Selected Detective
THE KALANDIAN REFUGEE CAMP

The call of Jihad, when it comes, is not at all what Yunis Abu Jish imagined.

For months he prayed that he would be approached and asked to surrender to God and his people, it was in his mind an intensive selection procedure through a course that would test his courage and conviction over and over again so that it was conclusively proven. And indeed, he rhymed a brief phone call informing him that he had chosen Al-Mulatham as a potential legitimate fighter, and instructed him to carefully consider whether he felt himself ready to receive this honor. When he feels unprepared, he doesn't have to do anything; he won't be contacted again. When he feels ready, he should wear his ‘Stone’ T-shirt how do they know he has a T-shirt with a picture of qubah al Sakhra on that front? and went at midday the next day to the Kalandian military outpost on the Jerusalem Ramallah Road, where he had to remain there for thirty minutes, just below the Satellite Dishes master billboard. After that, he began to prepare himself for prayer and study the holy book of the Quran, not telling anyone about his situation, not even his immediate family. More detailed instructions will be given later.

That'sthat's all. There is no explanation as to how or why or by whom he was chosen; there is no indication as to what kind of mission he will carry later. The precision of the call, the dealing manners of the men at the end of the phone line, had frightened him. After the phone call was cut off, he remained seated for some time with a trembling, pale face, with the phone handle still pressing on his ears. Can I do this, he asked himself. Am I strong enough? Is it worth it to me? After all, imagining it is one thing, and doing it is another. Fear and doubt almost always prevail.

Gradually, however, his misgivings disappeared, accepting first, then determination, and finally a feeling of euphoria and pride. He has been chosen! He, Yunis Abu Jish Sabah, was a hero to his people, a tool for God's vengeance. He imagined the honor his family would feel, the happiness of every Palestinian. That glory.

With a feeling of pleasure, he put down the phone and went out to where his mother used to sit peeling potatoes, kneeling in front of him and wrapping her hands around his waist.

“All will go well,” he said, laughing. “Everything will go well. God is with us. Allahu Akbar!”

Jewish Cemetery Mount olives

It was almost noon before Ben-Roi finally recovered from his drunken state and staggered out of his room, coughing and cursing. He took a cold shower, dropped off Goldstar to relieve himself from a hangover last night, then got dressed, sprayed perfume after shaving and took a bus to the Jewish cemetery on Mount Olives. On the way he stopped to buy a sprig of white lilies. The man visited the woman at least once every day. Sometimes more, when solitude has been felt so heavy. He remembers as a child thinking that going to the cemetery was something that only old people did. A way to pass the time when there's nothing better you can do with your life, when all the excitement and hope is far behind you. But here he is, not to mention 34 years old, and this visit has become something important in his days. In its entire existence.

Ben-Roi gets off the bus on Jericho street and enters the cemetery through the gate at his left corner. He walked straight past the rows of flat square rock headstones that covered the side of the hill as if a large, split staircase. Far to his left, the seven golden domes of St. Mary's Magdalene Church glisten in the afternoon sun; in front of and above him, the church of St. Mary magdalene shines in the afternoon sun; in front of and above, the poor archways of the Intercontinental hotel are visible on the top of the hill, like rows of circles on a clear blue sky.

Behind, opposite the Kidron Valley, stands the Dome of the Rock, a building in the Old City that stands upright behind it like an array of children's toy bricks.

The woman's tomb is about halfway up, on the south bank of the cemetery, a simple stone with a carving of her name and date of birth 21 December 1976; died March 12, 2004 and at the bottom excerpts Solomon Song: “I am a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys.”

Ben-Roi stood staring at the grave before him, set his breath after the ascending path, then crouched down and placed a flower at the top of the song passage with a small stone beside him that he took on his way past the tomb, then squatted down and placed a flower at the top of the song passage with a small rock beside him that he took on his way through the tomb, as is Jewish custom. He leaned over and kissed the gravestone, rubbed his hands on a warm yellow surface, and let his lips linger on the deep sculpted curves of the woman's name. Then, with a sigh, he straightened his body again.

Surprisingly, he could never cry for this lover.

No matter how strong the pain, however blurred it, the tears did not come out. He is easily moved and cries for the trivialities of poor quality TV shows, cheap song lyrics, sentimental novels but for his lover can not be.just emptiness, the, tears are so contained within him that sometimes he has to struggle even just to catch his breath, like a drowning man who can only make his mouth above the waterline.

He put his hands together. Some felt that he should practice kiddhus, or at least recite any prayer. He forgot the idea. What is the need to pray to a God who has allowed such an event to happen?

Who sits on His throne of Heaven and looks down without compassion at all these horrors and tribulations? No, he thinks to himself, there is no comfort in belief; it is just a thing that resonates, empty, without song, like a cracked bell. He slipped his hands into his pockets and away from the tomb, gazing at the Old City in the distance, muttering Jewish folk songs, about a poor boy who falls in love with the daughter of a rich rabbi, which his grandfather taught him.

Ben-Roi has the woman arrested. That's how they met. A superficial story that makes no sense, like a romance story. But that's how it happened. The woman was a member of a group protesting the construction of an Israeli settlement on the edge of the city; while she was one among the police cordon circles to hold back the protesters. There is a slight fight, the woman kicks her calf bone so Ben-Roi then handcuffs her hands and takes her to the back of the police van. It all happened so fast that he didn't have enough time to notice how beautiful she was.

It was not until some time later, inside a waiting cell behind the station, when it noted the details about the woman as she questioned the injustice of the Israeli occupation in the West Bank, only then did he realize his gaze was fixated on the woman's disheveled brown hair, her slender arms and sunburned brown, her sparkling gray eyes, angry and eager but at the same time gentle, as well, full of antics and laughter in such a way that he knows that she is a good woman, gentle and that her raised voice is also her fighting behavior is just a disguise.

Ben-Roi could have punished him should he have punished him first but eventually he released the woman with a warning. The fact that the woman did not show gratitude for her kindness on the contrary, even as hard as it was, was, it was as if the man's kindness had removed the impact of his protest for some reason and attracted Ben-Roi's attention to the woman more than just because of her physical appearance.

He was never particularly confident when he was among the women, restless with his bear-like body and his big-nosed face and protruding bones.

It took him three days to muster up the courage to call him. When she calls in the end, the woman only thinks of her as a friend who is joking; later, realizing that Ben-Roi is calling, she kicks him out and slams the phone. He called the woman again the next day, and the next day again, and the days that followed.His interest (and contempt for her) increased in proportion to the number of rejections he received.

until finally, irritatedly the woman agreed to drink together at a local bar,

“just so you don't bother me” anymore.

And maybe there wouldn't have been anything between them had there not been a spaghetti incident. In the meeting, they tried hard to build a conversation relationship that was too grandiose and unpleasant. The discussions were punctuated by embarrassing silence and a sometimes high tone of voice as the woman began to lecture her on the Israeli government's treatment of Palestinians. After that Ben-Roi replied that the Palestinians deserve what they have got. Actually they were just about to leave the bar, realizing that they had nothing in common, that the night was nowhere to go, when suddenly a waiter bumped into the man, making a plate of pasta covered in sauce spilled over his white shirt. The woman laughed loudly; the man rebuked her, but then laughed too, loving this witty situation.

It was at the same time that something finally splashed between them, like a match that jolted in the darkness, prompting shadows. The waiter lent him a T-shirt, which lightened their mood because the shirt was too tight on his body and had a logo that was no longer shameful, GAY AND GROUP. By accepting an offer to drink as compensation, they returned to his desk and began a new conversation, this time away from talking about politics and only talking about themselves, their backgrounds and interests, and family exploring.

The woman worked as an editor at a small publishing company that specialized in children's poetry and books, devoting three nights a week to volunteering working with B’Tselem, an Israeli human rights organization. The daughter of one of the most decorated war heroes of her country, she is now a member of the Labour Knesset.

She grew up in a kibbutz on the northern side of the Galilee, the youngest of three sisters. Both of her sisters are married and have children.

“I too!” i'm Ben-Roi. “All the men in my family are farmers. Dad was so agitated as soon as I expressed my desire to be a cop. Although not as scary as he thought if he could see me now.” He glanced at the Kaos. The woman laughed.

“So, what makes you want to be a fascist regime apparatus?” ask the girl.

“Al Pacino, believe it or not?”

“Al Pacino?”

“Well, the movie he made.”

The woman raised her hand. “Let me guess!” Shut up for a moment, then, “Serpico.”

The man's eyes were wide open. “How do you know?”

“That's one of my favorite movies.”

“You're the only person I've met ever seen that movie! I like that movie. I remember the first time I watched it, on TV, when I was fourteen. I was thinking, ‘I want like that’. Like Al Pacino. did a good thing, made something different. I met him once, after graduating from the police academy. We took a picture together. Body turns out small.”

The man then took a sip of wine and their eyes met each other again, just for a moment but enough for each to know that something was going on within them. Later in life, Ben-Roi recalls the first encounter, the recognition of the same feeling, as one of the most perfect moments of his life.

They remained at the bar for nearly three hours, chatting and chatting, probing more deeply about each other, gently opening their cover, before, as the woman suggested, the woman had, turning to the small restaurant he knew in the Armenian Region of the Old City, they ate soujuk and khaghoghi derev and drank a bottle of red wine that was rather bitter and fragrant. Afterwards, half drunk they went down an unused road, throwing strange timid glances without saying much, passing through the Jewish Quarter and then back down the road, through Mauristan and finally to the New Gate, the place where they had their last coffee at the cafe was open until late at night and the man presented him with white lilies which he picked up from a vase at the corner counter of the cafe.

“Thank you,” he said, hugging the flower on his chest. “Great once.” they come out and say goodbye to each other. The great moon was above them like an orange in a deep pond filled with black water.

He has a strong urge to bend over and kiss her, but he is resistant, not wanting to spoil the moment or atmosphere.

The woman had no such doubts, and, ignoring the hand that had been extended to her, she held the man's shoulder, tiptoed on his toes and kissed the man's lips full of desire.

“forgive me!” exclaimed the woman, pulling away, with sparkling eyes.

“I can't help myself. I guess this must be because of the after-shave perfume you're wearing.”

“I don't think it's because of my handsome face.” The woman kissed him again, this time more gently, slowly, stressing her body on the man's body.

“You're great once.”

“Then, maybe it's time for eye test.” The woman smiled and extended a hand, touching the man's chin, nose and cheeks.They stayed that way for quite a long time and stared at each other. Then, with their last embrace of separation, agree to meet again in the next few nights. When the man walked away, the woman called out to him.

“Open your eyes, Arieh. Look what's going on in this country. I want you to do that. Because it poisons us all.

And without us doing something to change it, then there is no future there. Not for Israel, not for us. Not for anyone. Open your eyes. Yes?”

After weeks and months, as their relationship grew deeper and deeper, as the love for her grew inside, she did what she asked, seeing things he never wanted to see, asking questions he never wanted to ask, it caused deep pain, this awakening, confusion and uncertainty. But Arieh followed her instructions, because he loved her, and trusted her, and knew that deep down she was helping him to grow, to become a better person.

And then, after all that, despite all that, they had killed him.the ones he defended and fought so hard, which was the reason he protected them wholeheartedly. blowing up her legs, smashing her face, a beautiful face, gentle and full of laughter.then now, while standing alone in the tomb, staring into the tombstone, the, it appears to Ben-Roi that the future they dream of, a future full of peace, mutual understanding, hope and light, is nothing more than an empty delusion. And, like a thirsty desert traveler who bears the agony of watching a longed oasis evaporate before his eyes, is nothing more than a trick of light, he only wished he could close his eyes and never fall into his old illusions.

He stopped singing his song, his fingers painted a silver menorah hanging on his chest, the little thing the woman gave him that he always held. Then, after bowing and kissing the gravestone once more, he stepped out of the cemetery.

As he neared the bottom of the hill, he met someone in a yarmulke and tallit standing next to a pair of tombs that were somewhat separated from the others, in their own plot of land. The figure's back was facing him, and it was only when he passed by that he realized that the man was indeed Baruch har-zion. He turns his head slowly and their eyes meet in a very short time, each nodding his head in respect of his whereabouts, before Ben-Roi turns around and continues his journey towards the gate at the bottom of the cemetery, when he meets Har-zion's bodyguard, Avi Steiner is leaning against the wall. Again, their eyes meet in a very short time, a faint nod of respect, then Ben-Roi disappears on the road and returns towards the Old City, where he is, while looking for a place to get a drink before heading to the station to start working hours.