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- Herausgeber: epubli
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
"At the same time eight year old Abdul heard a familiar hissing noise. He had heard the sound several times before. But never as close, as loud and as short. He and his little brother hadn't yet fully turned around when they saw the two missiles. After that they didn't perceive anything for a long time. The explosion tore the two brothers apart and severed them from everything they loved – forever. Even time had abandoned the moment." ––––– Middle East. Senator Reeds, a multi-billionaire, has big plans. His aim: to substitute a useless peace summit with a promising economic summit. He regards the availability of drinking water as the key to resolving the conflict between Israel and Palestine. Hence his international consortium undertakes further research in improving the treatment of sea water. Money and power for the benefit of humankind instead of war. But this is a provocation to those who have benefited from the regional instability so far. ––––– In its frantic course of events, history has no place for the fears and hopes, the despair and hatred of individuals. But nevertheless, three people brace themselves against it with all their force and power: the Palestinian Abdoul Rahim, the Israeli Abarron Preiss and the American Charles Reed. They cannot and will not accept what is given. Their motivation for pursuing what they personally believe in links their three destinies inextricably together. cyrill-delvin.net
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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The Gaza Project
a Thriller
by Cyrill Delvin
The following is a fictional narrative. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, locations and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, be they dead or alive, events or places is purely coincidental.
The Gaza-Project
E-Book, first English edition
All rights reserved
Published by: epubli GmbH, Berlin, www.epubli.de
Copyright © 2014 Cyrill Delvin
ISBN 978-3-7375-0293-1
›The fruits of my labour will soon be on offer everywhere. Regardless wether they are bought or left to rot, they already carry the seed for new growth inside them, because one isn’t only responsible for one’s actions, but also for one’s inaction!‹
Senator Charles William Reeds
The Plan
»These are times when children are born into war; into a cradle of violence. They live constantly on the brink of death. In the end, they die before the battle is over. These are times when there’s no hope, only impotence. Where hatred doesn’t blind people but shows them the way. Times like these never end and will always start anew.«
Charles took a sip of water from the glass in front of him on the wooden table.
»We are here together because it’s time to act. We are in a position to do something. We shall change the course of history. Not globally, but locally. In a place where change is badly needed – in Gaza. Together, with a lot of persistence and a little luck, we’ll go down in the annals of history.«
Those present knew the lean man in his mid-fifties well enough by now not to say anything. In any case, the high-ranking guests hadn’t come together for a discussion, but to reach a decision. Collectively. And still each for themselves.
With a dismissive gesture, Charles continued: »Anyway, today we shall agree that the IWAC will arrive at the Gaza Strip without attracting public attention.«
On his right, quite unmoved, sat the tall Israeli Prime Minister Eizenburg. On his left, the delicate Šarīf seemed like a little boy by comparison. He had resigned recently as the head of the Fatḥ to found the Palestinian Brotherhood Party. Attempting to unite the estranged Palestinian parties put him under immense pressure. The American Minister of Foreign Affairs, Doris Whiteford, completed the illustrious round.
The salon was randomly furnished with precious pieces of furniture, creating a rather tawdry and not very stylish impression. The mansion was located high above the Bay of Marseille in the east of the city on the secluded country estate Trois-Ruisselets. Charles, who used to be the American Ambassador in Paris, had acquired the property some years earlier and had had it restored.
He preferred hosting the unofficial meeting in this virtually neutral zone. Naturally, the estate had its own helipad and was, as usual, guarded by the French police. This afternoon, it was also protected by French, American and Israeli secret service agents.
Today, the club, as he derisively yet affectionately referred to the assembled circle to his friends, had their third meeting. Through his diverse political activities, Charles had established close ties to all the leading political figures and organisations over the years. It was short of a miracle that he had managed to assemble the opposing camps, which had been warring for decades, under the one roof.
Absolute secrecy was the condition and the key to success. The deal was simple: Should they succeed, each politician could individually claim to have been the driving force behind the change. If they didn’t, none of the dialogue partners had to expose him or herself and embark on potentially politically destructive discussions. What they all had in common was the will to solve the problems at the Levantine coast. The task was to inconspicuously engineer the individual steps that would eventually lead to peace in the Middle East. So inconspicuous that it could be achieved without resistance.
The IWAC’s plans, however, were more far-reaching than the Levant. When Charles found himself on his own, sitting in front of the mansion’s magnificent fireplace, he therefore frequently pondered the situation.
What right do I have to interfere to such an extent in the course of events? Or do my influence and means oblige me all the more to do something?
Who was Senator Charles William Reeds, this apparently carefree American? A naive megalomaniac or a genius? The responsibility he had imposed on himself to implement his ideas was a heavy burden indeed.
While he was lost in thought, the two cast-iron brackets to the left and the right of the fireplace, petering into lions claws, started performing a manic dance. The claws jumped from side to side and the imaginary lion’s head with them. To the same extent that the light and the shadow of the crackling fire became increasingly wild, the predator‘s purring and growling escalated in a crescendo permeating the whole room. The desperate screams of a young black boy, Johnny, merged with the noise. Charles covered his ears. Thankfully he only rarely had the time to muse in front of the fire at Trois-Ruisselets.
»The IWAC’s first step will be to ship relief supplies to Gaza and distribute them among the population. We procure the food and the basic medical supplies as far as possible from the surrounding regions and label everything neutrally. Not even the IWAC logo will be visible. We organise the sourcing, the logistics and the transport up to the coast. For local distribution, we involve people in Gaza. All the helpers, insofar as they are not Palestinians, will be recruited from the neighbouring countries except Israel.«
He looked at Eizenburg who nodded imperceptibly. Charles had had to persistently champion his cause to arrange these talks. In the end, it had only been possible because all the details had been negotiated with the attending parties in advance during one-to-one sessions. Comments were not encouraged. The power brokers‘ participation had been contingent on this condition. That the climate would remain frosty was a given. But the American was convinced that this meeting was crucial for his plans to progress.
»Israel will relax the sea blockade for the IWAC. Of course, the Israelis have the unconditional right to inspect our ships at any time. On the other hand, they are pushing the erection of the wall around the Gaza Strip and also to the south against Egypt. This will effectively protect the Israeli population. The task of the Palestinian interim government is to keep a check on the inner-party turf wars in the region it controls. Terrorist activities against Israel and inside the Gaza Strip are to be prevented at any price. And President Šarīf will do anything within his power to ensure this won’t happen.«
Šarīf himself was just about to interject: Israel is an occupying force and the Palestinians are freedom fighters, not terrorists! But Charles stopped him short: »The Israeli Prime Minister cannot and does not want to avert possible reprisals! We have to be clear on that point.«
Šarīf resembled a whipped puppy and the IWAC chairperson understood only too well how the Palestinian felt. Among all those present he had the least influence over the political environment and the people he represented. And still, he played a key part in this critical initial phase.
From that perspective, it was easier to negotiate with Israel. Not only because of the American Minister of Foreign Affairs‘ presence, but also because of the contributions of the absent high-ranking initiates from Russian and China.
»Everyone in this room is convinced that Israel and Palestine can only peacefully coexist if both have a healthy economy. We believe in a balance of interests and not in a balance of power. That’s why we are here. The IWAC is willing to create such a balance on the Gaza Strip. We want the people to take responsibility for the future. We do not believe in a military solution to the Middle East conflict. It is therefore the objective of every one of us to create the framework. In secret, without the world’s media getting wind of it. Officially, the IWAC does not take a stance regarding the conflict. We support a humanitarian programme for the redevelopment of the Gaza Strip just like so many other non-government organisations.«
It was late afternoon before Trois-Ruisselets was once again at the sole disposal of its proprietor. The additional security personnel and the French police had vacated the premises together with the politicians. However, two guests, who hadn’t taken part in the meeting, remained in the house: Françoise, the IWAC’s chief of operations, and Ted, in charge of the activities on the Gaza Strip. After dinner, they sat together in the study.
»It’s hard to believe, but in just two years you‘ve achieved what others unsuccessfully fought for their whole live.« Françoise raised her glass in a toast: »To you and the IWAC!«
»Thank you, Françoise. It wasn’t easy to get those in charge together, but it’s child’s play compared to what’s ahead of us. How valuable our work is will be apparent when we actually become active in Gaza. The real challenges are still out there.«
»A bit of excitement during the work can do no harm.«
»I agree. Let’s take the bull by the horns, but if things get hairy, nobody is going to divert the beast’s attention the way they do in a bullfight, Ted! Despite all the security precautions and agreements, the Gaza Strip is and remains a loose cannon!«
»You know me, Charles. I only come out with my flippant remarks to score points with the ladies.«
Nobody commented.
»Professor Liu Cheng from the Peking Polytechnic rang a while ago. He’s accepted the position as head of research and development.«
»Are you serious?!« Françoise exclaimed. »That means we’ve already won half the battle.«
»Have we? Next week, he’ll meet you in Paris and in the fall he will start in Cyprus.«
»That’s just wonderful. You’re a true miracle worker.«
That moment, there was a knock on the door and the private secretary entered the room.
»Pardon the interruption, Sir, the Israeli Prime Minister is on the line.«
»Thank you, Brad, put him through.«
»Very well, Sir.«
»Liron, where are you? I see …«
All the others could hear was something being uttered in an agitated voice from the other end of the line.
»Yes, but…« Charles fell silent. »Thank you, Liron. Yes, we are still staying on course. Have a good flight, Liron.«
He slowly turned around to the others. »During our meeting this afternoon, Israeli fighter planes attacked the Ḥamās post at the coast in the south of the Gaza Strip in retaliation for the suicide bombings in Jerusalem three weeks ago. The Palestinians suffered a considerable loss of civilian life.«
The flames in the fireplace seemed to flicker with particular intensity.
»Damn it!« Ted cried out from the depths of his armchair. »You simply can’t trust those lunatics, on either side. And here they were just a while ago playing at charades. If only we could build a wall high enough to reach Yahweh and Allah! Then there would be no more jet fighters and ping-pong matches with human bombs.«
»Did Eizenburg know about it? Can we trust him?«
»The actual problem is that Liron wasn’t involved.«
»Do you really believe that?« Françoise asked.
»I do, but that means that he isn’t as much in charge as he wants to be – or should be. One way or the other, I now have to make a few calls and smooth things over.«
Addressing Ted, he said: »We’ll meet the logistics specialists in Washington on Sunday, as agreed. And Ted, we will build a wall. An invisible wall. To break through it will cost Israel a lot of money in the end. Too much money.«
Before he hurried from the study, he hugged Françoise. »As I said, we’re only just starting. It’s going to be fine. And look after Cheng. We need him.«
PART I - Dawn
Two Brothers
Abdoul and his younger brother Qadim were combing the beach for floating debris. They often did. And they were doing it now on this late summer afternoon they were spending at the seaside with their whole family. Searching for jetsam in the hot sand was not only a useful, but also one of the few enjoyable diversions for the children. The best part for the brothers was the guessing game.
»Look at that, Abdoul. There’s a blue ball over there. I think it’s a broken floating cork.«
»Not at all. It’s a stuffed pufferfish. That’s his mouth, see.«
»But there is a hook like the ones on granddad’s fishing net.«
»Exactly, that’s the hook – it’s a hooked pufferfish.«
»Can we eat it?«
»Why don’t you try. But don’t bite too hard, or you’ll get caught on the hook yourself,« Abdoul said seriously.
Qadim pulled a face, pretending to have been caught and being towed away by a fishing boat. The brothers laughed and put the blue cork in their pocket.
Granddad Amir always knew how to use things. But Abdoul was only truly happy when he found a beautiful seashell. He only ever took one of them home, the most beautiful one of the day. He was very selective about his collection. Whenever he found a shell he liked even more, the ugliest one had to go.
That afternoon he hadn’t yet spotted a shell he considered worthy enough. Except the blue cork, the rest of the jetsam, too, wasn’t up to scratch. Until he discovered a few inches wide shell in the wet sand. At a first glance, it looked unimpressive; dark brown with a ribbed surface and a series of small serrations in the middle. All in all it resembled the carapace of a small lizard. No disruptive colour stains or patterns; just an even brown. He had never found a shell like that before. After he had opened it and rinsed it in the water, he gasped. The inside was lined with the purest mother-of-pearl. More flawless and whiter than anything he had ever seen.
Just as he wanted to show his treasure to Qadim, who was rummaging around in the sand quite nearby, it announced itself through absolute silence. For a fraction of a second all noise ceased. What was to change the brothers‘ lives forever was taking place right beside them. As the adults tried to chase the eerie silence away with their screams, everything happened at once. At first Abdoul thought his father would call Qadim and him back. Then the calls and screams merged with the thundering roars of an Israeli fighter plane squadron above the sand dunes.
At the same time he heard a familiar hissing noise. He had heard the sound several times before. But never as close, as loud and as short. The boys hadn’t yet fully turned around when they saw the two missiles. After that they didn’t perceive anything for a long time. The explosion tore the two brothers apart and severed them from everything they loved – forever. Even time had abandoned the moment.
Their entire family had been killed. The parents, three siblings, the grandfather, five cousins, one uncle and two aunts.
The first thing Abdoul believed he heard was Amir’s gentle voice: The most beautiful of all seashells is your pass into a better world. You found it today!
The boy didn’t scream. His eyes mirrored the sheer horror of an animal cornered after the chase. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks. He was simply lying there until time thought better of it and bashfully returned to reality.
Qadim ran to where the grenade had exploded and had left a deep hole in his heart. People were staggering aimlessly. As time re-emerged, Abdoul could hear them screaming and wailing. He got up and just stood there. He sensed there was nothing to move him back to where he had stood just moments before. No thought, no love would ever erase those seconds.
The settling dust cleared his senses. A vitriolic stench invaded his nostrils. Something warm oozed from his clenched fist. The mussel shell had cut deep into his flesh. But that didn’t hurt. He walked over to his brother who was cowering on the ground, screaming. Not floating debris, but death and pain were now scattered along the seashore. The setting sun endlessly elongated the shadows of terror. Only with the onset of darkness was the shore relieved from its horrors.
Abdoul knelt beside Qadim who was crying while holding their mother’s colourful headscarf. It hadn’t been damaged and even the acrid smell of explosives and burned flesh couldn’t supplant her sweet scent. It never would. Without a word, Abdoul grabbed Qadim’s arm. There was nothing left for them here to look for or to find. Even the people they knew had nothing to give.
Their house, more of a shack really, was outside the settlement behind an outcrop of rock close to the sea. Gan Or was a little village between Rafah and Ḫān Yūnis, only a few miles from the Egyptian border. As far back as his grandfather and his grandfather’s father, the family had lived here. They had all been fishermen and moored their little boat at the shore since time immemorial. His father though had only rarely gone to sea anymore. Nobody could any longer feed their family from fishing alone. The fish had long since moved on and the people had followed their example. Not further into the sea but into the country’s interior, to the large centres or to Gaza town. To find work, they ventured as far as the big wall and beyond.
Or they would go underground in one of the numerous tunnels that led to Egypt. Only a rare few stayed and found paid employment on the farms. His father had been lucky to work at a brother-in-law’s olive grove. Everyone everywhere depended on help to survive.
Abdoul realised that they wouldn’t find anyone at home. Only eight years old, he already knew that there was nothing he could do. The shack was comprised of a kitchen and a small room where the five children slept on a mattress on the floor. The parents slept in the kitchen which also served as everyone’s living quarters. Now there was nobody there. No fire and no pot on the stove.
The little brother occasionally sobbed. Without having eaten anything, they lay down beside each other. But sleep didn’t come that lonely night. With time, Abdoul’s shock gave way to silent but bitter tears. Until dawn announced itself with the summons to Fadschr in Rafah. Whenever the wind blew from the interior of the country, the Muezzin’s prayers had to be guessed rather than heard.
The Palestinian boy had merely vague memories of the events that were to follow. Torn between his growing sense of responsibility towards the younger brother and his grief and rage about the loss of his family it was hard for him to form coherent thoughts. During the funeral, attended by the whole village and half of Rafah and Ḫān Yūnis, the ocean glistened full of promise in the distance. But none of the promise was fulfilled. Left were nothing but images of grieving people and angry mobs. As usual on occasions like these, there were Ḥamās representatives and activists. The injustice of it all was noisily lamented and their own cause eagerly promoted.
Israel’s official response sounded cynical: Five armed Palestinian extremists, who intended dropping missiles on Israel, dead. Civilian victims were unavoidable as long as Ḥamās misuses the population as shields.
The international press, too, was present at the funeral. But nobody who could have made the brothers‘ loss more bearable. Eventually Abdoul no longer knew where he belonged. All he did know was that he didn’t want to stay here anymore. Here, where past happiness and present sorrow lived side by side.
Uncle Imad was also aware that the orphans couldn’t stay with him. There simply wasn’t enough money and food for them all. There was only one place for the nephews; the Ibn Marwān Madrasa. Steeped in tradition, but misused by radical Islamists to further their fanatical aims as a Qur’anic school where all those children and juveniles were sent who had nowhere else to turn to. ‘Boy or girl, we shall satisfy the young people’s hunger!’ So much for the motto.
The night before they had to leave, Abdoul went to the shore. There he stood for the first time since the missiles had done their dirty work and looked at the ocean. The waves caressed the sandy beach and his feet as if nothing had happened or would ever happen. He would miss the sea the most. He was nowhere sure that the seashell he was wearing on a piece of string around his neck would suffice as an invitation by the mermaids.
You call that the most beautiful shell? Go back and don’t return until you find a truly beautiful one, they mocked him. The boy sank down unto the damp sand and heard his grandfather as clearly as if it had been yesterday:
You know, Abdoul, Mohammed said that the fish are there for catching andeating. I’ve no problem eating them, but when it comes to the catching part it sometimes gets tricky. Amir smiled mischievously. It’s obvious, isn’t it? What self-respecting fish lets itself get caught voluntarily? He can as easily swim away from the net as into it after all. Or do the fish think if they throw themselves at people’s mercy, Allah will reward them in paradise?
No, no, there’s something else driving them. Something older, stronger and more beautiful. And I’ll tell you what it is: The mermaids. They are our true friends. Every present from the ocean, every fish and every seashell is one of their gifts to us. Someday, you will find the most beautiful shell on the beach. Sparkling in all colours and of incredible purity it will enchant you. A mermaid will have put it there, just for you. This most beautiful of all seashells will be your pass to a better world. A world without worry and grief.
Ever since his grandfather had told him the story, he had dreamed about finding this mermaid. He spent every free minute searching for the right shell. Now he sat there holding the best one of his collection in his hand. But deep down he sensed that a yet more beautiful one was waiting for him. The feeling lent him confidence. He finally looked forward to the school where he could learn something. For the first time since that terrible day he found some restful sleep.
He didn’t yet know that this particular school didn’t teach anything. The curriculum did nothing but indoctrinate the pupils with a subconscious hatred for the overpowering Israel. Not a school to satisfy hunger, but a school to starve the silence. The ultimate purpose would be achieved after death and not before. The uncle considered it the only true path. The path to revenge and the salvation of the family of Ibrahim Rahim, his murdered brother.
»I shall take the house for getting you the place at the school,« he announced. In reality, he had already rented the place to a brother of his sister-in-law. A small but necessary contribution to his budget.
»But the house is ours,« Abdoul remarked quietly.
»Shut up, you! You can count yourself lucky that anyone looks after you at all!« He knew that the boy was right, but who cared? They were still children and completely at his mercy.
»Get lost and be grateful that Allah provides for you!« With that, he turned his back to the boys and ran away from the truck. Abdoul took Qadim by the hand and was about to climb onto the loading platform when the driver stormed at them: »Back off! I don’t carry lowlifes like you!«
Without knowing where he found the courage, Abdoul shouted back: »Go to hell, you mangy mongrel – first you take the money and then…« That was as far as he got. Hit by a brutal slap in the face, he stumbled to the ground. Another man said in a deep voice: »It’s okay, Farouk. They’ve paid and they’re coming with us.«
The driver cursed and got into his cabin. Abdoul picked himself up and climbed onto the platform with Qadim.
»Thank you,« he said to the man who steadily averted his gaze. All through the rough and dusty journey, Abdoul held on tight to his seashell.
The Escape
Rashid and Kaden were holding Abdoul in a tight grip. Without any emotion, Barek punched him with full tilt in the stomach. Abdoul gasped for air, tears welling up in his eyes. It wasn’t the first time the older pupils gave him a thrashing. He was generally able to defend himself, was of sturdy build and no coward. But faced by three attackers, he didn’t stand a chance. The bigger boy looked at him with a blank expression and hit Abdoul again. This time right in the face.
Abdoul could taste the iron in the blood running into his mouth from the wound on his cheek. He didn’t let on that it was hurting.
»Where did you hide the damn shell?« Barek hissed. »You are a disgrace to the whole school! We should blow you up together with the infidels. We’re not going to leave you alone until we’ve found your precious idol and destroyed it!«
They had known each other long enough to realise that it was no use. Abdoul would rather let himself be beaten to a pulp than give them his seashell. The teachers usually separated the fighters, but this time nobody interfered and Barek kept on hitting the defenceless boy. The city noises after Maghrib, the prayer just after sunset, dully penetrated the Madrasa’s inner courtyard. The Palestinian gritted his teeth so he wouldn’t cry out.
Someone approached them across the stone-paved yard. In the twilight he didn’t recognise Qadim soon enough. Qadim himself only noticed the three adolescents and his brother lying on the ground when he had nearly slipped through the archway to the living quarters. Attempting to help his older brother would be fruitless. Qadim wouldn’t be able to do a thing.
And anyway, he didn’t understand why his brother hadn’t handed the shell over to the teachers long ago. Then they would leave him in peace. Instead he hid it as if it were his most prized possession. And yet it was so simple: Allah and the prophet Mohammed were the only ones to be obeyed by following the laws set out in the Koran. That way everything was fine, or at least better. Nowhere in the Koran did it mention a shell one should let oneself be punished for. Especially when the teachers demanded to throw it away.
A thought flashed through Abdoul’s mind: Maybe they’re having me beaten to death? Maybe the others are right. Maybe I’ll never find the right path. This is it then.
But it wasn’t time yet. Barek grabbed Qadim and Abdoul instinctively jumped up and lunged at the older pupil. Rashid and Kaden were not able to push him back to the ground. Abdoul, suddenly endowed with superhuman strength, thrashed around him like a fury. Only later did he notice the stone he was holding in his hand. Qadim screamed and fought back with everything he had. In the midst of the wild scuffle, they suddenly heard a muffled bang. It sounded like an earthenware jug being smashed inside a bag. The four boys stared at Qadim who was lying motionless on the ground.
Before Abdoul could do anything, Barek grabbed his throat and sneered: »See what you have done, Abdoul ibn Ṣadafah. Bastard son of a seashell! You’re going to pay for this, you can bet your life on it.« The older boys let him be and disappeared through the archway. Abdoul knelt beside Qadim and turned the lifeless body towards him. Something warm spread over his hands. His little brother’s blood. Dazed, he crouched down and pressed Qadim’s head to his chest. His tears merged with the blood in a smudgy trickle.
What self-respecting fish lets itself get caught voluntarily? It can as easily swim away from the net as into it after all…
He didn’t want to hear the voice. Why hadn’t granddad simply told him the truth? Why had he talked about mermaids if all there was were Allah and the Prophets? Nobody had come to save Qadim. No prophet, no Allah, no mermaid, no granddad, nobody!
He felt his whole being fill with rage. Everything started to immerse in it. This Madrasa where only hatred towards all others was taught. He cursed Amir, who had told him nothing but fairy tales and instilled him with false hope. His classmates and the Jews who brought only destruction and misery. He hated himself for being so powerless. He hadn’t even been able to protect his own brother.
Rage was followed by despair. Despair that Qadim would never be able to save his father’s honour. It was now up to him alone. A thought which made him sad. Not because he was scared, but because he felt powerless in the face of the duty now imposed on him.
Whydid granddad not tell me that there are no mermaids? That the fish either get caught in the net through their own stupidity or because Mohammed chased them into it?
How much he missed him! Granddad would explain everything and give him courage. But he was dead. Now Abdoul had to revenge his family. Justice supported by faith, which he had been taught, was the path to paradise. But where was the justice for Qadim? Abdoul wanted to act, wanted to seek revenge, and yet remained impotent.
Approaching steps made him come to his senses. When Barek got back with his mob he would be in for it. Panicking, he jumped up and ran through the front gate to the outside of the school. Only two elderly men strolled leisurely down the narrow lane. By now, it was dark. The men’s steps were fading away.
The boy had already run up the alleyway and around the corner when he suddenly froze. The shell! All his gloomy thoughts instantly vanished to be replaced by his concern about the shell. He’d left it behind. I’ve got to get the shell. But how? They would by now be cooking in the kitchen, then eat; later they would drink tea and chat until late into the night. How could he get into the storeroom without being noticed? Impossible! Perhaps it would be better to run away without the shell. In the two years he had been here it had brought him nothing but misery. First lectures, then punishments, beatings and in the end Qadim…
Thinking about his brother made him feel dizzy again. He crouched down. His grandfather hadn’t told him that a seashell could cause so much harm. The mermaids had always been kind. Maybe they’re angry because I have my doubts about the whole story?
Everything was swirling around in his head and he had to lie down. A short while later he was alarmed when he thought he heard steps and voices. But he had been mistaken. Nobody came around the corner. The lane was still deserted. It’s weird. Why aren’t they coming after me? His stomach hurt. But he didn’t have time for that now. Again, he picked himself up and took another back alley. Somehow he didn’t want to believe that his grandfather or the shell were responsible for his plight.
Wasn’t it rather the school that was to blame? Hadn’t his father claimed that the Islamic extremists‘ schools were no good. Instead of learning something useful and being instructed to work, the adolescents were being prepared for death – but for what? »What’s the use if my children are going to paradise when I just waste away here getting old and infirm?« his father had always maintained. Father would never have sent him to this Madrasa.
All he had learned so far was that hatred didn’t breed justice, but death, ruin and destruction. He could read and write now. But that was all. Perhaps he would also die in his attempt to get the shell. At least, everything would be over then. Or not, because his family would remain unavenged and he wouldn’t walk through the gates of paradise. He kept weighing up his options, but couldn’t decide.
He crawled between two walls under a dilapidated cement ceiling and waited. The teachers and pupils were definitely not looking for him. He had no idea where he was. The only route he had become familiar with during his two years in this town led to the Ibn-Marwān mosque. So he crouched on the ground and began to shiver.
His huddled position and the creeping cold reminded him of the times Amir had taken him out on his fishing boat. They would set off in the middle of the night to cast their nets at dawn far away from the coast. During the long journey, Abdoul had snuggled into his cover on top of the rolled-up nets at the bow of the boat and watched the sea ahead. Despite mother’s blanket he would eventually feel cold. Shivering here under the cement ceiling felt different though without the taste of salt water in his mouth.
His stomach hurt even worse than earlier. He now realised what he had missed the most in the last two years: The view from the boat to the silver lining on the horizon announcing the new day. Sometimes dolphins would swim beside the boat, frolicking mischievously. Half lulled by the monotonous chugging of the two-stroke engine, he’d always thought he could spot something else between the fish. A mermaid graciously waving at him. But every time he was subsequently wide awake and took a closer look, she had already vanished. How long ago it now seemed since he’d been on the ocean.
If he wanted to get his shell, he had to do it this very night. He didn’t know what time it was. Gaza city was asleep by now. He got up with a moan and arduously made his way back to the school. His abdomen ached with every step. The boy cautiously pushed the entrance gate slightly open. He waited for a while to make sure that nobody had heard the squeaking of the hinges. Just as he wanted to slip through the gap, he was overpowered by his imagination. What if Qadim is still lying in the yard like all the others back then on the beach? In his imagination he saw terrible images. Scenes he thought he’d erased from his memory long ago made him feel nauseous.
He heard steps coming from the lane and had no choice but to quickly slide into the yard. In the deep black shadows he huddled against the wall. Two men entered the yard and closed the gate behind them. Fortunately they didn’t carry torches and they swiftly disappeared inside the building.
Abdoul crept along the wall to where his brother should be lying on the ground. But there was no sign of him. Unsure if he should be relieved, he moved on into the entrance hall. The kitchen was on his left. It was empty. Only the sickly sweet scent of the water pipes still lingered in the air. He stopped and listened. Deadly silence. With immense effort, he managed to push back the bolt of the heavy larder door.
It was pitch black inside and smelled of spices, rotting meat and vegetables. The brick concealing the shell was in the back wall roughly at knee level. He had to inch his way forward, brick by brick, until he found the right one. It took him a small eternity. Carefully he pulled out the loose brick and reached into the hole. The shell was still there, wrapped in a piece of old newspaper. His relief was accompanied by exhaustion.
It took a long time to get back to the alleyway, but he made it without any unwelcome incidents. The night was nearly over. Between the houses he could already surmise the first light of the new day. Abdoul turned his back to it and ran in the direction of the suburbs. With a bit of luck he might be able to get to the shore before the first morning prayers and then…
The pain in his stomach was nearly unbearable by now. It will pass if I just lie down for a while. The early morning risers looked at the boy in his blood-stained shirt with disconcertment. He didn’t notice them. Just have to lie down.
A few blocks further on he found shelter under a pile of rubble and rubbish, the waste from a bordering refugee camp; one of the many which had sprung up around Gaza lately. Sand-dune-like the rubbish meandered ever closer to the centre of the city. Groaning, Abdoul persevered, but the pain in his stomach didn’t subside. He started to faint; sensed salt on his lips, fresh air streaming through his hair.
Granddad?
The Muezzin’s call to the Fajr, the first morning prayer, merged with the surging noises of the metropolis. Dawn.
Arrival
Lost in thought, Françoise sat in the helicopter and gazed to the East. The sun announced itself with a pale strip on the skyline. The ocean was calm and smooth. On the seat beside her, Cheng had fallen asleep. They were on their way from the IWAC research station in Cyprus to the command vessel Malta III anchored five nautical miles off the Gaza coast. They were scheduled to meet Ted to discuss the status of development work and the preparations for the training initiative on the Gaza strip.
Suddenly there was a loud bang. For a moment the helicopter hovered in the air before taking a violent plunge downwards. Cheng, who had hit his head against the backrest, looked at Françoise in confusion. All colour had drained from her face. In broken English, the pilot reported through the crackling earphones: »Sorry, main engine misfired. No need panic, everything under control. We land on Malta III in half hour.«
Just then the sun kissed the horizon and began radiating its warm light while the colour returned to the attractive French woman’s features.
»That gave me quite a scare.«
Cheng nodded and looked out of the window. »That’s what you can expect when you fly in a decommissioned Russian military aircraft.«
»Talking about the Russians, did you get the samples from Nowaja Semlja?«
»I did. The plaques are in place and the recombination is under preparation.«
»I wonder how the Arctic algae will do in the warm Mediterranean waters. It would be great if the new hybrids developed the desired catalytic effect.«
»Sounds great in theory, but practically? I don’t trust the biotope in the Polis vicinity. Despite all the water analysis results, something doesn’t quite fit.«
»But Cyprus still has the cleanest water in the Mediterranean.«
»Perhaps it’s still not clean enough?«
»Or too clean? Considering the conditions on the Gaza Strip…«
»Of course the lab setup is too sterile, but if we have to adjust each facility to the local water conditions, we’ll never reach the necessary quantum leap for desalination.«
»True. Far too complex.«
»I keep wondering if we erred in our judgement,« Cheng continued.
»It’s my belief that to improve desalination through mechanical solar and biological catalysts is still the right choice.«
»I’m not so sure. Wouldn’t it be advisable to consider an additional biochemical process?«
»We’ve discussed that often enough. Every project analysis showed that an approach like that will never lead to a low-tech facility. It always remains biotechnology on a high-tech level.«
»We’d have to develop a completely self-sufficient biotope which would also have to be extremely adaptable. A kind of primeval water purification soup.«
For a while it remained quiet through the two sets of earphones.
»At least ›Phoenix‹ showed an average ten percent improvement over the last two years,« Françoise resumed. »That in itself is already a positive result – with the corresponding economic implications.«
»True, but I can only see the limitations. After all, we want to cause a revolution even the industrial nations can no longer ignore.«
»Perhaps we do seriously have to consider a second line of research?«
»I’m certain that we do. I will broach the subject next week with Charles and Thomson at the MIT.«
The Malta III was now visible in the distance, calmly anchored in the blue ocean. Behind it, the coastline of the Levant was getting closer. In the gentle glow of the morning sun it appeared brown and mellow. Hard to believe that it was home to one of the most prolonged and bitter conflicts on the planet. Approximately three nautical miles closer to the coast, the vessels Polaris VII, Stella II and Southern Cross I were harboured – the IWAC’s supply fleet.
»Welcome on board,« Ted yelled at them through the subsiding roar of the rotor blades. »Did you have a pleasant flight?«
Françoise and Cheng unanimously said: »Yes,« and winked at each other.
»Coffee’s ready,« Ted stated and led them to the conference room on the upper deck. In the past, the Malta had been a medium-size cruise ship. Thanks to Charles‘ excellent contacts to the industry and the US Navy it had been easy to acquire and modify the pleasure ship for his purposes.
On the inside everything was kept in a light grey complemented with emerald green, the colours of the IWAC, the International Water Consortium’s logo. It depicted two dolphins jumping across each other over a wave, both carrying a phoenix feather in their mouths.
Ted’s assistant welcomed them in the conference room. After everyone had been served coffee brewed in the Greek fashion, the IWAC’s operations manager started the meeting.
»Although progress with the pilot plant in Cyprus is encouraging, the obstacles in combining conventional desalination techniques with biotechnical components are greater than we envisaged. So far this hasn’t affected our schedule, but sooner or later it may prove to be the Achilles heel of our entire plan. We will have to reconsider already discarded alternative approaches. But that isn’t the reason for our convening here today,« Françoise concluded with an inviting glance towards Ted.
»Yes, um – we are not experiencing any difficulties. Everything’s going according to schedule.«
Ted expectantly looked into the assembly.
»Granted, various radical splinter groups don’t seem exactly ecstatic. I mean, we’ve already been feeding the poorest of the poor for two years, provide medicines and try to keep the refugee camps more or less in order. But the Pistoleros aren’t exactly stupid. Even though they can’t assign us to the Israelis or the do-gooders, they have noticed that we have infiltrated their people more than they like. Especially that we’re providing employment doesn’t sit too well with them.«
»And understandably so,« Françoise interjected, »it’s a sore spot.«
»Exactly. Fewer and fewer Palestinians are running to the wall to look for work on the other side. Even if our unskilled labourers can’t earn more than the minimum to survive, it still seems to motivate quite a few of them. That’s the positive aspect.«
»And the not so positive one?«
»If we can believe our informants, it won’t be long before the extremists will also monitor our activities. We can only guess what happens then. They‘re presumably assured additional support from certain traders; the smuggling business with Egypt is rapidly decreasing.«
»What do you think we should do?«
»We could reimburse them for part of their losses.«
»Okay.«
»Okay? We’re talking about several million.«
»Not so okay, but still alright.« Françoise’s expression didn’t change as she casually took some notes.
»Two years on, we are providing roughly thirty percent of all the Palestinians on the Gaza Strip with food, clothing and medical supplies,“ Ted continued. »Foremost in the refugee camps, of course. We employ about five percent of the population in local distribution and logistics.«
»That’s a remarkable achievement,“ Cheng commented.
»Yes, we have indeed been quite successful. All the other aid agencies are tearing their hair out – their whole business is collapsing.«
»Do we have to implement precautionary measures?“
»Thirty percent supply of provisions, five percent employment and growing -we’re hoping to have undermined the radical groups and the Ḥamās to the extent that their support among the population for radical action against us has already considerably dwindled. Besides, they still can’t place us politically.«
»Ted, Master of the unobtrusive marketing approach.“
»It’s all very well for you,“ Ted said.
»Please, Ted, I’m serious. You’re doing a great job. I know how difficult it is to keep our involvement hidden. And I’m convinced that we’ve less to fear than the extremists would like. Charles told me yesterday that he discussed the most recent demands regarding the numbers of people crossing the border with Eizenburg and Šarīf. They agreed to keep falsifying the actual figures. Turning away from the Israeli employers doesn’t have to be made public yet. Apparently Eizenburg is still committed and he’s compensating for the dwindling numbers with Palestinians from the West Bank. On the other side, Šarīf hasn’t achieved anything so far. Fataḥ and Ḥamās haven’t made any progress towards reconciliation, officially or unofficially.«
»That may not be such a bad thing,« Ted commented. »As long as there are no changes within Ḥamās, we are in a better position to assess our most radical opponents.«
»Let’s just hope that the smouldering conflict doesn’t erupt again like the last time the Israelis invaded the Gaza Strip.«
During a break in the meeting, Françoise and Ted went on deck for some fresh air. They stood beside each other, leaning at the railing and looking over to the mainland. Ted was about to light a cigarette when Françoise nudged him: »Do you see that? I think there’s someone in the dinghy.«
And indeed she was right. But from the distance they couldn’t see who it was. Immediately after, two men appeared and heaved a lifeless body onto the gangway at the stern. Then they took him inside the ship. »I hope our colleague is alright,« Ted observed between two hasty puffs on his cigarette. »I’ll deal with it after the meeting.«
Back in the conference room Françoise resumed: »Let’s talk about training. We’ve decided to bring our initiatives forward.«
»When? And who is we?« Ted asked in amazement.
»Charles and I.«
»Sure. You don’t need an executive board. Or a chief of operations on site for that matter– «
»Ted– «
»What do you think you are– «
»Ted, please, we– «
»I’m working my butt off while you just make decisions without consulting anyone. What do you actually need me for…?« He banged his fist on the table.
»Nobody is trying to ignore you,« Françoise replied firmly, »I more than appreciate your work. Really! And if you tell me that we’re not yet ready for the initiative, we’ll postpone it. But please listen to the plan first.«
The two of them stared at each other without a word until Ted relented: »Okay.«
»To train the skilled workforce, it will take two years at our pilot plant. We’ll co-operate with the University College of Allied Sciences in Gaza. That means we don’t have to bring in all the trained technicians from abroad for the first phase. If that’s okay and we get the approval, we can start the first courses in two months. We’ll recruit suitable students foremost from among the already hired personnel.«
Ted nodded reluctantly.
»For the general basic training we’ll work together with ›Teachers Without Borders‹.«
»›Teachers Without Borders‹,« Cheng mumbled, »it fits.«
»What do you mean?«
»I’ve always envisaged training camps, but the idea of flying tutors for the education of the broader population is more suitable in these parts.«
»And it is and will be a cross-generational project. Ismail will work out our plan of action with you over the next two weeks.« Françoise addressed Ted: »He’s a teacher of Arabic from Jordan and a designated project manager with ›Teachers Without Borders‹. The mission in Gaza is limited to five years.«
Ted’s anger had dissipated as quickly as it had erupted and the rest of the meeting passed without further incidents.
In the early afternoon, Françoise und Cheng took the helicopter to Cairo International Airport. Right after take-off, Françoise noticed that the dinghy was still moored to the Malta. She’d completely forgotten to ask Ted about the person on it. The higher up they got, the more distinctly the Gaza Strip contours became visible in the East. In the distance they could discern the wall winding like a snake around the non-annexed territory. Inside the wall the population was hopelessly dense; outside it was more thinly spread.
Meanwhile a strange spectacle took place on the ocean. The three IWAC freighters were anchored at regular intervals from the coast, mirroring the large checkpoints along the wall. Every afternoon the cargo fleet was surrounded by an unending stream of various sized-boats, from small to tiny. Like ant trails, they travelled in lines from the ships to the shore. But here, people didn’t have to queue up for inspection. More than half a million Palestinians inside the Gaza Strip had thus been supplied with the essentials for just under two years.
The IWAC had pledged their resources for a decade. By then, the coastal strip had to be economically self-sufficient. An ambitious goal and Françoise felt overwhelmed at the thought.
Whalers
Every day after morning prayers, Haīkal walked to the city with his small band of orphans from the al-Qubāʾ refugee camp where the children lived without parents or relatives. Most of them, like the fugitive families housed here, came from even poorer regions to the south of the Gaza Strip or the surrounding areas of the Israeli cities Netivot or Sderot from where they had been evicted. The orphans among them now had to fend for themselves. Some were taken in by other families from the same or neighbouring villages. Others found nobody.
Up to a few years ago, the PLO, then the Fatḥ and finally Ḥamās had been the sole Palestinian organisations to care for these children. Not always on humanitarian grounds only, but frequently motivated by political calculations. It was a means to gain prestige and the support of the local population. The children were often placed in fundamentalist Islamic schools. It was soon a generally accepted side effect of the system that later on, as young adults, they could be easily talked into suicide missions.
The necessity to fight had slowly but firmly lodged itself in the Palestinians’ hearts over the long years of conflict with Israel. For the majority this was simply a matter of survival. But for a few of them, who had attained notoriety in a media world craving for news, it was a question of non-negotiable faith and rights issues. They became heroes in the holy war against the occupying forces and the infidels.
A couple of years ago, however, something had started to change in al-Qubā and the other refugee settlements. Alongside the local organisations and the few international aid agencies, a new provider slowly captured the refugees‘ souls. Suddenly Ḥamās was no longer the only organisation present with slogans and food. It still remained the only one to engage in inciting propaganda, though the new group’s influence increased steadily. Not through empty words, but concrete deeds. The organisation appeared to have unlimited access to food, medical supplies and clothing for the impoverished population.
Right from the start Haīkal ingratiated himself with the ›newcomers‹: »The new benefactors have arrived. They’re bringing rice and bread, Allah be praised. They’re helping us to get fat without lifting a finger.«
»Just have a look,« laughed a stocky man bowing with an expansive arm movement, »our fasting brother from al-Qubāʾ honours us with his presence. If he won’t take anything more off us, we have no choice but stuff ourselves.«
Haīkal wasn’t accustomed to someone standing up to him, but he quickly recomposed himself. The foreign aid workers were usually pompous and arrogant or quiet and uncommunicative; rarely funny and frequently American or European. But these ones here all seemed to be from the region.
»Indeed,« Haīkal countered, »you certainly don’t need any more food…«
»Unlike you,« the stout man interrupted the gangly youth. He rummaged through a bag and handed Haīkal a Farareer: »Take it and eat in peace.«
Haīkal looked at him in amazement, but accepted the sweet pastry without hesitating. He could hardly remember ever having been given something so delicious.
»Thank you,« he said, now in his normal tone of voice. »My name is Haīkal.«
»I am Ḥusām, Ḥusām Ḫalīl from Egypt.«
The two of them looked at each other and before Haīkal could turn to leave, Ḥusām added: »And we can do with people like you to give us a hand.«
It was the first time the fifteen year old boy had ever been asked for his help. Three years ago Haīkal had come to Gaza looking for work. The little village close to the Israeli border where he had grown up couldn’t provide for him anymore. And the wall relentlessly held the children and adolescents entrapped in its own world. But even the big city couldn’t offer enough work for everyone, and so he barely scraped a living. Like other boys of his age, he had ended up in the camp and was compelled to revert to begging, sometimes stealing.
So far he hadn’t succumbed to the Ḥamās; the tales of paradise and martyrs they dished out simply seemed too ridiculous and insipid. And Haīkal was well versed in the art of story-telling. Ever since he had been a child, he had regaled the people in his village with his stories. A gift which didn’t make life any easier, but frequently more tolerable.
»So?« Ḥusām probed.
Haīkal just stood there open mouthed. The question had actually left him speechless for once. He still hadn’t decided if he should be glad or annoyed about the offer. What was he supposed to do the whole day long if he’d already filled his belly in the morning? Besides, he had become his own master by now. On the other hand, it was tempting to help the feisty Egyptian. He might have some fun.
»What kind of help?« he wanted to know. »I don’t have time for pointless stooge work. I’m a skilled… a skilled… bricklayer. And I won’t blow myself up into paradise. Are you Ḥamās people?« Haīkal bit his lip. It had been a while since he had expressed himself that badly.
Ḥusām suppressed a giggle: »We are not, and we don’t sell tickets to paradise or to hell either for that matter. We just need people to help us transporting our supplies. It’s just an unpaid afternoon job. We feed everyone anyway, doesn’t matter if they help us or not.«
»In other words, the works not demanding, utterly boring, and doesn’t get me anywhere,« Haīkal rediscovered his voice. »It sure sounds like the ideal job for someone like me. And when I’m big and strong, I can still be a bricklayer or a bomber.«
This time the Egyptian couldn’t stifle his laugher. »In that case I can only hope you don’t grow up too fast. See you tomorrow after prayers.« A handshake settled the matter. Haīkal’s eyes beamed when he ran back to the camp and bit into his Farareer.
Over the two years, since he had first gone to the landing place at the beach, his job hadn’t changed, but by now he was a kind of foreman leading a flock of other children and adolescents. The work was easy and satisfying. His troop unloaded the food and other supplies from the small boats and then transported their cargo to al-Qubāʾ in handcarts.
Haīkal and his gang weren’t the only ones rushing back and forth over the short distance. There were countless others like them. Young girls and women also helped. Over time, the goods weren’t just delivered to the refugee camps but everywhere else as well. It was said that the entire Gaza Strip was supplied from the large cargo ships anchored just off the coast.
The aid Ḥamās distributed always prominently displayed its origins. Wheat from Russia, rice from Thailand, blankets and tarpaulin from France. Commodities from the Red Crescent, from the UNESCO, the EU and so on. This organisation, too, had a name, but nobody understood it. People had got into the habit of calling it the Whale. The dolphins on the big ships‘ logos seemed too small for what they delivered. Like the largest of all the creatures inhabiting the seas, this non-profit organisation gave endlessly. Therefore the Palestinian helpers soon called themselves the Whalers.
In the morning Haīkal and his friends roamed around Gaza on the lookout for reusable rubbish. Everything was thoroughly inspected. It didn’t happen very often, but sometimes they did find something. In the past these things could be exchanged for food in the camp. Today, when nobody was starving anymore, the boys swapped their finds for other desirable goods. Occasionally Haīkal simply gave the things he had scavenged to those who needed them most.
The little troop generally returned to the camp around noon to be ready for the delivery work after the midday meal and prayers. Their route took them past the piles of rubble near the western Gate. The gang and others had already repeatedly dug through the waste, and the chances of still coming across anything usable were virtually non-existent. The exercise was pure routine. Despite the city noises, Haīkal suddenly thought he heard someone groaning.
»Did you hear that?« he asked Mishal who was pushing some loose stones around beside him.
»What?«
»The groaning?«
»No, I didn’t hear anything. Where did it come from?«
»I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you!«
But at that moment they both heard it.
»It’s coming from over there, from behind those cardboard boxes.«
»Be careful. Could be a hurt dog. Their bite’s the worst,« another one of the boys cried out.
Haīkal cleared the rubbish without listening to him. The rest of the gang stood close by, watching him in anticipation. To everyone’s surprise they didn’t find a wounded animal but a boy lying contorted between bits of plastic and cardboard. Haīkal called out to him, but he didn’t respond. When Haīkal turned him around, the boy wheezed without opening his eyes. The front of his shirt was drenched in blood.
»Let’s take him back to the camp,« Mishal suggested.
»The little one looks pretty bad,« Haīkal said, »We’ll better leave him here and get some help. You two stay with him and don’t move from this spot while we get Ḥusām,« he eventually instructed two of the older boys.
Ḥusām was at the supply station on his medical round. As a physician, apart from co-ordinating the medical provision for the entire Gaza Strip, he was also responsible for the health care in al-Qubā.
»Ḥusām! Come quickly! We found an injured boy. He’s covered in blood.«
»Calm down. Do you know him?«
»No, I have never seen him before.«
»Where did you find him?«
»In a rubbish heap in front of the western Gate.«
»Was he buried under the rubble?«
