14/4/95

Selected Readings From the Haggadafi

‘Why, on all other nights, do we eat humous and ful, but tonight we eat unleavened pita?’

    It is the future. The Palestinian holiday of redemption, Id al-Bessah, has just begun. Yusuf, a little boy from Gaza, is sitting at the festive table between his father and uncle Yakoub, and a little too close to the pile of grated horseradish, which makes his eyes water.
    "Father," he says sweetly, "why is this night different from all other nights?"
    Ibrahim laughs heartily and pats his son on the head. "We are gathered here to answer that very question. That is what this sedr is all about."
    Ibrahim begins the ritual by holding up a large unleavened pita. He breaks off a piece and hands it to Yusuf. "This is the a-Fiq Oman," he explains to his son. "It represents the bombs that freed our people from bondage. Hide it well."
    Yusuf scampers off to the storage room and carefully conceals it under some vegetables, as if it were a bomb. He returns with an impish grin.
    "Now we officially begin the sedr," Ibrahim says. "It is the story of our freedom, of when the Israelis in urgent haste departed from Palestine." He lifts the sedr plate and reads from the Haggadafi: " 'This is the poverty bread that our ancestors ate in occupation.' "
    "Actually," Uncle Yakoub breaks in, "our ancestors had a preference for halla." Ibrahim glares at him and he adds hastily: "That is, if we are to believe secular historians."
    "And now," Ibrahim announces with a flourish, "Yusuf has a few questions he'd like to ask."
    Nervously, the lad stands up. He clears his throat. "Why, on all other nights, do we eat humous or ful, but tonight we eat unleavened pita...." When he's gone through the four questions, he slides back into his seat, flushed with pride, while everyone at the table applauds.
    Ibrahim picks up his Haggadafi and continues with the reading. " 'We were Rabin's laborers in Israel and Allah took us out with a strong hand and outstretched arm....’ ”
    Fundamentalist claptrap, Yakoub says to himself. How can Ibrahim blindly believe all this stuff? Maybe the enemy remembers our history differently, Yakoub once said to Ibrahim, and was promptly thrown out of his brother's house for the thought.
    " 'Our sages tell a tale of Abu Mazen, Abu Ala and Abu Khaled, that they were reclining together in Oslo talking about the Israeli Exodus from Palestine. This went on all night, until their disciples came and said unto them: "Masters, it is already time to hear the morning muezzin." ' "
    "When do we eat?" Yusuf asks impatiently. And when can I slip away for a cigarette, Uncle Yakoub wants to ask, but doesn't.
    "This next story, The Four Sons, was my favorite part of the sedr when Yakoub and I were little boys," Ibrahim says, and laughs. "You remember, Yakoub? You pretended to be the wicked son, and I was the wise one."
    Yakoub grins. "I wasn't a very nice brother. We used to play 'Arab and Jew' and I always wanted to be the Jew." 
    The snippet of nostalgia perks little Yusuf up, and Ibrahim resumes reading. "The sages tells about four sons. The wise son was a stone-thrower; the wicked son was a collaborator; the simple one was a construction worker; and the one who did not know how to ask was a negotiator."
    After reading through a few more pages, Ibrahim slows down so that everyone can chant the Ten Plagues together: "Hijackings. Stones. Booby-traps. Knives. Burning tires. Guns. Sabotage. Bombs. Kidnappings. Slaughter."
    Yusuf, wide-eyed, exclaims: "Gee, we really showed 'em, didn't we!"
    "It was the will of Allah," Ibrahim says firmly. "All we wanted was to get our land back, but they were a stiff-necked people, those Israelis." He then carries on to the next song, which everyone chants lustily:
    "If Allah had taken them out of Gaza and Jericho -- That would have been enough...."
    Just when Yusuf thinks he's going to pass out from hunger, his mother excuses herself from the proceedings and goes to the kitchen. Ibrahim mumbles a few more passages, closes the Haggadafi and Yakoub races out for a quick smoke. Dinner at last!
     Yusuf tucks into the first course, a plate of pickled sheeps' testicles -- his favorite -- and tells his uncle that just the other day he saw a movie on TV about the Id al-Bessah story.
    "Don't speak with your mouth full," his mother admonishes.
    Gulping down the last testicle, he recounts the film: "You should've seen it, Uncle; our Prophet Yasser, played by Charlton Heston, sees an evil makolet owner yelling at his Palestinian boy and Yasser beats the guy senseless. Then he goes to the Israeli government and tells them: 'Let my people go!' And in the end, Allah parts the Green Line and all the Israelis leave Palestine."
    Yakoub is confused. "That's not how I remember the movie. Did Charlton Heston wear a long white robe and have a long white beard?"
    "No," Yusuf says, "short green army clothes and stubble."
    "I see," Yakoub says. "Must've been the sequel."
    Ibrahim frowns and gently chides his son and, at the same time, his brother. "If you read the scriptures instead of watching TV, you'd get a better understanding of our history. The Prophet Yasser wandered in the desert, in exile, for forty years before Allah led him back to the Land of Israel -- but even then, Yasser was not allowed to cross the border. So he sent spies in to scout the land, and they came back carrying huge olive branches, a symbol that the time was ripe. That instead of working as slaves to build their glorious villas, Baruch Hashemite, we should be a free people again."
    "And because we are Allah's chosen people, He took care of us," Yusuf chimes in.
    "Yeah," Yakoub adds snidely, "that's why we're the only Arabs in the world without an oil well. If He takes care of us, why are we always being persecuted?"
    Tersely, Ibrahim tells his impressionable son: "According to our great sage Rashid, even an infidel has much to teach us, for his foolish words only fortify our faith. Now, brother, if it is not against your principles to show thanks for the food you have eaten, you may lead the Birkat Hamajnoon."
    Yakoub knows he went too far and, swallowing his pride, he gets on with it.
    On cue, Yusuf's mother places a symbolic cup of bitter Turkish coffee on the table for the Prophet Eljihad, and opens the door. A ghostly gust blows in, and Yusuf gets a shiver down his spine when his father explains that they are welcoming the souls of the martyrs who died in the botz of the intifada.
    Yusuf is very drowsy, but he struggles to stay awake for the spirited conclusion of the sedr, singing "Yahud, mi Judea," and "Jihad Gadya."
    Little Yusuf had never made it so far into the sedr, but this year he was a lot older and, happily, he was still awake to chant the age-old shebab slogan:
    "Next year in Jerusalem."