The Marsh Angel, Hagai Dagan [free e reader .TXT] 📗

his service immersed in Arabic, and Arabic alone; his life would be linguacentric, and everything else would quietly fade way into the background. He imagined an untroubled life, surrounded by dictionaries, uneventful and without urgency; a life with an air of academic solitude, the prospect of which he found enticing. Or perhaps we would be sent to the Jordanian arena? No one really cared about Jordan… He wanted something insignificant, remote, far from where the action was. He wanted to be forgotten.

These thoughts raced in his mind as he drew his hand to his forehead in salute. The commanders looked at him with impenetrable matter-of-factness. There wasn’t much sympathy in their eyes. They mildly commended him for his achievements, but noted his discernable weakness in technical aspects. Therefore, the course commander said his effeminate cadence, we’ve decided to station you at Kidonit.

Syrian intelligence analysis, after all? Tamir blurted out unintentionally.

No, there’s a small division in Kidonit that deals with HTA, Hostile Terrorist Activity, the course commander said.

HTA?... He hadn’t heard a single word about HTA throughout the entire duration of his training.

Palestinian organizations in Lebanon.

Tamir didn’t know what to say. He had never even considered this possibility. Why not translation? he finally asked.

There are very few spots in translation, and we have our considerations to make, the course commander concluded. HTA is a fascinating field. I’m sure your service will be very meaningful.

Tamir knew perfectly well that ‘meaningful service’ and ‘fascinating field’ actually meant ‘inconsequential service’ and ‘insipid field.’ Maybe it’s for the best, he thought to himself. He rose to his feet awkwardly, saluted, and left the office.

e. A Distant Star on the Border of Dawn

Tamir stood by the curb outside the base and tried to hitch a ride home. He was deep in reflection, and in no particular hurry. He had a seven days’ leave before having to report in Kidonit Base, but he was hardly excited about the prospect of spending an entire week in the kibbutz. A small Subaru pulled up. As he leaned into the window, all he saw at first was the color violet, a deep violet, like a hazy thought, like a yearning. It’s her sweater, he realized a moment later. She wore it over a plain linen dress. Above it hovered a smile, kind yet cautious. The Cheshire Cat sprung to Tamir’s mind, he didn’t know exactly why. She said she’s heading north.

North is good, he said, tossed his large bag in the back, and got into the passenger seat.

The two sat in silence for a while. She drove with one hand, placing the elbow of her other hand on the edge of the open window and resting her head against her hand. Her graying hair billowed in the wind, reminding Tamir of a picture of a stormy Baltic Sea that hung in his parents’ bedroom. She asked Tamir if he minded that she smoked. He said it’s fine. She offered him a cigarette. He thanked her and took one, even though he very rarely smoked. That moment, though, felt appropriate. His long and arduous intelligence training was behind him, and before him… What in fact was before him? He admired Buddhist monks capable of stretching the present moment right to the edge of their being, leaving no room for the past or the future, completely devoted to the pure nothing, clear as crystal. He closed his eyes, inhaled the sweet smoke, and let the breeze caress his face.

So, do you like serving in Intelligence?

He opened his eyes. What makes you think I’m in Intelligence? The cadets had placed the unit insignias they received during the closing ceremony in their pockets. They were instructed not to wear it in public. They were even warned they could be a target for kidnapping. They were told the story of an intelligence analysis officer from the Hermon outpost who was captured by the Syrians during the Yom Kippur War and told them everything he knew. And he knew a lot. They were drilled on the primacy of secrecy, and the necessity of having a cover story ready. Tamir had no such cover story at hand, and thought to himself that he really wouldn’t mind being kidnapped by this woman right now.

Well, she laughed, you don’t have to be a genius to know that hitchhikers outside Bahad 15 serve in Intelligence. Besides, you’re the only ones who walk around without insignias.

He smiled. You’re on to me…

She raised her gray, pretty eyes to the rear-view mirror, to the huge bag deposited haphazardly in the back seat. Did you just finish your training?

Is there anything you don’t know about me?

I don’t like those training courses of yours.

No? How come?

They teach you to look at people through the scope of a rifle. Every Arab becomes an enemy.

Well, some of them really are enemies…

And some aren’t.

Yes… He suddenly thought about the shanty village of the Arab al-Ghawarneh.

The problem is that it’s not just an inevitable truth or a strictly professional matter, she said begrudgingly. This entire country looks at reality through that same lens. The whole country perceives an entire diverse group of people as nothing more than an enemy. It’s destructive.

Are you a politician or something?

Hi, I’m Amalia. I’m the director of a foundation named Al-Shajara. Do you know Arabic?

The tree, Tamir casually translated.

Well, at least they teach you Arabic there. But even that, it’s military Arabic. I mean, not Arabic poetry, not… She stopped talking, visibly upset.

Tamir turned to look at her. So, what does your organization do? Poetry readings?

Don’t be sarcastic.

Okay, I’ll do my best. But I can’t promise.

Her mouth curved slightly. Tamir wasn’t sure whether that was an expression of discontentment or a budding smile. We gather data on Palestinian refugees around the world, she replied. We create a map of families, of roving and wandering, starting from the villages and cities they were displaced from.

What for?

For the memory. For the history. For future generations. And also to help people who are searching for their relatives.

So,