No room for moderates
Gerda Cohen
Jerusalem Oh my Jerusalem, harsh stone king of cities, every time I go there I swear never to go back. There is no peace and no subtlety in Jerusalem. Stark and mournful as a herd of old elephants, the Judean hills compass you about, and the Salt Sea gathers your weeping a thousand feet below.
Why return? This time, I went to inter- view a man who writes erotic poetry. Ox- ford University Press have published two of his volumes, and a third is due. Stark Hebrew turns into tame English — for that is the problem with Hebrew love poems: they hit you between the eyes like a wall of majestic Judean stone, sunburnt pink but dangerous.
Yehuda Amichai turns out to be so plain I cannot believe he actually wrote the erotic stuff which brought me here. While he is talking, shuffling about in crumpled brown corduroys and ugly shoes, bits of passionate verse fly into my mind — 'Tie your weeping with chains, live within them, within me.' Greying and past middle age, Yehuda Amichai looks like a chap who would always give up his place in a crowded bus. We spoke English together. 'Of course I hate the present government,' Yehuda made a sucking noise on his short pipe, 'I belong to the Peace Movement, I vote against bloody Begin, I do not wish to be governed by maniacs and bandits.'
We drank Turkish coffee, very black and strong. The view from his balcony is heart- holding: silver-white battlements of the great Herodian walls of the Old City. Yehuda did not look at the view. Curtains strung on rusty wire obscured it, and on the balcony hung washing, grubby football socks, faded underpants. `If you ask me how I defend the present regime, I do not, it's hateful.' A strange snorting noise comes from his pipe. Wild English phrases cataract out of this mild little man: 'I have no illusions. If every Arab got a gold refrigerator, they'd still want to kill us. We cannot always be goody-goody and nicey- nicey. I don't care about so-called nice peo- ple who buy your newspaper.'
There is no exact Hebrew word for 'nice'. Yehuda had to pack; he was leaving next day for a recital tour of American univer- sities, where he is renowned for love poetry: `Beautiful thou art as a prophecy; desolate as a prophecy come true ...' We stare at the Old City ramparts, without a word. must fetch my daughter from kindergarten.' She is only three, tousled with fair ringlets and teasing him from the bright jasmine. Yehuda's eldest son works for the Israel air force intelligence. Despite myself, I thought of Beirut under bombing, and then his poem, 'God has pity on kindergarten children'.
Jerusalem since my time has grown huge' bigger than Tel Aviv. Soon half a million people will inhabit its stone honeycombs stacked from Bethlehem to Ramallah, straddled over the high Judean spine. Most are new blocks, rush-built for JewIsu newcomers. Jerusalem has grown rich. Its sharp holy air stinks of traffic, its cold sacred heaven pierced with Hilton and nigh' rise and citadel housing. On the very crown and summit, cranes plonk a quxurY development' beside the Jericho road. yet Jerusalem remains the seraph of cities. ro airport will deposit you here; no tourist plane can belly down do the city. To arrive here, as in Jesus's day, you must ascend, either from the foetid coastal plain or the deep salt cleft of Jordan. Down by the Jo' dan broods a sinister heat shut in by clrY mountains. Amid them lies Jericho, ever,, the fleshy oasis, ripe with meaty re" flowers. Freight drivers throng the cate,s' because trade between Israel and We Hashemite Kingdom flourishes mightily Trucks laden with grapefruit and flush toilets go creaking over the makeshift bailey bridge put up in 1967 after the war. Why n° replacement? 'The Jews forbid it,' an Arab driver told me waiting to be checked. 'Th! Jordanians veto a permanent bridge,' saw an Israeli sergeant checking identity cards' Last year, 30,000 people crossed in both directions, directions, mainly Arabs visiting their, divided families. 'They won't let me in, grinned the sergeant, 'nor you,' searching my face, 'aren't you a Jew?'
From a Hebrew poet to an Arab author. Everyone said I must meet Raymonda Hawa-Tawil. She has won the Kreisky Prize for Human Rights, she is a feminist and at dent nationalist. Raymonda answered the phone in a husky, thrilling voice. 'What language you prefer, Hebrew, English, or French?' Before I could reply she fixed an appointment with magnetic speed. Eigiit a.m. sharp, at her office in Salah-e-M,a Street. Gratified, I took care to be pron"' picking my way between mutilated beggars' hawkers of sesame buns and brave municipal rosebeds by the Damascus Gate. Her office was up three flights on a discreet top floor. 'Palestine Press Services' read a small doorplate. 'Welcome', an amazing.I.Y suave, dark-suited gentleman extended his cuff-links, 'Ibrahim Karaeen, partner in Palestine Press Services. We provide a clailY news bulletin, in English naturally, for olif subscribers. 95 per cent of foreign car- respondents and consulates subscribe. Our staff of eight provide a translation of the Arabic press in occupied Jerusalem, three daily papers and two weeklies. Of course, all the editors are under house arrest, but we soldier on.' He smiled. I wondered, vaguely, where was Raymonda? He gave a smile of exceeding charm. 'Unfortunately she is very ill with influenza. They just telephoned from her home in Ramallah. Mrs Tawil cannot talk due to high fever.' AnYthing in the way of information Mr Karaeen could supply. We sat for ages, he smoking cheroots acrid as burnt toast, tell- ing me without rancour of the harassment, curbs, censorship, imposed by the enemy. They even tried to forbid us using the title Palestine" but we won a court action against this indignity.' At that moment, in burst an apparition so youthful, brilliant ,,and appealing that it took my breath away. Vermilion square-cut nails fly up in em- brace. Viridian fur helmet is plucked off, shaking out crimson hennaed hair over the desk. Raymonda Hawa-Tawil took my chin ever so lightly in her delicate paw: 'As a woman, as a fellow writer, welcome.' It seemed impolite to inquire about the in- fluenza. Why had she kept me there two hours? I never found out. 'Did you read my biography, Mon Pays, Ma Prison, _publish- ed by Seuil, Paris, now available in Univer- sal Edition? I wrote it after being under house arrest without trial!' Raymonda turn- ed full upon me her truthful grey-green gaze, and paused for breath. She spoke with riveting rapidity; now English, now on the telephone — Hebrew, now, to Mr karaeen, limpid Arabic. `When I opened this office,' her nails swept a vermilion arc; 'they put me in Prison for 46 days under the British Man- date emergency regulations.' Raymonda leant forwards, almost brushing me with her crimson hair. 'And they beat me.' I felt too ashamed to ask further. 'Well now,' crossing her glossy black thigh-bootS, 'back to business.' A caressive smile bade me farewell. 'Do you have children? Ah, daughters ... so do I, four daughters and one son. He studies in the States, while two daughters do medicine in Italy and the beungest girl will study law in Paris. I
lieve all women should have a profession. You realise why?' Raymonda's lashes trem- ble like wet palm fronds. was married off, aged 17, to a banker.'
Daunted by her sheer vitality, her dazzl- ing candour, I just about remembered to ask for some medical data on the occupied areas. 'Of course, we have a medical expert in the adjoining office, Mr Radwan.' He had recently helped an American television network, ABC, to make a film on this very subject. 'Indeed yes,' Mr Radwan assured e, 'the military occupation is virtually kill- ing babies. No Arab patients can attend Iladassah Hospital except for "security Prisoners" whom they keep in the intensive care unit, ready for interrogation. When screened these facts across America, naturally the authorities were angry.' Our conversation had to halt then, drowned by the muezzin. Loudspeakers bellowed the muezzin call from a hundred minarets in Jerusalem. 'That is the only facet of our ex-
istence unharmed by Jewish rule,' Mr Rad- wan resumed, going on to mention that no new hospital had been built on the West Bank, while old ones were in a wretched state. 'As American television put it, they are killing our babies.'
This was shameful beyond belief. Just to be on the safe side, I contacted the press of- fice at the World Health Organisation. They were curt. Five senior consultants from the WHO had been advising Israel on specific health problems in the administered territories, to their considerable benefit. Furthermore, the Arab population had a birth rate among the highest in the world over 50 live births per 1,000 population. The United Kingdom, for comparison, had 13 births per 1,000 population. Thanks to intensive immunisation programmes, infant mortality was slowly decreasing. They sug- gested a visit to one of the 70 maternity clinics established on the West Bank since 1967. As for Hadassah, the best teaching hospital, in the Middle East, it took com- plicated cases from several Arab countries as well as the occupied areas. Perhaps a lit- tle field tour would assist me.
Feeling rather let down by Mr Radwan, I took the bus to Bethlehem. On the way, every ridge is walled and locked in by for- tress suburb, a palisade of concrete domi- nion. Gilo, an immense yellow hornet's nest, overlooks the meek roofs of Beit Jallah. By chance, the lady sitting next to me was bound for Beit Jallah hospital. We chatted amiably. 'Bosom screening,' she said at length in prim mission English, 'they will test my bosom in a new clinic. A Jewish doctor runs this,' she cuddled my elbow like 'Will you stop saying you're a man after my own heart.' a conspirator, 'Jesus will drive them out one day; meanwhile they cure bosom disease.' She alighted, a proud, paper-thin Baptist lady, for the cancer department. (Nablus also has one, in Rafidia hospital, opened in 1976.) Bethlehem is a mere 15 minutes south of suburban Jerusalem. Brand-new villas glisten on the hills like blocks of ice-cream, vanilla or pistachio. The posh ones are Gatsby green, a fanciful Thirties style twirl- ing with wrought-iron, like the non sequiturs of Arab rhetoric, making a fine flourish on the landscape. One has a televi- sion aerial mounted on a miniature Eiffel Tower over the front porch. 'That belongs to Freij,' said the bus conductor, 'and that belongs to Freij, uncle of Freij,' laughing heartily; 'is too much Freij here.' This clan forms the chief hamoulla in Christian Bethlehem. I hardly recognised the town: half Manger Square rebuilt in marble, the town hall, Diamond Souvenir Centre, smart hotel — all veneered in nougat-white polished marble. `Mr Elias Freij organised it, the mayor.' He is known everywhere as the only true moderate. 'Poor Mr Freij,' a souvenir dealer sighed, 'he has four dif- ferent speeches. One for Jewish tourists, one for Christian tourists, one for us shop- keepers, and one for the Palestine Libera- tion.' I doubted whether poor Mr Freij would long remain mayor.
Dbwn a steep stone valley is the materni- ty clinic, staffed by nurses and run from the health ministry by Dr Khattoub. Or was it Khattab? He wore an extremely worried smile. 'Please do not confuse me with other Khattoub.' Apparently two remote relatives had been shot in cold blood for col- laborating with the enemy. Fat, decent, worried about his weight and the stubborn refusal of Moslem mothers to have a hospital delivery, Dr Khattoub deluged me with data. Over half the women still bear their babies at home, .aided by dais (mid- wives). 'Fertility,' he said, 'is our help from God against Israel. Our birth rate is remarkable. If only the stupid Arab women would breast-feed instead of using a bottle we would out-number the Jewish popula- tion.'
A man kept on putting his head round the doorway in pleading fashion. `Ah, Mr Bureij. He wishes to display the sewage treatment plant. Before the war, fellahin would fertilise their crops with human manure. Now we have sewage treatment. Ramallah has excellent sewage treatment plant.' Dr Khattoub grew quite agitated. `No, Mr Bureij,' as the head popped in again, 'this lady has no interest.' We drank so much black coffee that my head swam. What about a short breather, up to the Church of the Nativity? His plump chin hesitated. As a doctor, he would enjoy my company; as a loyal Palestinian, no. 'There is no room for moderates.' I left alone. By the Nativity Church, its stone pocked with ancient filth, vendors hung about, waiting for Easter, or Passover. One could buy an olive-wood crucifix or an olive-wood Shield of David. Bethlehem is eager to oblige.
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