Why, when I see a dead man stretched out on the ground,

Do I believe it’s someone thinking?

At the end of the visit, at a meeting between the guest writers and Israeli writers of all persuasions, the words of the well-known Israeli writer and activist Yehudit Harel — as communicated by the news agencies to those of us who weren’t there — seemed the most daring and clear. In defending Saramago and attacking his critics among the Israeli intelligentsia, she said, “Perhaps there never really was an ‘Israeli peace camp.’ Even if we suppose the opposite, we now know for sure that it vanished two years ago, probably because of the misuse of words and because of the idea that dominates our thinking specifically that makes us speak of ourselves and of the Palestinians as though we are moving in a vicious circle of mutual violence, for which the responsibility falls on both parties equally.”

Yehudit Harel went on to say, “I wish to protest against this false balance and this abuse of language. The circle of violence is not formed of two equal sides. One side is the Occupier and the other is the victim of our occupation. Nevertheless, we still apply the word ‘violence’ to every outburst of Palestinian resistance, to every battle for liberation to which they have recourse, and to every act of resistance to our occupation. This is not violence. It is legitimate rebellion.”

Later, the visit will be documented in a film called Writers on the Borders, which ends with Yehudit Harel’s plea to this delegation of people of letters from every corner of the world: “I trust in you, when you return to your countries, to help us rid ourselves of these dishonest mythologies, of which we have become ourselves the victims.”

8. The Alhambra

The moment he opened the door of the apartment to me to show me around, I was assaulted by the color red — the wall-to-wall carpeting was red and on it squatted a large couch with, arranged around it, four chairs of the sort that are almost too heavy to move. These were red too. The curtains were (by way of a change) pink. The bedroom was brown and had a balcony that looked out over a kitchen garden in which were a mulberry tree, a loquat tree, a lemon tree, and a spacious old single-story house. The kitchen was a reasonable size and from it a wide passageway led to a surprisingly elegant bathroom. From the neighbors’ kitchen garden rose the voice of Fayrouz:

Give him my greetings

And tell him that I greet him,

You who understand his ways.

Greet him from me,

Greet him.

Then I heard the sound of a piano trying to pick out the song; the player was clearly just a beginner. I decided to take the apartment. Next day I fetched my suitcase from the Yasmin Building and took up residence in what I would call ‘the Alhambra.’ I went to a shop to buy houseplants and picked out a tall bush with dense elongated leaves like those of a mango. I asked where it was from and the salesman told me Thailand and gave me its difficult name, which I forgot despite my best attempts. I put it in the corner of the living room closest to the window, where it was the only thing in the furnished apartment that I owned and had chosen for myself, and it immediately claimed me as its owner. It grew fast, as did our friendly, familiar, and sociable relationship.

I took up my duties at the foundation.

I observed the Namiq and his doings firsthand. I don’t need to go into detail as the Namiq is himself the detail. The Namiq is an indestructible survivor, because he has fashioned himself to fit the preferences of the Authority and the Authority has fashioned the Namiq to fit its preferences. The Namiqs returning from Tunis sought out the resident Namiqs and extended their hands to them, along with opportunities and profits. Thus was formed the alliance that is the last and worst thing that a liberation movement needs. I had agreed to be director of the foundation for a year and from the first weeks it became obvious that it was consumed from the inside by financial corruption — falsified invoices, salaries for non-existent employees, allowances, per diems for journeys never made, and seventy employees to do work that needed twenty at most. As usual, corruption won, albeit only partially this time. I tried and neither succeeded totally nor failed totally. In the current delicate Palestinian situation, this must be considered total failure.

Life teaches us a lesson that cannot be ignored: it isn’t enough for some of the players in the orchestra to do their work well; it’s either collective excellence or cacophony. If that’s true of music, how much more so must it be when an entire people wishes to bring life itself back from its hiding place, so they can know it and live it?

I placed a pile of forged and suspect invoices on the table of the project’s financial director and asked him to take the necessary steps vis-à-vis the payees. He advised me to sign them for payment.

I presented my resignation, which was refused, so I called a meeting where I said, “I am the weakest person at this meeting. I have no party, no faction, no one in what you call ‘the government’ to protect me, and no clique anywhere to support me. But I do have this” and I raised my pen in my right hand for all of them to see.

The next day, I went into my office and could hardly recognize it.

A set of black leather chairs.

New curtains,

A new computer,

A laser printer,

A new carpet.

They were running a test. Would a new office be enough to make him shut up?

I presented my resignation and left for Amman the same day without waiting for a reply.

After numerous intercessions from persons I respect who promised to bring pressure to bear to improve things, I reluctantly returned after thirty-five days of absence.

Things changed for the better for two or three months and then the collusion with theft started again. The end of the project brought true relief. By the time I returned to Cairo, any hope I might have had that things would straighten themselves out under this Authority had vanished.

My residence in Ramallah for a number of successive months (the period of my protest resignation excluded) had allowed me to observe the political and economic kitchen from the inside, and what I’d seen wasn’t pretty. I told myself that my chronic opposition had been totally justified and I’d been unjust to none. I had upbraided myself for my isolation and my dedication to reading and writing but now, after having been granted this further opportunity to experience government practice from the inside, I decided to respect my voluntary isolation and maintain it forevermore.

This time I returned to my isolation with an easy conscience.

The Namiqs will continue to be masters of the hidden and the public world and this will last forever.

My near daily battles to stop the squandering of money made me enemies, who would fight me with a look, or words, or by trying to do me harm. Those who should have cared and whom I asked for support demonstrated their expertise at evasion and flight. I stopped asking them for anything.

Once more I depart.

Once more I withdraw.

Once more I flee.

Once more I’m too much of a coward to butt heads with the bastards.

I say a thing and its opposite at one and the same time. I tell myself I’m a coward and not strong enough to butt heads with them. Then I say that I’m not a bull that I should charge other bulls and that I refuse to be made into a bull. I want to accept the situation like a proper man or oppose it like a proper man.