I get up slowly, take the pack of cigarettes and go outside to have one. My younger brother sees me and gets up too without making a sound. The two of us light up. He’s much less scared of my father now. “If he catches me smoking out here, I’ll tell him I just started because people told me it makes you forget your hunger and thirst,” he quips, and I don’t say a word.
“What do you think?” my brother begins, and I nod and feel my whiskers with my left hand. “I don’t know, but it’s got to end. It can’t go on for even one more day.”
“What are they saying on the radio? You do still listen to the news, don’t you?”
“They aren’t saying anything. Judging by all the panels and the experts talking about Israeli Arabs, it’s obvious that there’s a big problem, because they keep referring to us as a threat, as something that calls for a solution, but they haven’t said anything about what’s happening.”
“Tell me, are they interviewing any Arabs?”
“Not a single one. Which is scary too. And it seems like everyone is in the same boat, not just our village.”
“What, even the MKs and the mayors?”
“Not a single Arab is being interviewed. Nothing. It must have something to do with the new security orders. Besides, maybe they can’t get hold of us. How can they get hold of the mayor? No chance.”
“Strange. The defense minister’s supposed to be a friend of his, isn’t he? How many plates of hummus did they share?” my brother asks.
“Yes, but if this is everybody’s problem, maybe it’s a good sign. I mean, they can’t keep all the Arab villages in this condition much longer. They’re certainly not planning to starve everyone to death. Something enormous must have happened.”
“What? Israeli Arabs got control of the Defense Ministry?”
“Something like that.”
“And maybe someone from our village is holding the prime minister hostage with a knife and they’re holding on to all of us till he’s released,” my brother says with a laugh, and this time I laugh too.
“All I know is I’ve lost a year of school,” he says.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “They’ll schedule a special makeup exam for the Arabs.”
7
My younger brother and I sit on the front steps and look out over the village, which is waking up with a start. The midday nap has run its course, and everyone’s back on their feet. All at once, as if an alarm bell has rung, the streets are crowded. First the children and then the adults. The children are hungry. Luckily for our two, we still have some food left and they don’t feel the shortages the way we do. My wife goes outside carrying the baby and shaking a bottle of formula. I restrain myself, trying not to scream at her for doing something so stupid. I whisper softly in her ear that we don’t want the whole world to know we have baby formula left. As if she’s suddenly grasped a very deep idea, she rushes back inside. But it’s too late. A neighbor has seen her and rushes over to where we’re sitting outdoors. “I beg you, I have nothing to give my children. Please let me have some milk.”
“We have barely half a carton left,” I lie to her. “Not enough for the baby for even one more day.”
“Please, just two tablespoons,” she says. “For my little one. She’s starving.”
A crowd is gathering at the entrance to our house, watching the drama unfold. “We don’t have any,” I tell her. “I wish we did.” I speak louder to make sure they can all hear me. I know perfectly well that if I give her any, even a small amount, if won’t end there. Everyone’s going to want some. “You don’t understand.” By now I’m shouting. “Leave us alone. You’re the last thing we need now.” But she persists. The short, overweight neighbor who never visited us — and we never visited her either — is suddenly convinced that we owe it to her to give her some food. It isn’t a request anymore, it’s a demand, a right we’re depriving her of. “But I saw you had food,” she yells, well aware that everyone is listening. “If I hadn’t seen it, I might believe you.”
“And I’m telling you this is all we have. Our daughter has nothing left after this bottle.”
Now my entire family joins me outside, except for my wife — the one who’s really to blame for this new development, but I can’t really take it out on her. “What do you want?” my father intervenes now. “Go away. What is this, a public spectacle?”
“Give her some milk,” someone in the crowd shouts, and I recognize the voice of the polite grocery store owner, whom we’ve known for many years. “You bought out half the store yourself,” he yells, and the neighbor confronting us draws strength from this reinforcement. She looks determined, with no intention of leaving before her demand is met. Her eyes are mean, and I get the feeling that her real aim isn’t so much to feed her children as to increase her supply of food. Hungry children cry, and we haven’t heard any of hers crying yet.
Dozens of people are standing around, waiting for the show to run its course. The neighbor yells something that we can’t make out, curses and tries to force her way into our house. “I’ll get it myself,” she yells. I grab her fat body and try to stop her. She’s very strong and I have a hard time restraining her.
“Get the hell out of here, you lunatic,” I shout, and push her backward, but she tries again. More people are approaching the door now, trying to get in as well. My heart is pounding. My brothers block the entrance as the number of trespassers grows. I can’t keep them out and they’re going to break into the house. I feel stifled and flushed. With one hand, I push away the ugly neighbor and hate her more than anything in the world. And I think about my wife and how I’m going to let her have it later. I clench my fist, lower my right hand and shove it as hard as I can into the neighbor’s stomach. She recoils in pain, grasping her middle. I can hear myself scream.
Mother gets behind us, cursing at the top of her lungs and brandishing a broomstick. I take it from her and use it to push away anyone who comes near us. I would never have thought myself capable of using such force. I’ve never had to be violent before. I push children down on the ground. I force my way to the front, leaving my brothers behind, and charge at the crowd, which keeps growing, though only a few of them actually try to get inside the house. I wave the stick at them and shout, “I’ll kill you. I’ll bury anyone who tries to get any closer.” And I pounce on them with the stick. It deters them a bit and they retreat. “Get out of here, you dogs. We have nothing. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Now my younger brother comes out and takes his place by my side with a spade in his hand, threatening to hit anyone who dares come closer. Some of the people start throwing stones at us and at the house. One of the stones hits me in the hand, and I stand there in a puddle of sewage feeling the pain in my hand and watching the stones fly in our direction. I know I have nothing to lose. Not that I have much time to think, but instead of the stones scaring me they only make me more angry and I run toward the stone-throwers, with my brother close behind. I yell as loud as I can and smash the broomstick down on the back of a little boy, who falls into the sewage. The others retreat, but the barrage of stones grows stronger and they’re hitting me all over, but that doesn’t stop me either. One of the stones hits me right in the mouth, and I lunge ahead.
A heavy round of shots causes everyone to stop. The people facing the house bend over and put their hands to their ears. They’re no longer throwing stones. I turn my head and see that my brothers are bending over and covering their ears too. I’m the only one still standing there, with my stick, breathing heavily, my chest rising and falling faster than ever and the blood dripping from my mouth onto my shirt. Two of the armed thugs from the morning’s victory march form a barrier between me and the crowd. They wave their weapons high in the air and shout, “What’s going on here? Enough!” And the crowd, ready to obey the new forces in control, shout out, “They have food.”