Selected Detective
AMBUSH AT ALMARI I CAMP

The man stared at the star in the sky, twirling the pigtail on his keffiyeh with one of his fingers. “You know what my father told me? That the Holy Land is a mirror of the entire world. When this land is sick, so is the world. And when this land is peaceful, then, and only that, there will be hope anywhere.

Next to him was a second, older figure, also staring at the sky, with a cigar sandwiched between his teeth. The light at the tip of his cigar alternates between dim red and orange as he sucks it slowly.

“Your father is alive?” The younger man shook his head. “Died in 1984. By Ketziot.

Your dad?” The man with the cigar cigarette also shook his head.

“Six Tenth Seventy. The Golan Heights. Bullet through her stomach.” They were silent, each one immersed in his own thoughts. The deserts around them were shaded and calm, rusty shutters rattling behind them like giant night bug babbles. The bright stars above their heads, split the sky into instant shards before vanishing back. Strange stone formations were seen in the shadows, like claws that emerged from a deep and dark pond. Far away there, a surprised bird suddenly shot into the air, squeaking loudly.

“You think this will really work?” the young man asked at the end, raising his hand and rubbing his eyes. “You really thought we'd be able to persuade him?” His friend shrugged, saying nothing.

“Sometimes I worry we're too late. Ten years ago, even five years later, perhaps, this would have been possible. But now, after all those events..” He sighs.

His head drooped sadly to his chest. The man with the cigar looked at him for a moment, then stepped closer and placed his hand on his friend's shoulder.

“Selling it will always be the toughest part. This he nodded his head towards the building that was behind them was never more than the first step. But now, we have taken steps that we inevitably have to continue. We gotta. For yourfather. For my daughter's sake.

For the sake of the people we both.” The young man looked up. For a moment his face was empty, heavy; then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he smiled.

“Who has thought about it, eh? You and me, meet here like lovers!” The smoker smiled as well.

“If we can do it, everyone can. How about we go to Jerusalem one more time, just to make sure?”

The young man nodded and, turning around, both of them stepped towards the building, with their arms above the shoulders of the others.

ATTACK IN ALMARI CAMP

“You want me to take you to where?” The taxi driver looks at Ben-Roi suspiciously.

“Kamp Al-Amari. Road Al-Din.” The driver shook his head, his fingers tapping nervously at the steering of Peugeot.

“This is across the line. You are Israeli. Hazard.”

“I need a vehicle, not a lecture,” grumbled Ben-Roi, in a state of not wanting to discuss. “You want to drive me or I'll find another taxi? The choice is yours. Fast.” The driver bit his lip, found it difficult to choose between wanting to earn money and not hopefully taking the Israelites in his cab. Eventually, economic troubles prevailed, and with a reluctant nod he tilted his body and opened the passenger door.

“You want to Al-Amari, I take you to Almari,” he muttered. “That's your grave.”

Ben-Roi enters the cab cabin and they dart, in silence, down the Derekh Ha-Shalom road to the Jerusalem-Ramallah freeway and speed northward, out of town. The new Jewish suburban area of Pisgat Ze’ev stretches on their right side, uniform yellow stone housing lined up on the landscape like a front row of a large army. Ben-Roi looks at her through the open car window, her hair waving in the wind. His empty and calm face implied the uneasiness he felt deep within his stomach.

This driver was indeed dangerous for someone like himself to cross the line. An Israeli police officer, alone, in PA-controlled territory, in this kind of political climate is really dangerous. Another option is to involve the Palestinian authorities, or call Military Operations full of armored cars and God knows the rest, both of which can keep it delayed for days. And the pain in his stomach was too intense for that. He was eager to know what happened to the house burning attack. With a little luck he could have gone in and out without anyone noticing. And if it doesn't.... He raised his hand and touched his jacket, feeling the metallic gusset of his Jericho pistol that made him calm down.

They reached the Kalandia Checkpoint and were at the back of the traffic queue, queuing for twenty minutes before finally making it through and spurring the vehicle, the road here, in the Palestinian section, perforated and uneven, the building is slovenly, cheap and messy, and, it is as if they not only cross the boundary between two areas of the same State but are more of a boundary into an entirely different and poorer area. Three kilometers had they passed towards the second checkpoint, this time the Palestinians were just a few drums of oil arranged haphazardly on the road, in the care of a dull-looking police guard in a Red Beret before they finally turn left from the main freeway towards the side of a ramps road that leads to a dingy building of gray concrete and the cinder blocks, all stacked on top of the others were like mounds of bones that were bleached due to the sun.

The driver slowed down and stopped.

“Welcome to Al-Amari,” he said.

They were silent for a moment, watching the scene, then walked straight down, pausing to ask a boy with dusty hair for directions before moving into the camp area, an already fragile gray building surrounds them, its elderly male inhabitants with Keffiyeh, a group of Shebab wandering around a street corner throwing suspicious glances at them as they pass by, cars rolling on a hollow road. Electric cable embellishments hang overhead; multicolored Arabic doodles cover every inch of space on the walls of Hamas, Al-Mulatham, Matila Israel, Victory for the Intifada with a line of posters here and there containing images of local suicide martyrs.

“What the hell am I doing in this shit hole?” Ben-Roi thinks to himself, resisting the urge to tell the driver to turn around and quickly get out of there. “I must have gone mad.” The further they went, the deeper and deeper, the narrower the streets became and harder to negotiate. Ben-Roi's feelings were more agitated, until finally, after a century of feeling when in fact it was no more than a few minutes, they circled a sharp corner and stopped in front of an alley, which is full of garbage and demolished building materials.

“Al-Din,” says driver. “What number are you going to?”

“Two.” The man slid his body out the window and looked towards the alley. “Itu.” He pointed to a heavy steel door, the first on the left, on which was a large Arabic figure painted white.

“You want me to wait?”

“Ya, of course,” said Ben-Roi, while getting out of the car.

He looked around, nervous, imagining the eyes staring at him and the whispers. Then, while making sure of his Jericho and checking if his phone was on, he stepped into the alley, breaking through a pile of old paint cans and garbage bags. The door that the driver pointed at was slightly open, the sound of television was heard from the inner room. He approached the door and knocked.

“Aiwa, Udkhul, Al-bab Maftuh.” A female voice sounded from within, seemingly old. Ben-Roi hesitates, not understanding what he just said.

“Udhul!” He remained doubtful, suspecting that he might be asked to enter, but was unsure. Shut up for a moment, then another voice sounded, this time male, younger.

“La, la, Istani Hinnaak, Yes Umi. Ana rai’h.” With a thin hiss, like a bicycle being ridden on the floor, and the door was opened. A young man in his late twenties or early thirties, skinny as a stick, in jeans and a red Manchester United shirt was sitting in front of him, her lower body is tied up on a wheelchair. Behind his shoulder, Ben-Roi can see a large simple room with a ceramic floor, a number of framed pictures on the photo wall, a quotation of the Quran and, through the door in the back, a number of framed pictures on the photo wall, crowded kitchen area. The invisible old woman is on the right side.

“Mi-in Hinaak?” the woman said.

“Jew,” replied the young man, while looking at Ben-Roi.

“Jews! Shu Bidu?”

“Ma-ba’rif,” he replied. Then, to Ben-Roi, “What do you want?” The detective took his identity card and showed it to him.

“Jerusalem Police. I'm looking for someone named Madji.” the man's eyes are shrinking suspiciously.

“I Madji.”

“Shu bidu?” the woman's voice was again, attentive, overstretched. The young man moved his hands impatiently, signaling him to be silent.

“Ya, it's me.” Ben-Roi stared at the wheelchair.

“How long has it been ..?” the eyes of this young man lit up. “Two years. Ever since my back was broken by a rubber bullet. Rubber bullet from an Israeli. Now, what do you want here?” Ben-Roi moved restlessly.

“I need to ask you some questions.” This young man snorted. “This is Palestine area. You have no authority here.”

“Then I will call the Military here and pull you back to Jerusalem. That's what you want?” He looked at the man. “I just thought that it would be easier like this. For both of us. Informal only. Just tell me what I want to know, after that I'm gone and you won't hear anything from me anymore. It's up to you.” The young man returned Ben-Roi's gaze with a face full of antipathy and disbelief. Then, with a snort of caving, he moved his wheelchair backwards into the room. Ben-Roi follows, closing the door behind him, invisible from the street.

“Shu bidu, Madji? Shu aam Bi-mil?” The old woman was sitting on the sofa to the right of the young man, dressed in a finely embroidered and detailed Thobe, her hands closing and opening in her lap. Madji moved his wheelchair up to the woman and touched her hand, spoke quickly in Arabic, explained what was going on, and calmed herself down.

“He had a bad experience with the people of Israel,” He said, moving his wheelchair so that he now faced Ben-Roi.

“We all have bad experiences with Israelis.” The three stared at each other. The only sound is the sound of a lighted television. Then, with the weight of the young man nods towards the wooden bed that is leaned against the wall next to the door, allowing Ben-Roi to sit down.

Ben-Roi follows, while looking at the old woman first, then, sensing that the intensity of the woman's gaze was not comforting. He turned his gaze to the wall above the woman's head, where a pair of ancient Arabic legal documents hung in the frame. His property deed, he guessed. He had seen the same thing before, in the homes of other Palestinians a sad and distorted reminder of the land they once owned and remained hopeful in vain to recover it.

“What's up about Hani?” ask the young man, taking out the Marlboro cigarette box from the bag hanging on the side of his chair and pulling out one stick with his teeth.

“About drugs?” Ben-Roi shook his head.

“Then about what?”

“It's about something you did in 1990. The apartment you burned. In Old Town.” The man snorted in surprise. “That event happened fifteen years ago! I'm living my time.”

“I know you so.”

“So?”

“I want you to tell me why you did that,” said Ben-Roi. Why did you burn that flat.” The young man snorted again then, as he lit his cigarette, he moved in the room and picked up the ashtray from the top of the television, put it in balance on her knees and back again to the woman's side.

“You've traveled in vain, man. I've said it all to them back then.”

“Tell me again.”

“I was a kid back then.just for fun. Not a big deal.”

“If you want to burn Israeli property there are many easier targets than one that is right in the middle of the Jewish Territory.” Madji moved his hand no matter what. “Only courage. That's core. You're wasting your time, man.”

“Why the flat?” repeat Ben-Roi, urgent.

“I don't know! That's the only one we chose. There's no excuse. I've told them about all this.”

“You know that the woman who owned the flat was killed on the same day.” The man mumbled something.

“What?”

“We found out later. At station. We don't know that time.” He turned to the television, then, as if startled by a sudden thought, raised his head towards Ben-Roi again.

“Hey! If you try to accuse..”.

“I'm not accusing you of something.”

“Because I know a person like you who...”.

“I'm not accusing you of anything! The woman was killed in Egypt. There is no way you can get involved in it.” The young man muttered something and angrily pulled his cigarette, throwing it into an ashtray on his knee.

“You lied to me about the fire,” added Ben-Roi after being quiet for a while. “I know it, you know it. The woman was killed and two hours later someone set her flat on fire. Too coincidental, Madji. There must be something else. Another reason. Now, I want to know why you did that.”

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