filthy! he yelled, drawing his angry face menacingly close to Tamir’s. His mouth reeked of cigarettes. He extended his hand and pushed the stack of pots back into the sink. Do it over! he yelled. I’ll be back in an hour. They better be spic and span, for your sake. I could care less, I can be here all night.

b. We’re All Palestinian

Classes were held from 8 a.m. till evening-time, after which the cadets remained in the classroom to do their homework and prepare for exams. They would finish as late as 11 p.m. or midnight, and then make their way back to their rooms, famished from their exacting studies. The early dinners would have long-since been digested, so the cadets had a habit of having night meals in their rooms. These were the best meals of the day, since they were comprised of the food they had in their bags, food prepared by their mothers and sent as provisions. Every night, a cluster of chairs served as a makeshift table, which would then be covered in casseroles, avocados, pastries, and assorted sweets. At some point, someone would whip out the electric immersion heater, and shortly after the scent of instant coffee and condensed milk pervaded the room. It was the finest hour of the day. The cadets would exchange jokes and anecdotes about their classes and teachers, and reminisce about their pre-enlistment lives, which now seemed like a distant, implausible dream.

Tamir shared his room with four other cadets: two kibbutzniks, a studious guy from Be’er Sheva who would sit in his bed with a flashlight until 2 a.m. memorizing the Ayalon-Shinar Hebrew-Arabic Dictionary, and another guy from Jerusalem who spent what he called his ‘recreation hour’— that is, one of the five remaining hours they had to sleep each night— reading Jane’s Defence Weekly, a magazine which published strategic overviews and in-depth intelligence analysis of geopolitical affairs around the world. He was a well-read and articulate fellow with a staunch right-wing conservative world-view, who would regularly and effortlessly argue with his roommates while cheerfully chomping away at the culinary affluence pouring out of their bags. He himself never brought anything in his bag besides books and magazines.

Tamir didn’t read strategic magazines or dictionaries. He occasionally browsed through his copy of The Lord of the Rings, but his attempts at escapism proved futile. The present-moment was too potent. He found himself repeatedly going back to that one episode where Aragorn, that forsaken heir turned keeper of the woods, sits in the Prancing Pony Inn in Bree, forgotten and anonymous, silently smoking his pipe and observing the brutal, degenerate world around him.

Occasionally, he’d pick up a newspaper. One night, a particular story caught his attention, on page three of Yediot Aharonot:

Riots Following the Removal of Bedouin Families Near Acre

In accordance with the decision of the Regional Committee North of the Planning Administration to repurpose agricultural lands bordering the municipality of Acre, several Bedouin families residing on those lands were removed. The decision arose due to natural population growth in Acre and an increasing need of additional land for residence, industry, and commerce. The lands, settled by the Arab al-Ghawarneh tribe, are public lands, made available for use to the Acre municipality. The lands were promised to the presiding mayor and the residents of the city during the Likud Party’s previous campaign, and now, according to sources in the government, “it’s time to cash the check.” The Bedouin families were offered several alternatives, yet they refused to leave the ground where a new residential area will be erected. In the past, the Bedouin settlement was surrounded by fallow fields and agricultural lands of neighboring kibbutzes, but in recent years, the Jewish neighborhoods of Acre extended to reach the borders of the settlement. The residents of these neighborhoods have filed numerous complaints about the appearance of the Bedouin shanty village, the constant smoke billowing from the settlement, and the incessant barking of dogs. These complaints were compounded by those of the nearby kibbutzes that complained of theft and damage to agricultural equipment. The conflict came to an end yesterday, as the Green Patrol evacuated the Bedouin families. Some of the evacuees resisted forcefully, and several arrests were made. One of the activists, Tawfik al-Bahri, told our reporter: “We’re done with this country. We’d be better off in Lebanon.” Another activist, Sa’ira Zaidani, said: “Now, we’re all Palestinian.”

c. The Fate of the Russian Nation

Tamir’s class focused on Syria. Accordingly, they were taught Soviet doctrine.