Selected Detective
DAVID FIGHTER
Layla could not pass through the gates of Damascus in the Old City, with its impressive twin-tower arches, blackened tile stones and entourage of beggars and fruit vendors, without recalling the first time he came here with his parents when he was five years old.
“Look, Layla,” said her father proudly, while crouching on his side and stroking her waist-long hair. ’Al-quds’ the most beautiful city in the world. Our city. See how bright and bright the stone is in the morning sun; smell the aroma of za’atar and freshly baked bread, hear the call of muezzin and the cry of the tamar hindi sellers. Remember all these things, Layla, keep them in your heart. Because when the Israelites have mastered it, we will all be expelled and al-quds will be nothing more than the name of the place we read in the history book.” Layla wrapped her arms around her father's neck.
“I won't let them do that dad!” his yell. “I'll fight them. I'm not scared!” His father laughed and carried him, hugging and holding him tightly to his chest, which was flat and strong, like marble.
“My little fighter! Layla, the invincible! oh ... how great my daughter is.” The three had surrounded the outside of the city, following the line of the wall that at that time had amazed Layla
amazed at being so big and scary, the huge undulating rocks that were on top, and then passing through the Damascus Gate to the road were mingled up there. They drank Coca-cola in the side street cafe, and then they drank Coca-cola, his father sucked in a shisha pipe and spoke excitedly with a group of old men, before descending Al-Wad's path towards haram al-Sharif, who was in the middle of the city, stop at certain times so he can show the bakery he always went to enjoy his cake as a child, the square where he played ball with friends, an old fig tree that grew outside the walls and the fruits he used to pick.
“Not to eat,” obviously his father. “Too hard and bitter. We wear them to throw friends. Once upon a time I had a throw right in my nose. You should have listened to the crackling. Blood everywhere.” His father laughed at the memory, and Layla laughed and told him how funny he thought it was, even though the story frightened him from imagining his father in pain. He loved his father so much that he always wanted to please him, showing him that he was not weak or afraid, but strong as he was a brave, true Palestinian.
From the fig trees, they arrived at a narrow winding road, which in the end arrived at a point with the building on its left and right sides arched right above their heads, forming a tunnel.
A group of Israeli soldiers were standing on the inside of the entrance and staring at them suspiciously as they passed by.
“See how they look at us,” complains dad.
“they make us feel like thieves in our own home.” He took Layla by the hand and led her to a wooden door on which was a frame carved with a fine fruit and vine design. The braso plaque declares that it is a Yeshiva to commemorate Alder Cohen; the mezuzah is embedded in the stone frame to his right.
“Our house,” he said sadly, touching that door. “Our beautiful house.”
Layla's family had fled during the fighting in June 1967, leaving the city with few supplies and seeking refuge at the Aqabat Jabr camp outside Jericho, forty kilometers away. It was supposed to be a temporary measure, and they would return as soon as the war stopped. But later, their house was taken over by the Israelites and not a single grievance against the new city lord was able to reclaim the place. Since
that is why they live as refugees.
“I was born here,” so his father once said, as he gently stroked the wooden door panel and touched the carved frame. “So did my father. And his father my father, and his father also before that. Three hundred years. Now everything is gone, just like that!” He flicked his fingers into the air. Layla saw tears dripping from her father's big brown eyes.
“What no, father,” he said as he hugged his father, trying to drain all his strength and love into his thin and hard body. “Dad will get it back someday. We all live here together. Everything will be fine.” The father tilted his body and swiped his face at Layla's long black hair.
“If only it were true, Layla my dear,” she whispered, “But not all stories end happily. Especially for our people. You'll learn about this when you grow up.”
THESE AND OTHER MEMORIES flashed through Layla's mind now as she passed through the gate and climbed the land of the cemented Al-Wad Road.
Usually, this part of the city will be crowded with multi-colored shops selling various flowers, fruits and spices, the buyers are flocking to this place, he said, the boy who was buzzing his way through the wooden carriage carrying a high pile of meat.Today, things were quiet as usual no doubt, thanks to the care of the David Warriors who reached deep into the city. A group of elderly people were sitting under the choppy tin blinds of a cafe; on her left side a peasant woman was crouching at the door with a pile of limes in front of her, his face was drowned in his brown hands full of wrinkles. Beyond that, the only people present were the Israeli military and police personnel: a trio of young conscripted Giv’ati brigades and braced behind cannon-support sandbags; a border police unit wearing green berets was lounging on the steps in front of the cafe; police patrol inside the gate, their blue jackets fused into the shadows so that the head, the, their arms and legs seemed to disappear into the empty hole where their bodies were supposed to be.
Layla shows her press card to one of them, a beautiful girl who should have been a model if only she hadn't been a policewoman, and asks if she could have gotten into an occupied house.
“The path is closed down there,” said the woman, while observing the card. “Just ask there.” Layla nodded and continued to walk to the city center, passing through Austria hospice, Via Dolorosa, an alley containing fig trees her father had told her a few years ago that seemed to barely grow all that time. As he was walking he heard the screams in front of him, and the police and soldiers came in more and more. He began passing through a group of shababs, young Palestinians, some wearing black and white fatah headbands, others carrying red, green, black and white Palestinian flags. The group mingled into the crowd so that the people became crowded. The small path echoed the frenzied sounds that existed, the clenched hands churning into the air. Israeli soldiers spread out on each side of the street, preventing protesters from rushing into the city. The soldiers' expressionless faces were at odds with the angry faces of the protesters. Scattering ashes and burning cardboard littered the chunks of rock where the fire was lit. Israeli surveillance cameras hung on the wall like dead animal carcasses, lenses broke and shattered.
Layla continued to approach the crowd.The people who were in droves were getting closer and closer, and it seems like he might not be able to break through at all until he is recognized by a young man whom he interviewed a few months ago for his article on the Fatah Youth Movement. The man saluted him and made himself Layla's introduction, bursting into the mob until they reached the border built by Israel on the road. There was a small group of Peace Now Israelis gathering together here among the Palestinians, then someone, an old woman in a knitted hat, called out to her.
“I hope you will write about this furore, Layla! they're going to start a war!”
“That's exactly what they want to do,” shouted the man next to him. “they will kill us all. Get rid of those who occupied the house! We want peace. Peace now!” He advanced forward and moved his fist at the heavily armed line of border police lined up on the far side of the border. Outside of them, a crowd of journalists and TV crews, and,
many of them wearing helmet and bulletproof jackets, gathered together outside the occupied house. Far off the road a second barrier block has also been built, holding back crowds of haredi Jews and Israeli right-wing groups, in a show of solidarity with the residents of the house.
One of them held a board that read KAHANE RIGHT! The other was a banner claiming the ARABS SEIZED JEWISH LAND. Layla showed his press card to one of the soldiers at the border and after several consultations with his superiors, he was allowed in, he broke through the crowd of journalists and stopped next to a bearded man wearing wire goggles and a plastic protective helmet.
a glass of water on the man for writing a statement that denigrates Palestinian women, and that has almost shaped their relationship pattern ever since, maintaining standard manners, but there is a little love lost on both.
“See your hat, Schenker,” grumble Layla.
“You will hope to wear it when your Arab friend starts throwing stones and bottles,” replied.
As if emphasizing what he had just said, a bottle thrown by Palestinian protesters landed, throwing the courtyard several meters to his right.
“Sell what too,”. “But I don't think they'll ever throw anything at you. Isn't that right, Assadiqa? This is the most deserving journalist they want to hurt!” Layla half opened her mouth to avenge the insult, but she did not want to make a fuss, and instead she simply scoffed with her finger and passed, stepping into the front row of the crowd of reporters. CNN's Jerold Kessel is struggling to get the news on camera amid the persecution; on his left side Israeli border police have raised the barrier and pushed back Palestinian protesters, directing them to stay away. The screams are getting louder. A spray of tear gas was then fired. Even more bottles were thrown.
For a moment Layla stood motionless, looking around, then pulled the camera that was strung over her shoulder and began to take pictures, taking a picture of the menorah sprayed at the front door of the traditional identity of the Israeli Flag David Fighters unfolding in front of the building, soldiers standing by the roof on all sides, perhaps to prevent the locals from attacking the house from above. Layla had just turned to the right to photograph the occupation-aligned protesters when she suddenly felt the surrounding crowd getting denser and pressing forward.
The door of the occupied house has opened. The atmosphere was silent, then the figure of Baruch Har-zion who was fat and short stepped out, accompanied by his guard who cut short hair, Avi Steiner. The pro-occupation opponents cheered and drifted in the chants of “hatikva”, Israel's national anthem.Palestinians and peace protesters, say, who have now been pushed almost a hundred meters back and cannot see well and thoroughly what is happening, urging the barrier and chanting their own song, “My hometown, Kampung hamanku”. Steiner angrily pushed the clustered journalists into a semicircle, trying to push them back. Some cameras highlight like flickering lights.
For a few seconds Har-zion's eyes flashed with Layla's eyes, and then turned his eyes away. Questions were thrown at him like a barrage of gunshots, but he ignored them, turned his head to and fro, a disguised smile making both ends of his mouth double, he said, before slowly turning his head in several directions and raising his right hand slowly, indicating he wanted a calm atmosphere. Questions flowed and the crowd grew forward, the recording device thrust into his presence. Layla crossed back her camera on the shoulder and took out her notebook.
“An Ancient Jewish proverb says,” says Har-zion with a thick English accent, his voice heavy and low like a rolling rock. “Hamechadesh betuvo bechol yom tamid ma’aseh bereishit. God makes a new home every day. Yesterday this land was in the hands of our enemies.Today it has been returned to its rightful owner, the Jews. This is a glorious day, a historic day, a day that will not be forgotten. And trust me, brethren, you,
more days will come like that.”
*
*
*
*
*
*****_____*****
Also Read Other Novels Guys "Love of the Old Virgin"
Theme Story about “Love the family is too spoiled and excessive to the big bar boy with a rebellious soul, who met the hard-hearted and wealthy noble lady. Until finally changing the mindset of living alone and do not want to be responsible about anything. Finally had to fall in love with her uncle. Follow the story must be fun...
*Coments and suggestions in the comments column are needed, and do not forget Vote yes…*
By the way, Enjoy it
Follow Instagram on: @itsme.okta
Thanks in Advanced
Best Regards
*****