its gentle course of normalcy,
over twenty years in.
But the General didn’t trust the silence. It was too quiet.
He could see it in the eyes of the occupied,
the Palestinians he passed on his way to the military base on the hill
overlooking everything.
They were tired, scared.
Fear, he knows, eventually can turn.
The General liked to drive the highway from the Dead Sea to Jericho,
alongside the Jordan River.
He would drive it, thinking, this is the road of our forefathers.
Joshua the warrior,
Abraham the father,
Ecclesiastes the prophet.
How beautiful, he thought,
to return to this country.
Inheritance.
It was hot out that day.
You could see the heat rising above the highway outside Jericho.
The General left his army Jeep at home—he took the car,
the top down, sun baking his head.
The radio played “Hatikvah,” “The Hope.”
The General had chills in heat.
At a checkpoint near the Jordan River,
five bearded men kneeling in a line by the side of the road.
Their hands were over their heads; they’d been holding them up like this for hours.
ID cards on the ground.
He saw his soldiers laughing, smoking in the sun.
“We’re taking them in,” said the corporal. “Questioning.”
One of them was Zayid.
Zayid looked familiar, though the General wasn’t sure where he’d seen him before.
Was he the neighbour at the kibbutz, the one he’d waved to as a young man?
Was he the falafel man, the one in the Arab village he sometimes stopped at on the way to work?
He couldn’t remember. Nothing was clear in that heat.
The General pointed to him and said,
Shimon: “You. Go home now.”
Abu Dalo: But Zayid wouldn’t move.
Shimon: “You can go home,”
Abu Dalo: said the General.
Zayid wouldn’t speak.
Shimon: “Go on. It’s okay.”
Abu Dalo: The others were looking at him, trying to get his attention, eyeing him, go on, get out, run while you can.
Shimon: “Here,”
Abu Dalo: the General said, and brought Zayid a canteen of water.
Shimon: “Drink this. You’re thirsty.”
Abu Dalo: The General wasn’t aware of what he was doing, why he was doing it.
Perhaps he felt an unconscious need for compassion;
the habit to feed those who are thirsty.
Zayid wouldn’t drink; he smiled at the General; they were both drunk from the sun.
Shimon: “I’m offering you this. You need it. Drink.”
Abu Dalo: Zayid said something in Arabic. Unintelligible. He told the General to fuck off, fuck his mother, to lay his head down in the shit box he belonged in.
Shimon: “I’m offering you water.”
Abu Dalo: Zayid still wouldn’t take it.
Shimon: “I’m offering you life!”
Abu Dalo: Zayid took the canteen, drank a mouthful, then spit in the General’s face.
Now the General drew his gun.
Shimon: “Take the water!”
Abu Dalo: The General weighs the pistol in his hand. And the soldiers are wondering, what the hell is he doing? The guy won’t drink the water, surely there’s nothing wrong with that.
Shimon: “Take it!”
Abu Dalo: And the General hits Zayid on the cheek with the back of the Mauser.
Shimon: “Enough!”
Abu Dalo: Cried the General and he hits him again. Zayid’s face a river of blood—
Shimon: “Enough!”
Abu Dalo: And the General hits the Arab’s face one last time.
Shimon: “Enough…”
And when Zayid’s breathing stops, I look up at the horizon.
And I can no longer read the signs on the highway that point to the cities of my forefathers. A strange and sudden blindness of words.
Scene 8
Lights up on SHIMON and ABU DALO. SHIMON is blind.
Abu Dalo: Your son brought me the ammo box hidden beneath your floorboards. I was happy for the first time in my life. Happiness is vengeance. I wrote your story. I will publish it, I will destroy you with words. You’ll be disgraced in front of the entire world, and I will take back this house—I’ll take back what’s mine.
Your own son had to betray you. To me. A Palestinian.
Enter ALEX and
over twenty years in.
But the General didn’t trust the silence. It was too quiet.
He could see it in the eyes of the occupied,
the Palestinians he passed on his way to the military base on the hill
overlooking everything.
They were tired, scared.
Fear, he knows, eventually can turn.
The General liked to drive the highway from the Dead Sea to Jericho,
alongside the Jordan River.
He would drive it, thinking, this is the road of our forefathers.
Joshua the warrior,
Abraham the father,
Ecclesiastes the prophet.
How beautiful, he thought,
to return to this country.
Inheritance.
It was hot out that day.
You could see the heat rising above the highway outside Jericho.
The General left his army Jeep at home—he took the car,
the top down, sun baking his head.
The radio played “Hatikvah,” “The Hope.”
The General had chills in heat.
At a checkpoint near the Jordan River,
five bearded men kneeling in a line by the side of the road.
Their hands were over their heads; they’d been holding them up like this for hours.
ID cards on the ground.
He saw his soldiers laughing, smoking in the sun.
“We’re taking them in,” said the corporal. “Questioning.”
One of them was Zayid.
Zayid looked familiar, though the General wasn’t sure where he’d seen him before.
Was he the neighbour at the kibbutz, the one he’d waved to as a young man?
Was he the falafel man, the one in the Arab village he sometimes stopped at on the way to work?
He couldn’t remember. Nothing was clear in that heat.
The General pointed to him and said,
Shimon: “You. Go home now.”
Abu Dalo: But Zayid wouldn’t move.
Shimon: “You can go home,”
Abu Dalo: said the General.
Zayid wouldn’t speak.
Shimon: “Go on. It’s okay.”
Abu Dalo: The others were looking at him, trying to get his attention, eyeing him, go on, get out, run while you can.
Shimon: “Here,”
Abu Dalo: the General said, and brought Zayid a canteen of water.
Shimon: “Drink this. You’re thirsty.”
Abu Dalo: The General wasn’t aware of what he was doing, why he was doing it.
Perhaps he felt an unconscious need for compassion;
the habit to feed those who are thirsty.
Zayid wouldn’t drink; he smiled at the General; they were both drunk from the sun.
Shimon: “I’m offering you this. You need it. Drink.”
Abu Dalo: Zayid said something in Arabic. Unintelligible. He told the General to fuck off, fuck his mother, to lay his head down in the shit box he belonged in.
Shimon: “I’m offering you water.”
Abu Dalo: Zayid still wouldn’t take it.
Shimon: “I’m offering you life!”
Abu Dalo: Zayid took the canteen, drank a mouthful, then spit in the General’s face.
Now the General drew his gun.
Shimon: “Take the water!”
Abu Dalo: The General weighs the pistol in his hand. And the soldiers are wondering, what the hell is he doing? The guy won’t drink the water, surely there’s nothing wrong with that.
Shimon: “Take it!”
Abu Dalo: And the General hits Zayid on the cheek with the back of the Mauser.
Shimon: “Enough!”
Abu Dalo: Cried the General and he hits him again. Zayid’s face a river of blood—
Shimon: “Enough!”
Abu Dalo: And the General hits the Arab’s face one last time.
Shimon: “Enough…”
And when Zayid’s breathing stops, I look up at the horizon.
And I can no longer read the signs on the highway that point to the cities of my forefathers. A strange and sudden blindness of words.
Scene 8
Lights up on SHIMON and ABU DALO. SHIMON is blind.
Abu Dalo: Your son brought me the ammo box hidden beneath your floorboards. I was happy for the first time in my life. Happiness is vengeance. I wrote your story. I will publish it, I will destroy you with words. You’ll be disgraced in front of the entire world, and I will take back this house—I’ll take back what’s mine.
Your own son had to betray you. To me. A Palestinian.
Enter ALEX and
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