Selected Detective
QUEYERAM VILLAGE

“THE PALESTINIAN PEOPLE ARE OUR BROTHERS BECAUSE OF GOD. Remember this always. Their suffering is not far away or abstract. It is our suffering too. When their house was demolished by the bulldozer, it was the same as our bulldozer. When women are persecuted, it is the same with our women who are persecuted. When their children are slaughtered, it means our beloved children are slaughtered.”

The loud and fiery voice of Sheikh Umar Abdul Karim resounded around the village mosque, a simple room with whitewashed walls and a dome on its roof decorated with a circle of colored glass, filter and soften the strong morning sun so that the space below it is sufficiently illuminated with sub-aquatic dim light, all in a hue of blue, green and gray fog. Several dozen men, mostly young, fel-laheen, dressed in djellaba and imma, prostrated themselves on the floor covered in pedestals watching the speaker in his pulpit, their hands laid on their laps, and their hands, their eyes were blazing with anger and arrogance. Khalifa waited by the door behind the room, not inside nor outside, as her fingers played pens in her jacket pocket.

“It is our duty as Muslims to oppose yehudi-een with all the strength we have,” continued the Shaykh, his voice shrill sharply, his thin fingers clenched and punching in the air. “Because they are an ignorant nation; a greedy nation, a liar, and a murderer, the enemy of Islam. Was it not the Jews who rejected the glorious Prophet Muhammad when he came to Yathrib? Does the holy Quran not condemn them for their wickedness and disloyalty? Did the Zion Protocol not contain their desire to rule the world, and make us all slaves?”

He was an old man, with a thick beard and a hunchback, dressed in dark quftan and a head peci with simple stitches, with cheap plastic glasses perched on the stem of his nose. He himself had long been barred from preaching in Luxor perhaps more because of his antisemitic stance, Khalifa surmised, rather than his vocal attacks on corruption in government and limiting his activities to a small, remote village, traveling from village to village, peddling his own Islamic fundamentalist stamp.

“So there should be no deal with the zionist,” he shouted, smashing his arthritic fist at the end of the pulpit.

“Are you guys talking to the sizzling cobra snake?

Are you friends with a bull that butts? Better they be cursed, cast out, thrown out of the face of the earth like the plague as they really are. This is our duty as Muslims. As the holy Quran says, “We have prepared a reprehensible punishment for the infidels. We have prepared hell as a prison for the disbelievers.”

The sound of a sign of agreement from the listeners in front of him. A young boy with fine moss-like hair on his chin and upper lip was about fourteen or fifteen years old, no older than that punched his fist in the air and shouted, “Al-maut li jewiyyi-in! die the Jews!”

Immediately his appeal was greeted by other members of the congregation until the whole room shook with a unison: “mati! die! die!”

Khalifa looked at them attentively, her mouth tightly locked, then, shaking her head, she turned towards the courtyard of the mosque and put on her shoes which she had left there along with those of other worshippers, neatly laid out like a row of cars in a dusty traffic queue.

He remained silent for a while longer, sharpening his hearing because behind him the Shaykh invited the pilgrims to jihad, Holy War against the nation of Israel and all its allies, then stepped out enjoying the morning sunlight.

Khalifa was so fed up with what she had just heard.

How not? using the teachings of the Holy Prophet to incite violence and hatred, quoting the Quran as justification for bigotry, prejudice, and intolerance is what he is about to go all-out, with every cell and muscle in his body. And yet the infidels. We have prepared hell as a prison for the disbelievers.”

Doesn't any part of him agree with that?

Part of him who, upon hearing the news of a Palestinian being killed by Israel, another family became homeless, fruit orchards bulldozed, also wanted to clench fists into the air, yelling for revenge and destruction, humming “dead, dead, dead!” with his muslim brothers? He sighed and lit his cigarette, crouching in the thin shadow area next to the door of the mosque. Never before has he experienced such confusion and unrest, about where he really is, what he believes in, what he should believe in. Even when he was in the saddest times of poverty in his youth, the deaths of both his parents and brother, his studies at Cairo University were left behind there was always certainty, a speck of truth from solidity and certainty. But now, every step in this investigation, every path that carries it Jewish, Israeli, fundamentalist seems to be opening a wider rift in his sensitivity. ‘but always what you fear.’ That's what Zenab said to him. ‘And always look for what you don't understand. Because that's how you grow up and become a better person.’ But he did not feel himself developing. On the contrary, its repulsive impression is that everything within it is crumbling and breaking like glass splattered into a set of jagged and contradictory constituent parts. Even when the case was finally closed, he doubted he would be able to put it back together again as a recognizable whole.

Khalifa pulled out her cigarette and saw a dusty road in front of the mosque. The village is only twenty kilometers north of Luxor, but as it has become another world, the dilapidated and slovenly settlements and shrubby animal prisons, the, the building behind it is the only stable and permanent building. With his city attire and a less prominent feature of pale complexion, straight hair he was thrown like a thumb wound on darker skin, the inhabitants of Saidee dressed traditionally, and the, something that only adds to a sense of isolation and restlessness.

“Damn,” he curses sadly. “Truly damn.”

The next twenty minutes passed before the sermon finally came to the closing. Pilgrims say the word shahadah, and then echo “Assalamualaikum warahmatullah.” And began to walk out onto the front porch, crammed and pushed each other to take each other's footwear. Khalifa stood up and, opening her shoes again, placed them in the courtyard and barged through the crowd towards the inside of the mosque, while ignoring the suspicious looks of some of the people around her.

The shaykh has now come down from his podium and is standing in the interior of the room, leaning on his staff, speaking with passion to a small group of his followers. Khalifa knew full well of the dangers involved in confronting him like this: a few years ago his supporters beat up a pair of undercover policemen trying to infiltrate a meeting near the qift. The choice was to come to him in a truck full of people in uniform and physically bring the old man to the accusation, a provocative act that, with the popularity of the Shaykh and the independent nature of this far-off village, it is sure to provoke a fuss. Khalifa prefers to take choices that do not burn too much, even if they do contain personal risks.

He paused for a moment at the door, then walked to the center of the room. His steps did not sound on the carpet floor. He was almost at the side of the group before anyone noticed his presence. The group of men fell silent and looked towards him.

“Shaikh omar?”

The old man looked up, glancing over from behind his glasses.

“My name is Inspector Yusuf Khalifa. I'm from the Luxor Police Station.”

The congregation shifted slightly, as they approached the leader, suspicion spread among them like the heat of a burning mine. Shaykh looked at Khalifa, his body tilted slightly, like a tree in the wind.

“You're here to arrest me?” he asked, more happy than caring.

“I'm here to talk to you,” Khalifa said.

“About a man named Piet Jansen.”

There was a sharp hiss from one in the congregation, a person with a large figure and half-closed eyes with spots on the upper cheeks.

“Yes kalb!” He cursed. “You dog! It's a holy man! How dare you insult him like this!” The man stepped closer, his shoulders wide open.

Khalifa knew better and wiser than to face the challenge, but also realized that retreating would be a recognition of the weaknesses she was fighting for to win. He stood up, simultaneously raising his hand, his palm stretched out, to show that he did not mean to cause trouble. There was a momentary tension; then, slowly, Khalifa reached into her pocket, taking out an envelope with a brochure inside. As if offering a bone to a dog, he pointed the brochure at the Shaykh.

“You sent this to Mr. Jansen,” he said.

The silent atmosphere was disturbing. Then with a faint nod, the Sheikh had the man with the mottled face take the envelope and give it to him. He flipped the envelope, read the address on the front page.

“This is not my handwriting,” he said, looking up.

He was playing a chase, making Khalifa want to catch him.

“I'm not interested in who wrote the envelope,” the detective interrupted. “I'm interested in why this was sent.” Another of the group, a small man with a white scarf, took the envelope from Shaykh's hand and returned it to Khalifa.

“You didn't hear it? This isn't his handwriting. How does he know why this envelope was sent?”

“Because a brochure about one of his meetings would not have been sent to an infidel like Jansen without his consent,” Khalifa said, while receiving the envelope and keeping it in his pocket. “As he knows well.”

His tone was sharper than he wanted, more confrontational, and his followers were displeased. Again they disagreed. This time their murmurs were like flames touching a dry bush, enlarging into a cry, closing in on Khalifa, yelling at her, pushing her body. Their anger is like a fanned fire and drives the anger of others. Shaykh tapped his staff steadily on the side of the podium. The sound of wood meeting the wood rang out in the room like an eruption of a weapon.

“Khalas!” he bluffs. “Enough!” As soon as the crowd dispersed, the men retreated to the edge, leaving Khalifa and Shaykh facing each other.

Silent for a while, it was solved only by the sound of a donkey outside. Then, the Shaykh waved at his followers.

“Leave us.” The freckle-faced man was about to protest, but the Shaykh repeated his command and, grumbling, the men came out of the mosque, muttering to each other. As soon as they were all invisible, the old man took the Koran from the podium and went to the wall where he lowered his body and sat on a pillow lying on the floor of the mosque.

“You are if not very stupid of course very brave coming like this,” he said while putting his book and stick next to him, then folding his long and thin legs into a cross-legged position. “A little of both, perhaps. Though more stupid than brave, I guess. And haughty. Like all cops.” He took the Koran again and began to open its pages. Khalifa approached and crouched down before her, brushing off the fly that flew over her head and was now making a number 8 in the air. The donkey still neighs outside.

“You disagree with my sermon?” ask the old man, while still flipping through the pages of the Koran. Khalifa shrugged, not expressing any opinion.

“Please answer my question.”

“Ya,” said detective. His voice sounded less steady than he wanted. “I think it is.. ghair Islam. Not Islamic.” Shaykh smiled. “You like the Jews?”

“I didn't come here for...” Shaykh raised his hand, cutting Khalifa's sentence.

Khalifa had the uneasy feeling that, although the old man's eyes were fixed on the scriptures in his lap, at the same time he was staring directly at her, seeing not his physical form but everything in his mind, his thoughts, his feelings. He changed his position a little.

“You muslim?” Khalifa muttered yes impatiently.

“But you like Jews.”

“I don't think the two things are contradictory.”

“So you really like Jews?”

“I don't .. not that..” The detective brushes the fly back, confused and resentful of himself for being lured into a conversation he didn't want. The shaykh continued to open the pages of the Koran, a yellowish paper that produced a whispering and dry voice under his fingers. He finally arrived at the letter he had been looking for. He put his finger on the text and, while turning the book, showed it to Khalifa.

“Please read it to me.”

“This is not what I...”.

“only one verse. Come on, read it.” Khalifa lazily held onto the scriptures, realizing that if she wanted any information from this old man, then she had no choice but to obey the rules of the game. The text is about half below the page, from the fifth letter of Al-ma’idah, “meja”. The detective looked at her and bit her lip.

“O you who believe,” he read, fast and without tone, as if to finish the reading as soon as possible, distancing himself with what the Quran says, “Do not make Jews or Christians friends; they are friends with each other; but whoever among you is their friend, he must be one of them.” The shaykh agreed. “You heard that? These are the words of the holy prophet Muhammad. Clear and unambiguous. Friends with Jews, with those of different religions, sympathizing with them, feeling anything to them other than this hatred, disgust, and dispossession contrary to the will of Almighty God, praise His name.

He raised his trembling hand, and took the book back. The detective wanted to argue back, telling him that it was not Islam that he knew and loved, wanting to quote another text that spoke well of the scribe, appreciating them. But somehow his mind suddenly went blank and did not find the necessary words. Or maybe not want to find it. Shaykh noticed the troubled facial expression on Khalifa's face and smiled. Not entirely sweet.

“To Be a Muslim” is to surrender to the will of the Almighty,” said, while closing the Quran and gently rubbing its face cover. “This is the meaning of Islam. If you don't surrender, you can't be a Muslim. Accept it or take another.black or white, light or dark. No middle way.” He touched the scripture to his lips and placed it on his lap.

“Now, you said you wanted to talk about sais Jansen.”

Khalifa raised her arms to her forehead that was soaked in sweat, while trying to put her mind together. After what was just said, this investigation felt increasingly distant, becoming part of a separate reality.

“Mr Jansen was killed two weeks ago,” murmured, the fly still flying around on top of his head. The sound of his hum was unbearably loud, filling his head. “We are investigating certain peculiarities in his lifestyle. I found your brochure inside his house. It seems strange for a man like him to receive this brochure. A heathen. Not your followers.”

“So?” urge Khalifa. “why did you send this to her?”

The old man continued massaging his ankles, his fingers scratching the cracked skin of his feet.

“Base-basis.”

“Base-basis?”

“Sais Jansen is already so .. generous. It would seem honorable if we told you that we were paying attention to it.” Khalifa's mind was starting to clear up now; the case was starting to look bright again. As if ignored by the sharpening focus of his attention, the fly flew away and began to smash itself into the small window at the end of the room.

“Conscious how?”

“He has made a donation. To one of our projects.”

“What project?” Shaykh stopped massaging his ankles, then folded his hands over his lap.His eyes moved down until he looked directly at Khalifa.

“To help our people who are suffering because of the Zionist colonization,” said, in a somewhat accusatory tone, as if by failing to acknowledge the presence of unworthy hatred towards the Jews, Khalifa, in some way, as if by failing to acknowledge the existence of unworthy hatred towards the Jews, he has united himself with the enemy of Islam.

“What kind of help?” The shaykh is still looking at him.

“We collect money. We sent it to Palestine. For food, clothes, school books. Alms business. Nothing illegal.”

“Dan Jansen is a contributor?”

“He contacted us. six weeks ago, two months. To make a donation.”

“Just like that all of a sudden?” Shaykh shrugged his shoulders. “We were also very surprised. A heathen came to us like that. He approached one of my worshippers in Luxor and said he wanted to help us. He asked if he could talk to me. I don't usually mix with people like this. However, in this case he offered a huge amount of money. Five thousand pounds egypt.”

Khalifa whistled small. What does Jansen mean by giving some of that money to men like the Shaykh?

“You met him?” tanyakanya.

The old man nodded, raised his wrinkled hands and stroked his beard.

“Dan?”

“And nothing. We talked. He said he had heard what we were doing for Palestine, he admired it and wanted to help us. Cash. Who am I to reject this?” Khalifa's feet began to itch after being cross-legged for so long. He straightened his body, stretching.

“But why did he come to you? There are dozens of organizations that raise funds for Palestine. Which is already steadily standing and legitimized. why approach..”.

Shaykh smiled. “people with a reputation like me?”

“Accurate once. Jansen would have known the risks, that being seen with you would have put him in a lot of trouble. Then he suddenly appeared, gave you all this money, and asked for nothing in return.”

Khalifa still stretched for a moment longer, felt her knees, then was stunned by a sudden flash of thought, and stopped.

“Does he want something in return?”

The shaykh said nothing, just looked at him. A faint smile expanded at the corner of his mouth, like an indentation left on the sand due to the receding current. Khalifa was back in front of him.

“Does he want anything?” he repeated, still no answer. This detective's pulse is starting to feel faster.

“He does want something, ‘kan? Whahuh? What does he want?”

Shaykh tilted his head first to the left side, then to the right, the spine of his neck clicked like the sound of a key, his gaze never separated from Khalifa's face.

“My help to contact al-mulatham.”

Khalifa's eyes widened, flabbergasted.

“You're serious?”

“For what am I lying? This is what he asked of me.”

Khalifa was sitting limp on her heels, head shaking.

Every time he felt himself approaching inches at Jansen some new information emerged that left him even further away from the man than before. Like a hunter who, after settling around very carefully, was already within shooting range of his prey, suddenly bounced back again.

“Why?” tanyanya. “why does he want to contact al-mulatham?”

Shaykh shrugged his shoulders. “He said al-mulatham had something that could help him. Weapons he could use to attack Jews. Something that can make them sick.”

Outside there was a loud clinking sound as someone started banging on metal. Khalifa barely noticed the sound.

“What kind of weapon?”

The shaykh raised his hand. “This one he didn't say. He told me he was dying, he didn't have much time to live. He wanted it in the hands of someone who would use it well. That's what he said. Someone who will use it to hurt Jews.”

The clanking sound stopped for a moment, then started again, even louder. The voice echoed around the inside of the mosque.

“You helped him?”

Shaykh grunting. “What, you think I have a mulatham address? Her number? You think I could just call her right away? I did admire the man, Inspector; I was happy every time he took the life of the Israelites; if we met, I would hug him and call him my brother. But, who he is and where he is, I know no more than you.”

He took off the glasses and began wiping them with his hem made of quftan, while turning the material gently and slowly on the lens of the glasses. Outside, the blow to the metal had already stopped, making the mosque back into silence like water.

“I gave him a number of names of people I knew in Gaza,” the man said at last, having finished wiping his glasses. “That's the least I can do after he makes a donation.”

“Dan? Did he contact those people?”

“I don't know. I don't want to know either. I had nothing to do with him after that first meeting. And if you ask, I will not betray my Palestinian friends by naming them to you.”

He looked at Khalifa, then straightened his legs, took his staff with one hand and the quran with the other, then tried to stand up. Only half of it, he stopped, in pain. As she stood up herself, Khalifa grabbed the elbow and helped her stand up, respecting the older man helped reduce her dislike for the old man's opinion. As soon as he stood up straight, the Shaykh cleared his quft and started walking. At the door he turned.

“Remember, inspector: there is light and there is darkness, Islam and emptiness. There is no middle way. There is no compromise. It's time you made a choice.”

He looked Khalifa in the eye, then left the mosque.

The interview is over.

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