1001 Nights Cast

Aircraft leaving Israel fly towards Europe, and occasionally down the Red Sea. The Arab countries in other directions are out of bounds. Israel is a country with its back to the wall, Palestine a territory imprisoned within a wall. And my mind was walled, my eyes stuck shut, as the plane climbed up into the sky. I had no idea where it was heading. It reached cruising altitude. I am not unallergic to pressure, I slowly unwound. Feeling calmer, I turned to my neighbour across the aisle to inquire of our destination: one of my chaperones rose up and brushed me back into my seat.

The little screen in front of me showed that we were heading north, towards Cyprus. I knew that at some point it would show our distance from our destination. Finally it did: 5500 miles. We were on our way to New York.

Next to me sat a religious Jew, black coat, black fur hat on in the plane, long side curls which I wanted to finger softly, thinking of the goats in the hills outside Ramallah when I was a child. He turned to me, waved off my guard who had suddenly reappeared. ‘You must be mighty important to have the plane stop for you’. He asked me my line of business. Banking, I told him. Also that I was in the throes of deportation. It dawned on him that I was neither Israeli nor Jew, and with stern humanism told me that if we had not resorted to terrorism we would have had a state years ago, and I retorted that if we had had a state years ago, we would not have resorted to terrorism. It was like the Israelites in the Bible, I said, if Pharaoh and the Egyptians had not enslaved them, they would not have needed to inflict ten murderous plagues on the Egyptian civilian population. He was no longer calm. That was God’s will, said with soft menace, how could I dare make the comparison with Divine intervention. He turned away.

I stared at the screen before me. Soon we would cross the Turkish coast, fly across the chaotic highlands of Anatolia. A while later we would follow the coast towards Istanbul, an endless seafront leading towards the Bosphorus: Istanbul would be burning the midnight oil, surely a city which never sleeps, it would be brilliantly lit. Perhaps, if I had been by the window I would be able to pick out the dome of Saint Sophia, cascading down through arches and minarets, so much larger and more elaborate than my golden dome in Jerusalem. We would cross the western corner of the Black Sea, and over Bulgaria gradually sidle up to the Danube, immensely broad on its final stretch to the sea. There is a place where the Danube cuts through the Carpathian Mountains, a contorted gorge where the swelling flood of water draining central Europe has found a way through. And we would be over Yugoslavia, and if it was day, one might meditate upon the contradictions of history, the draughtsmanship of the vast collectivised estates of Tito’s Balkans having been redivided among the offspring of its ancient owners, forming a picturesque patchwork of private property. Presently we would cross the Austrian Alps, lower and less grandiose than those of Switzerland, and by and by the Black Forest would be a fading memory as we flew on over the flat plains of Flanders to the sea. And Belgium in the dead of night, with its network of illuminated freeways would be lit up like a Christmas tree.

It would be lights out over England, people under quilts in cosy villages. The aircraft following the turning earth, I was stuck in the stasis of never ending night. I could feel day padding on behind me, patiently advancing to my escape. It would be morning in Jerusalem by now, shafts of shimmering light shooting up the alleys.

Above the Atlantic, I slept. I dreamt of Entebbe, an endless stream of aircraft flying down to Lake Victoria. Heavy loaded Antonovs, war-mongering out, fish-mongering home. Other planes, Hercules, propellors droning. But these were Israelis, they had come to rescue the passengers of a jet which had been hijacked by the Popular Front, who were being hosted by Idi Amin, as the ultimatum for their execution drew close. The hostages were freed and flown back to Tel Aviv, the Palestinians killed, more notches on the endless list of martyrs. The morning following was July 4th, 1976 and the United States celebrated its 200th anniversary of independence, the entire population of Israel was in a state of delirious relief and celebration. I did not go out, that day, I did not open the shutters in my room, I felt dismay at our failure, I felt dismay at the methods our powerlessness forced us to resort to, to make our stateless voice audible.

I awoke to long last sunlight, shafting across the cabin. I had to go to the toilet, my guardian angel was there to knock me back into my seat. We were coming down, the screen showed us flying parallel to Long Island. The sun would be shining horizontally over the dancing waves directly into the summer houses, their proprietors would be walking out, bare feet across the teak deck, toes sifting the sand dunes, down to the beach. They would jog off, convincing themselves that they still had their sons’ vigour. And their sons would be driving their fathers’ Ferraris to their offices in Manhattan.

We had landed in JFK. I stumbled into the terminus, the unfilled entry form in my hand. I was no longer accompanied. A television was blaring CNN. More protests by shouting, gesticulating men, against the blasphemous Danish cartoons. They shouted ‘Jihad! Jihad!’ The commentary said that this was happening in Jerusalem. There was smoke everywhere. Unruly men pushed the cameraman back, and revealed what was up in flames. They had gutted the Danish Tea House.