Selected Detective
THE MEMORY OF LAYLA AL-MADANI
On her way home from the old town, Layla stops at the Jerusalem Hotel for a drink and a little snack with her friend, Noah. A sweet Ottoman-style building near the lower end of the Nablus street, owned and managed by Palestinians, with a cool stone-floored interior and a vine-covered front porch, this hotel is part of his life because as far as he can remember, it was here that he met Nizar Sulaiman, the editor of Al-Ayyam who had given him his first writing job, here he had picked up some of his best story points, it was here that she lost her virginity (aged 19, turned herself in to a heavy-smoking French journalist, an uneasy and failed relationship, leaving a feeling of being tarnished and confused).
And of course, it was at the Jerusalem hotel that her parents first met. And if you believe in the mother's story, Layla's own existence is also planned.
“That night was a lot of frightening lightning,” his mother once told him. “Driver, lightning, rain you've never seen. The whole world seems to be separated by itself. Sometimes I think that's why you're what you are now.”
“What's it like, Bu?” His mother smiled, but said nothing.
They, his parents, were an unusual couple, a happy British woman laughs from a middle-class Cambridgeshire family and an introverted doctor ten years older whose every hour of brand is dedicated to the care and well-being of her Palestinian friends. They met in 1972, at a gathering to celebrate a friend's wedding. Alexandra Bale, as Layla's mother was known at the time, had just left her university and worked as a volunteer teacher at an East Jerusalem girls' school, uncertain about what she wanted to do in her life. Muhammad faisal Madani lives in the Gaza Strip, running a medical clinic in the Jabaliya refugee tent, which works 14 hours per day, 7 days a week, caring for camp residents.
Regardless of, or perhaps because of, very different backgrounds, they are quickly familiar. Layla's father is captivated by the young woman's beauty; her mother is hypnotized by the older man's intensity, as well as his calmness, and strength. And, after horrifying Alexandra's parents, they married six months later, enjoying a one-night honeymoon at a Jerusalem hotel before building a house in the crowded Gaza city. Layla was born on October 6, 1973, the day the Ramadan war broke out.
“Someday this child will do great things,” his father has foreseen, holding a newborn baby girl with her own who helped the birth process.
“His future and the future of our nation will be bound as a whole. One day every Palestinian will know the name Layla Hanan Al-madani.” From the beginning he had loved his father so much that he loved him with all his heart that it was almost so painful in him. Meanwhile, other memories of his early youth are fragmented and bewildering, blurry glimpses of people and places as well as sounds, his feelings about his father remain brilliant. She also loves her mother, of course, her irregular red hair, her cheerful eyes, her sudden way of singing or dancing, make Layla laugh amusedly. With her mother was a tender, warm, simple love, like the sunshine of spring, like a gentle caress. With his father, the relationship that was intertwined more powerfully and fundamentally, with the fire of white incandescent affections, gushing out at him, the emotions of his presence more vividly, making apart from him other emotions insignificant.
He's a good guy, handsome, patient, intelligent, and strong. He was always there for her, always keeping her calm and safe. When an Israeli tank crosses the street at night, Layla will run over to father and he will hug her, stroking her with a gentle gesture at her hair, singing nina bobo from old Arabic in her deep and somewhat discordant voice. When the other child mocked his pale skin color and green eyes, called him a mongrel and a half caste, he said, dad would hug her and wipe her tears while explaining that his surrounding friends were jealous of her because she was so beautiful and smart.
“You're the most beautiful girl in the world, Laylaku. Never forget that. And I'm the happiest man in the world, because you're my daughter.” As he grew up, his feelings about his father grew stronger. In her early years, Layla loved her simply because she was her father, a figure who was always present singing songs for her, reading fairy tales and dressing up her toys. However, as time passed and his attention expanded, he began to appreciate the man in a broader context. Not only as a parent but as a human being, a selfless, passionate, courageous man, who has devoted himself to helping others.
He will visit his father in a small clinic room with white walls and concrete floor sitting on the veranda when one by one the patients come to see “el-doctor”. While thinking how special the father was, how clever and miraculous he was who was able to make everyone healed and good again.
“He was the greatest man in the world,” so Layla wrote in her personal diary that she kept at the time, “because he always helped others and never feared. He is also great at restoring and healing people. He once gave Madam faluji medicine for free because she had no money, a noble deed.” If his love has grown and deepened over time, each day brings a new aspect of his father to be admired and respected, then so does his protective attitude towards his father.
With the intuitive emotional radar of his childhood, he had sensed that despite his wide smile and showing a row of white teeth, and the way he laughed was an unhappy man, burdened not only by the pressures of work that left him drained, weary and grizzled faster, but also by the lack of hope for occupation, he said, the humiliating inability by just watching his hometown was taken bit by bit from under his feet and became helpless doing anything to him.
“Your father is a proud man,” one time his mother once said to him. “It was very painful for him to see his society or nation suffer like this. Makes it sad.” From the moment she first realized this pain, Layla decided that her mission was to help her father. As a child, he played with her, drawing, drawing, writing stories about doctors saving beautiful daughters of Israeli soldiers with m16 guns (it is common for Palestinian children to know what kind of weapons Israelis carry even before they can figure out the location their country on the map). Later, when entering adolescence, Layla began to help her perform surgery, make tea, help take patients in and out of the room, run aid orders, even do basic medical work.
“Why did dad become a doctor?” so Layla once asked, when she and her parents had lunch together. His father thought long enough.
“Because it is the best way in my opinion to be able to serve our people,” he finally replied. “But have you ever wanted to fight against the Israelites? To kill them?” Dad held his hand.
“If the Israelites ever threatened my loved ones then yes, I will fight. I will fight with all my strength, until the last blood. But I don't believe that violence is the only way, Layla, so I hate what Israel has done. I want to save lives, not take them.” It was the afternoon of his 15th birthday.
Moments later, on the same night, he sees the person he loves most in the world, the best man he has ever known, he was dragged out of his car and beaten with a baseball bat to death. The lunch was held at the Jerusalem hotel.
His best friend Noah was already there when Layla arrived, sitting at the table in front of the terrace. His face was immersed into the herald Tribune's sheet. Synthetic woman with thick hair, slightly older than Layla, wearing wire-framed glasses and a very tight short-sleeved T-shirt inscribed ‘PALESTINE'S RIGHT TO RUM’ NO GO HOME, NO PEACE.
Layla emerged from behind him and leaned over, kissing his cheek. Nuha turned to the side, grabbed Layla by the arm and pulled her to sit on the chair, then gave her the newspaper.
“Have seen this garbage?” He pointed to the headlines, the US condemns the delivery of weapons to the Palestinians. His opponent is news: CONGRESS APPROVES 1 BILLION DOLLARS IN ARMS SALES TO ISRAEL
“The hypocrisy of these kparat people! Like a crispy laugh.
Beer?” Layla nodded and Nuha waved at Sani the bar attendant.
“So, how are you down there?” tanyanya, nodded towards the Old City.
Layla shrugged her shoulders. “Stretch, as you expected.
Har-zion held a press conference, all the usual nonsense about God and Abraham and how everyone who criticizes Israel is a Jew hater, Anti-Semite. The nonsense is good, you have to praise him.”
“So did hitler,” said Nuha, while lighting a bar of marlboro. “What will they expel?”
“Sure,” says Layla. “And Sharon will dance with Bolshoi men. Of course they won't kick him out.” There was laughter from another table where a group of Scandinavian-looking men and women NGO workers might, or young diplomats were eating together. Out there came the roar of the Israeli army's Izuzu jeep engine running slowly, like a giant reptile. Sami came with two glasses of Taybeh and a plate of olives.
“oh, God,” says Nuha “Don't be new again. Where?”
“haifa. Just got in the news.”
“Al-mulatham?”
“It looks like so. Two dead.” Layla shook her head.
“Between him and Har-zion, they will start World War III.” Noah finished his beer with one long gulp.
“You know what I think,” he said, putting his glass back on the table and smoking his cigarette.
“I think they work together. Look at this, the more people in Al-Mulatham kill, the more support Har-zion has. The more Har-zion gets support, the more reason for Al-Mulatham to kill.they help each other.”
“You know, you might have something there,” Layla said with a laugh. “Perhaps I will write an article.”
“Yahh, please just remember where you heard that first, Miss. I know what you journalists are. Biggest first news of your career and you will claim all that pride for yourself.” Layla laughed again. When happiness was on his face, his eyes suddenly seemed to shift out of nowhere, into another circle of thought. “The largest exclusive report in your career.” Where he heard that phrase recently. It took him a while before he remembered that it was a letter he had received just moments earlier that afternoon. How dothat sound? I have information that can assist Al-Mulatham in his struggle against the oppressive Zionists, and wish to contact him. I'm sure you can help me.
In return, I can offer you the thing that, I'm sure, will be the biggest exclusive report of your career. That kind. He had ignored it like a joke or a Shin Bet ruse, and it still touched him that this was the most likely explanation. But now after a few hours have passed....
“Does the initial GR mean anything to you?” Layla suddenly asked.
“maaf?”
“GR. What does this initial mean to you?” His friend thought for a while.
“Greg Rickman? The guy from Save the Children, who has a crush on you?”
Layla shook her head. “He doesn't have a crush on me. It concerns someone who is old, someone from the past.” Noah looked confused.
“Forget it,” Layla said after a while, lifting the beer glass and sipping it. “Nothing matters. How was your day?”
His friend worked for an organization that monitored the takeover of Israeli land around Jerusalem, and he doesn't need to be on the fishing line any further to tell at length the story of the old farmer whose olive grove had just been in the IDf bulldozer. Layla tried to listen, but her mind sighed. The letter, Al-Mulatham, his father, had their last lunch at the Jerusalem hotel. It was a really happy afternoon, just him and his parents, all laughing together, talking, telling stories.just hours later his father was dead.
“oh God, my dad!” he yelled. Her hair was covered in her father's blood. “oh Lord, my poor father!” Since then everything has grown quickly.
*****_____*****
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
*****