Now They Call Me Infidel Read online

  My father worked in a building close to our home. As a child, I could tell that despite his being an Egyptian authority figure, he was truly loved, trusted, and respected by the Palestinians. I am told that he treated all people similarly, regardless of rank or social standing.

  My father came from a large middle-class Egyptian family. Born in 1920, he fought against the new state of Israel in the War of 1948 when the Jewish state was first established. His father was of Turkish ancestry and his mother’s family was rooted in the Egyptian delta. They had a home on a huge lot in the agricultural outskirts of Cairo. I remember many chicken, ducks, and rabbits running around.

  In 1952 the Egyptian king Farouk was deposed in a relatively bloodless coup led by a young army officer, Gamal Abdel Nasser, who then became Egypt’s president. The charismatic Nasser inspired Arabs everywhere to dream of the unification of all Arab countries under one government to bring back the “old lost glory” of the Arabs. Nasser’s vision, which was firmly linked to hatred of Western imperialism and Zionism, rallied the Arab world into a warlike frenzy. Many people gathered in cafés to listen on the radio to his passionate speeches, heroic defiance of the West, and promises to restore Arab glory. The national anthem of Egypt at the time was “Wallah Zaman Ya Selahi, Eshtaetelak Fi Kefahi,” which translates to “I miss and long for my weapons in my struggle and resistance.” This cry, along with similar songs on the radio, glorified war and jihad, and expressed love and adoration for the new Arab savior, Nasser. His face was visible everywhere—on posters, in all the newspapers, and in schoolbooks.

  Nasser’s overriding passion was to destroy Israel and throw her Jewish population into the sea, thereby restoring Arab dignity. He saw Gaza, situated between Egypt and the new State of Israel, as the staging ground for accomplishing this goal. And that is why he sent my father, one of his most trusted officers, to this place.

  When we arrived, the relatively small area of the Gaza Strip had begun to explode with population, poverty, and unemployment. The problems were compounded by an Egyptian military administration that did little for the infrastructure of Gaza. Arab politics got in the way of making life easier for the Palestinian refugees. The Arab world wanted to see the Palestinians live in intolerable conditions, pushed against Israel with no place to go, not even allowed to visit other Arab countries without a visa. The thinking was that the worse off the Palestinians were, the more pressure the world would bring to bear on Israel. Furthermore, Egypt discouraged and rejected the relocation of the Gaza refugees into the huge and relatively empty Sinai desert, which might have solved the problems of overcrowding.

  I remember my parents taking me along to the Jabalia refugee camp in Gaza. I think we were going there to buy Sham El Nessim eggs, an Arab spring tradition similar to Christian’s Easter eggs. These were intricate creations that Palestinian women decorated with colored wax. The Palestinian women also did beautiful needlework, and my mother would buy the lovely table linens they produced. (Today I still have some of these beautiful tablecloths and napkins.) As we walked through the refugee camp, I saw that families were living in makeshift tents. Children were running around with very little clothing and no shoes. I saw women cooking over fires outside the tents. I remember feeling very sad for them, and wondering what they did in the rain. My mother noticed that despite their poverty, Palestinian women were very clean and kept their children cleaner than many of the poor Egyptian peasants.

  I recently saw a television newscaster reporting from the Jabalia refugee camp, which still exists today, and was saddened to see it didn’t look much better than I remember it as a child—this nearly fifty years later.

  My father had been sent into a complicated hotbed of political turmoil. When, in 1948, the United Nations partitioned the British mandate of Palestine into two areas—one a Jewish homeland, the other a Palestinian entity—the Jews declared a state. The Palestinians did not. Instead, Arab countries from all sides invaded Israel to “drive it into the sea.” That did not happen. During that war, Egypt took Gaza, and Jordan took the West Bank. But instead of helping Palestinians create a nation, Arab governments chose to keep Palestinians as refugees and use their areas as staging grounds for continuing the attacks and terror against Israel.

  The Egyptian regime in Gaza—with support from the whole Arab world—shamed, blamed, bribed, bullied, and abused Palestinians into resisting and fighting Israel. Palestinians were made to feel that they needed to prove they were worthy of the respect of the rest of the Arab world. I once heard Egyptian visitors in our home criticize the Palestinians as being traitors to the Arab cause for having sold out to Israel because they did not show enough resistance. They said, “Palestinians went right back to work after Israel became a state like nothing happened. We Egyptians have to get them out of their fields and businesses and start their resistance.”

  Indeed, Gaza Palestinians were accustomed to visiting relatives, trading and selling goods, even taking jobs in Jaffa or other Arab areas in what was now Israel. And some were quite willing to sneak across the cease-fire line to continue doing what they had always done. Some even crossed the border to terrorize, rob, and loot Israelis. But now the Arabs of Gaza were forbidden by Egypt from crossing into and out of Israel, and those who did so were accused of violating what was called the hudna line, a temporary cease-fire line. Those who were caught crossing were accused of being traitors or spies. Some were killed on the spot. Others were arrested by the Egyptian military authorities and jailed for five to ten years. Their crimes were called violating the hudna border line.

  Furthermore, within Gaza society, political subcurrents made it difficult for the Egyptian leadership in Gaza. At that time, Gaza had two dominant political ideologies that were at odds with each other (they would eventually work hand in hand)—the Muslim Brotherhood, which was legal, and the Communist Party, which was not. The Muslim Brotherhood, a radical Islamic group, which originated in Egypt and was headquartered in Cairo, attempted to assassinate Nasser in 1955 because he was deemed too secular. That resulted in retaliatory arrests, jailings, and the murder of many Muslim Brotherhood members all over Egypt. Muslim Brotherhood members in Gaza were also brutally treated, arrested, and jailed by the Egyptian authorities.

  In addition to being unable to cross the border into Israeli areas, Gaza residents were also prohibited from crossing into Egypt, even though at the time Gaza was technically part of Egypt. Trapped in this narrow strip under Nasser’s oppressive military regime, the people in Gaza revolted. The resulting violent confrontation with the Egyptian authorities in 1955 was called an intifada. Slogans were shouted and posted against Nasser and his Egyptian military dictatorship. Both the Communists and Muslim Brotherhood now became totally illegal, and both groups began working together in underground cooperation against their common enemy. They demanded that the Egyptian military governor, Brigadier Abdallah Refaat, allow more freedoms and end the arrests of members from both groups. They also demanded more border patrols to protect Palestinian civilians from getting caught in the middle as casualties of Egypt’s military operations against Israel. Egypt, at that time, was employing its own military forces against Israel. But Palestinian civilians bore the brunt of the casualties whenever Israel hit back. To quell the rebellion, the Egyptian governor promised the Palestinians more freedoms and greater protection.

  However, arrests and jailing of the political opposition in Gaza continued. And many Palestinians felt betrayed when the Egyptian governor did not keep his promises. Finally, seeking to improve his image in Gaza, Nasser formed a “Palestinian army” composed of local Arabs. The Egyptian administration said if they don’t like our attacks on Israel, then let them—the Gaza citizens—do it.

  In 1955 President Nasser visited Gaza to launch the Palestinian fedayeen (“freedom”) movement under the direction of the young head of his intelligence operations in Gaza, Mustafa Hafez, my father. My father, loved, trusted, and respected by the Arabs of Gaza, was the right choice for Nas
ser. He was given a mission by Nasser to mobilize the first fedayeen unit, made up of fifty-two men, specially hand-picked Gaza Arabs, to conduct both overt and covert guerrilla-style operations inside Israeli territory to cause as much death and destruction as possible.

  At the same time, to support my father’s activities, working from the Egyptian embassy in Jordan, another figure was chosen to organize fedayeen raids into Israel from its eastern border. His name was Salah Mustafa. Over the next two years, Israel’s security would be seriously threatened by the fedayeen activities of both my father and Salah Mustafa.

  My father convinced the Egyptian war minister Abdel Hakim Amer to allow him to draw from the prison population of Palestinians as a way of showing compassion and quelling unrest in Gaza. And so my father built the ranks of the fedayeen by freeing young Palestinians who had been jailed for crossing into Israel. All fifty-two of the first unit came from jail. (It is likely that solved another problem—a shortage of volunteers.) Needless to say, his freeing of jailed young men endeared my father to many Palestinian families. I remember Palestinian women coming to our home to plead with my mother to use her influence with my father to have their sons freed as well. While my mother had deep sympathy for these women, she had to explain that she had no control over who my father picked for his fedayeen ranks.

  Attempting to fully integrate into Gaza society, my siblings and I were sent to elementary schools in Gaza. The other children liked my Egyptian accent and treated me as though I had descended from heaven—I suppose they thought that coming from Cairo was impressive—though I often wondered if they would still feel that way if they knew of Cairo’s rampant poverty and misery. I secretly liked the attention, this feeling of being “special”; however, I struggled not to show it, ever mindful of the evil eye. The hatred of Israel and our obligation to pursue jihad was somehow worked into every subject we discussed in school. In fact, clearly, the main goal of our education was to instill a commitment to destroy Israel. Peace was never discussed as an option, and we were made to feel that peace with Israel would bring only shame to our Arab pride.

  Because of this, the word “Jew” instilled terror and dread into the core of my very being, even though I had never seen a Jew. Even our nursery rhymes and games were something about Jews being dogs. I sang these little songs all the time when I played with my girlfriends. In school, Jews were portrayed as devils, pigs, and an evil, occupying foreign force. We were never told of the Jewish roots in the region. With tears running down their cheeks, older girls whom I admired would stand in front of the class and recite stirring poems pledging jihad, declaring their willingness to give up their lives for the land, and promising to kill the Jewish enemies of God. The sight of these girls in tears had a very powerful effect on the rest of us children.

  In fact, we were all required to recite anti-Jewish poetry daily. After reciting the poetry, some said, “May God bless us with shahada.” The word shahid means “martyr.” It is the highest honor bestowed on a Muslim and absolutely guarantees entrance to heaven. Shahaida can be achieved by being killed during jihad against the perceived enemies of Islam. Jews, we were told, killed Arab children and pregnant Arab women, and always broke treaties with Arabs. They were hated by God and should be exterminated.

  We were taught that nothing was more sacred than the land, not even our own lives or our parents. The words “death” and “kill” were in many poems. We were expected to memorize such poetry without missing a word. Once, when I could not remember one such poem, the principal took me to her office and tried to make me memorize it by force, and when I could not, she hit my hand with a ruler. I went home crying that day.

  Our education in Gaza was no different than anywhere else in the Arab world, though perhaps it was more intense, because just over the cease-fire line north of Gaza were the dreaded enemies of God. Our education bred fear, anger, jihad, and extreme criticism and rivalry of other religions. We accepted it and thought it was normal since it came from adults we trusted, from our educators, and was heard on the radio, and in the mosques. It was our whole culture. Even the games I played with the neighborhood children involved danger and violence in general. In one game, children brought knives from their kitchens and flipped them in the air. The one whose knife landed straight down in the sand was the winner. A knife once landed too close to me and I ran home.

  I had an independent streak in me. Perhaps it was because I spent time with my maternal grandparents, who were modern, urban Egyptians. Others say I was born with an irrepressible curiosity. I once naively asked the question: “Why do we hate Jews?” The response: “Aren’t you a Muslim?” My teacher’s answer, delivered in the harshest of tones, was that “people who doubt are traitors and will go to hell.” I didn’t like the harsh criticism if I did not agree with the conventional wisdom. But I realized that in the Arab world you are either the oppressed or the oppressor. I did not want to be with the oppressed, and I didn’t want to oppress, so I ended up pretending. I learned to be more circumspect, justifiably fearing that the same anger and hatred directed against Jews could also be turned on me.

  When, on January 16, 1956, Nasser vowed a renewed offensive to destroy Israel, the pressure on my father to step up operations increased. More fedayeen groups were organized, and their training expanded to other areas of the Gaza Strip. Often my father was gone for days at a time. In an attempt to end the terror, Israel sent its commandos one night to our heavily guarded home. My father was not at home that night, and the Israelis found only women and children—my mother, two maids, and five small children. The commandos left us unharmed. I personally did not even wake up or know of the incident until later in life, when I read a book written about my father. After I read it, I called my mother immediately, and she confirmed the story. The Israelis chose not kill us even though the Egyptian-organized fedayeen did kill Israeli civilians, women, and children.

  As a result of this incident, Abdel Halim, the young Egyptian soldier assigned to our home—the one who fell off the truck on the way to the beach, the one we children loved because he played with us—suddenly disappeared. No one would tell me why he didn’t come back. I later learned that he was accused of treason and killed in jail. To this day, I don’t know if the accusation against Halim was true.

  My father must have understood the personal dangers he faced. (It was said there was a large sum of money offered to anyone who would kill him.) Perhaps that is why he always slept with a pistol under his pillow.

  After serving Nasser for several years on the front line of Gaza, my father, weary of his job and increasingly worried about our family’s safety, requested a transfer to Cairo. Nasser approved his request but asked my father to stay in his old post for just a few more weeks until a suitable replacement could be found.

  During the spring of 1956, the situation in Gaza grew ever more precarious. We often heard the loud explosions of shelling in the night. I would crawl under the bed, thinking it would protect me, my whole body shaking with fear. I prayed to Allah to save us from this horrible place. I longed for the safety of Cairo and my grandmother’s home. One morning after a particularly frightening night, my mother comforted us by explaining that soon my father would be transferred to Cairo.

  But for our sake, most of the time our parents tried to foster a sense of normalcy. There were pleasant distractions—trips to the beach and frequent outings to the neighborhood movie theater. What a magical place it was. I loved the movies—the handsome Egyptian movie stars, the glamorous screen actresses, the music. During a particularly exhilarating scene featuring belly dancers, I got up from my seat, imitating the dancers’ movements, and was pulled down quickly by my horribly embarrassed father. “Only bad, bad women become belly dancers,” he whispered harshly. But we loved to watch anyway.

  We were two weeks away from leaving Gaza. Nasser had finally agreed on a date for my father’s reassignment. It was rumored that my father would be elevated to Chief of Intelligence for all of Egypt.
Soon we would be able to move into the villa my father was building in the Heliopolis section of Cairo. On our last trip, we had visited the house. It was nearing completion.

  On July 11, 1956, my father dropped off my sisters and me at the movie theater, leaving us with members of his security detail, and then drove on to his office, taking my four-year-old brother with him. Shortly thereafter, we heard an explosion. Engrossed in our movie, we thought little of it. Such noises were common in Gaza. But a few minutes later, security personnel came running into the theater and pulled us out, rushing us home. Everyone was very nervous. But no one explained anything. When we got home, I saw my mother crying uncontrollably, surrounded by other officers’ wives. When I asked where my father was, at first no one would give me an answer. Finally someone explained to me that he had been hurt in an explosion and was in the hospital. My little brother had also been injured, but not seriously. The next morning we were rushed to the military airport to be flown to Cairo. “Where is my father? Is he not coming with us?”

  My mother said he would come later.

  My last trip from Gaza to Cairo was on a military airplane instead of a train. I had never been on a plane before. But the event was surrounded by so much trauma that I remember little of it. Everything was in confusion. The next day at my grandmother’s house I noticed everyone was dressed in black, and women were crying and wailing. That is when I began to understand that something very bad had happened to my father. Still no one would tell me. I insisted on an answer. Finally my mother blurted out, “Your father is dead.”