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Moreover / Fun house
By Sayed Kashua
Ha'aretz, Israel
April 21 2005
Thursday evening, Jerusalem: Homes
Bethlehem Road, about 100 meters before the train tracks, on the
left. These are the directions I got from Danny. "There's no way
you'll miss it." Music blares from Bethlehem Road. There was no way I
could have missed it. I push open the gate and enter a spacious
garden that leads to a big, beautiful Arab house. I didn't know that
there were still places like this left in the middle of the city.
Some of the guests are sitting in the garden. The rest fill the large
living room that has been transformed into a crowded dance floor.
Tables have been set out on the porch with an array of good wines,
tempting cheeses and crackers. Everyone is speaking English. It's a
party thrown by The Financial Times. This is Danny's last day at
work. Two days from now, he and his wife will be flying back to the
United States.
"Tfaddal, please," Danny says in Arabic, in which he is fluent. He is
Catholic, the son of diplomats if I'm not mistaken, but was born in
Israel. On the porch, one can admire the garden and the house and
have something to drink. My friend and neighbor Sami has that
familiar sad expression on his face. I've already learned to identify
it, the expression that says "They demolished a house today."
"You need to find another line of work," I say in an effort to cheer
him up. Sami smiles. "He has a stall in the shuk (market) and eight
kids," he says. "I managed to get a two-week stay of the demolition
order from the judge in order to file an appeal. But I'm not
optimistic about the chances." He once told me that the worst thing
he'd ever had to witness in his life was the demolition of a house.
"They're emptying out the eastern part of the city," he says, shaking
his head. "Every week, at least two or three houses are being
destroyed, and no one reports on it. It's not news anymore. It's
routine."
Danny comes outside, half dancing. He introduces his wife. Her father
is Palestinian, her mother Korean. "That's why we're leaving," he
says. "I'm an American citizen but I was born here and according to
American law, for my children to be Americans, they'll have to be
born there." His wife has a Jordanian passport and according to the
law there, citizenship is determined in accordance with the father's
citizenship. "If I want my kids to have any identity, I have to
leave."
"You're leaving an amazing house," I say. Danny nods and says that he
rented it fairly cheaply from an old Armenian man because the
Armenian only wanted to rent it to Christians. "The owner died not
long ago," he adds. "His children live in America and they sold the
house to Jews for $3.5 million. They sold another 10 lots in the
area, too, all to Jews." He shrugs and goes back inside where they're
playing an old Algerian Rai hit song.
Sami's voice echoes in my ears, blending with Cheb Khaled's "Didi."
"I'm representing this family from Silwan that received a demolition
order, didi wah. A totally weird case. During the trial, I ask them
to produce papers, the judge agrees and all of a sudden the city
engineer says that `King Solomon's Gardens' is an archaeological
site, that the king used to stroll there. I look at the maps and see
that there are 88 Palestinian houses slated for demolition there.
Didi wah."
I leave the house on Bethlehem Road. The clock in the car says it's
midnight - still early, that is. The band Fools of Prophecy is
performing at The Lab on Hebron Road. "It will be fiiiiiiine," a
chirpy voice sings and the crowd goes wild. "It'll be all
riiiiiight." The band bids the audience goodnight and the lead singer
says that life is a journey and we're all a part of this journey. I
head home.
By Sayed Kashua
Ha'aretz, Israel
April 21 2005
Thursday evening, Jerusalem: Homes
Bethlehem Road, about 100 meters before the train tracks, on the
left. These are the directions I got from Danny. "There's no way
you'll miss it." Music blares from Bethlehem Road. There was no way I
could have missed it. I push open the gate and enter a spacious
garden that leads to a big, beautiful Arab house. I didn't know that
there were still places like this left in the middle of the city.
Some of the guests are sitting in the garden. The rest fill the large
living room that has been transformed into a crowded dance floor.
Tables have been set out on the porch with an array of good wines,
tempting cheeses and crackers. Everyone is speaking English. It's a
party thrown by The Financial Times. This is Danny's last day at
work. Two days from now, he and his wife will be flying back to the
United States.
"Tfaddal, please," Danny says in Arabic, in which he is fluent. He is
Catholic, the son of diplomats if I'm not mistaken, but was born in
Israel. On the porch, one can admire the garden and the house and
have something to drink. My friend and neighbor Sami has that
familiar sad expression on his face. I've already learned to identify
it, the expression that says "They demolished a house today."
"You need to find another line of work," I say in an effort to cheer
him up. Sami smiles. "He has a stall in the shuk (market) and eight
kids," he says. "I managed to get a two-week stay of the demolition
order from the judge in order to file an appeal. But I'm not
optimistic about the chances." He once told me that the worst thing
he'd ever had to witness in his life was the demolition of a house.
"They're emptying out the eastern part of the city," he says, shaking
his head. "Every week, at least two or three houses are being
destroyed, and no one reports on it. It's not news anymore. It's
routine."
Danny comes outside, half dancing. He introduces his wife. Her father
is Palestinian, her mother Korean. "That's why we're leaving," he
says. "I'm an American citizen but I was born here and according to
American law, for my children to be Americans, they'll have to be
born there." His wife has a Jordanian passport and according to the
law there, citizenship is determined in accordance with the father's
citizenship. "If I want my kids to have any identity, I have to
leave."
"You're leaving an amazing house," I say. Danny nods and says that he
rented it fairly cheaply from an old Armenian man because the
Armenian only wanted to rent it to Christians. "The owner died not
long ago," he adds. "His children live in America and they sold the
house to Jews for $3.5 million. They sold another 10 lots in the
area, too, all to Jews." He shrugs and goes back inside where they're
playing an old Algerian Rai hit song.
Sami's voice echoes in my ears, blending with Cheb Khaled's "Didi."
"I'm representing this family from Silwan that received a demolition
order, didi wah. A totally weird case. During the trial, I ask them
to produce papers, the judge agrees and all of a sudden the city
engineer says that `King Solomon's Gardens' is an archaeological
site, that the king used to stroll there. I look at the maps and see
that there are 88 Palestinian houses slated for demolition there.
Didi wah."
I leave the house on Bethlehem Road. The clock in the car says it's
midnight - still early, that is. The band Fools of Prophecy is
performing at The Lab on Hebron Road. "It will be fiiiiiiine," a
chirpy voice sings and the crowd goes wild. "It'll be all
riiiiiight." The band bids the audience goodnight and the lead singer
says that life is a journey and we're all a part of this journey. I
head home.