I had been invited to watch a ‘clasico’ soccer match. FC Barcelona
was playing Real Madrid. On my way home to Abu Dis from Hebrew class in
Jerusalem, I got off the bus early to meet Amjad. The male population of El-Aizeriah
seemed to be evenly divided between the teams.
As I got off the bus, Amjad was rigging a Madrid flag onto
his friend’s car antenna. “David! How are you man? You are for Real Madrid!”
“Of course I am.” He walked over and gave me a dramatically
fervent handshake. Amjad always shook with both hands to my one, and smiled
with excitement like each greeting was the first time he had had the chance to
put all his handshaking preparation to practice. “Good to see you.” I said. “I am
coming right from Jerusalem so I have my Hebrew stuff and some Scotch in my bag
if you want some later.”
“OK man, we will see.”
I knew I could be honest with Amjad. When I first met him he
asked me what my religion was. I liked to explain to Palestinians that I was
like a salad. I had ancestors from all over Europe. Some were Catholics, some
were Protestants, some were Jews. But me? I am not religious. Then I changed
the subject to them, ‘And you, what is your religion?’ When I gave that line to
Amjad he explained that he knows the difference between Israelis and Jews, and
its fine that I am a Jew. He responded to my question of his religion, ‘I just
believe in God.’
After closing his shop, we walked up and down the main
street facing friendly interrogators wanting to know whom we supported. When we
said Madrid we were either embraced as kin or told of our degeneracy. Amjad enjoyed
the enthusiasm, “It is good, you know, to have something to care about. Something
to think about other than politics. Our lives have so much stress, we need
something else to do. In football, you can win.” I nodded, and couldn’t help
but agree.
After a few minutes, we came upon a tall thin man standing
alone in the doorway of a restaurant. He was light skinned for a Palestinian and
wore wireframe glasses that gave him a bookishness far removed from his tight
t-shirted peers. His stature allowed him to see right over other men. It appeared
that he was looking at something far away.
Amjad seemed to know everyone in town. After they shook
hands, the tall man greeted me in English. He and Amjad spoke briefly in Arabic
that I didn’t make out. Amjad turned to me and explained that the tall man
doesn’t like soccer. “He thinks people are forgetting about what is important.
He was in prison until before one month.” I looked at the tall man and smiled.
I remembered a leftist politics professor in college who believed soccer was
the true opiate of the masses. We said our goodbyes and kept walking.
“Do you want to drink a shot?” Amjad asked.
“Sure, but where?”
I followed him off the main road and away from the
streetlights and team flags. We stopped on a footpath shadowed from either
side. To our right was the church built where Jesus raised Lazarus from the
dead. To our left, the entranceway veranda of a mosque. One black leather
sandal remained where worshipers leave their shoes at prayer time. The patio
was covered in floral tiles. “OK.” He said.
I took out the bottle and handed it to Amjad for the first swig.
“So, I never thought I would drink at a mosque.” I said.
“Everyone knows. No one cares.” He passed the bottle to me
and walked a few steps back toward the light to get a look up and down the
street. Just to be sure that no one cared. “I used to do the call to prayer
here when I was younger.”
“Really?”
“My father is a religious man. He reads the Koran, so I used
to come here with him. But I am not religious.”
I pass the bottle back. “So do you really care about the
game tonight, or is it just for fun?”
“That man who was in prison, he is an optimist. He cares
about politics. He thinks we can change things with the Israelis. So he tries
to fight for us, and they put him in prison. Everyone else watches soccer.”
- May, 2012
