Einstein University, Jerusalem, Palestine April 22nd, 1985
"Ain't no mountain high, ain't no valley low! Ain't no river wide enough, baby!" my Sony Walkman blares, "If you need me, call me, no matter where you are. No matter how far, don't worry, baby. Just call my name, I'll be there in a hurry, You don't have to worry."
I hum along to the song, performed by American singers Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell, as I work on one of my ideas for a PhD dissertation in the Edward Said Library of humanities of Einstein University on the grounds of Jabal al-Mashad in Jerusalem, Palestine. I sit at a secluded desk on the fifth floor, surrounded by tall bookshelves, hunched over a typewriter, headphones over my ears.
"Face of the Mother Goddess": the Iconography of Asherah from Kuntillet Ajrud, I type the title of my dissertation, referring to the chief goddess of the Canaanite people who once dwelled in Palestine. My Walkman continues to play the song into my ears.
Kuntillet Ajrud. I had worked with one of my Professors on that site, a surly archaeologist of Egyptian Jewish heritage named Amir Reuben with specialization in ancient Canaanite Religion. One of his favorite ideas was one he proposed in 1967: the God of Abraham was initially imagined to have a wife named Asherah, who was written out by the later Israelites upon their conversion to monotheism. He stirred quite a storm in our country, having offended quite a few religious folks. My Aunt Judith was one such person offended, advising me against taking his class, out of respect for God, who she feels guided her through the Holocaust. On the other hand, my dad, though recently more religious, was never offended by this, even now.
"I'm no omnipotent God," Baba says. "I have no business dealing with his relationship to anyone but myself. Let Professor Reuben say as he wishes."
Of greater concern to me than Reuben's "heretical" ideas was his perspective on my fights with imperialists and thieves. I remember my first exploit, during my first year of university, at some caverns near the Dead Sea, where I had foiled some Jordanian soldiers from stealing an ancient scroll.
"Awad, you're late to return!" he once scolded me.
"Some Jordanian thugs were stealing an ancient scroll," I explain, honestly. "It was Palestinian heritage! Someone had to stop them!"
"Not you, Awad!" he continued the scolding. "Next time, call the police!"
The police won't do a damn thing! I had told myself.
Back then, the police weren't as concerned about our country's history, as they were occupied by threats from the far-right Zionist terror groups that sometimes smuggled themselves through the Jordanian border. In fact, a year later, when I was nineteen, the Third Palestine-Jordan War broke out over this very issue and the Jordanian Monarch's fear that our country would spread "communism" into his country. I signed up, ready to use what I learned in Shalakht Lamsa (a combat style unique to our country) and Historical European Martial Arts classes for the defense of our land. We survived, obviously, and so did I. But…
"Greetings, Miss Awad," I hear the faint sound of the American-tinged, deep-voiced Arabic of my World Literature Professor, Frederick Salib, my absolute favorite during my time here.
I snapped out of my writing process and reflection. Removing my headphones, I turned to face Professor Salib, a middle-aged man with a blue scarf, plaid shirt, and denim jeans. His soft brown eyes call to mind the wisdom of an old sage, straight out of a Sufi Order, though I am well aware that my Professor is from a Christian family. His dark hair is speckled with gray streaks and his skin is a lighter tan than mine, due to the time he likely spends in his office.
"Greetings Professor Salib," I greeted him with a smile. "How are the sales of your book? I bet Orientalism is going to have an incredibly large impact on the world."
"Yafa, you know that isn't my priority," he chuckled. "Besides, I came here to talk to you about something else."
"Is it about my scraps with colonizers?" I inquire playfully. "Because you know I learned everything I hate about them from you."
He lets out a hearty chuckle.
"Yafa, we gave up on getting you to stop a long time ago," he clarifies. "Prime Minister Said wants to speak with you."
I stop. Prime Minister Said?
"As in Edward W. Said?" I ask. "You know the Professor who got into politics and became Prime Minister."
Professor Salib nods.
"The one you wouldn't shut up about for the longest time?" I asked again to ensure I wasn't hallucinating.
"See for yourself," replies Professor Salib, gesturing to his left.
I turn to catch sight of another middle-aged man, dressed in a gray, plaid dress suit, with a tie as green as the olive trees of the country he represents. His eyes too, are wise like Professor Salib, his hair a similar style and color, but his skin is even fairer than my favorite Professor's.
"Dr. Awad, I presume," greets Prime Minister Edward Said, his Arabic laced with traces of an accent, acquired from his American University education.
"Just call me Yafa, Dr. Said," I tell him, bowing graciously, as I neglect to tell him of my in-progress doctoral thesis.
"Sure thing, Yafa," accepts Said with a smile. "But you and our people chose me to lead. There's no need to bow."
"Dr. Said. Yafa bows not to a Prime Minister," explains Professor Salib, "But to an academic who has made it in Palestinian society."
"Indeed," I agree. "So what are you doing back in Einstein?"
Prime Minister Said's expression hardens a bit. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an old leather journal, similar to my own. I take it and flip to the latest entry. Without reading the text, I notice that its pages are crinkled beyond extreme, as if soaked with a mythological flood's amount of running water. However, as I stroke them, they seem durable, almost new.
"We fished this diary out of the Mediterranean coast," explains Prime Minister Said.
That explains the crinkling.
"We believe it may be of interest to you," he continues.
I raise an eyebrow, leading Said to signal me to read the text of the diary itself, surprisingly fresh after who knows how long in the Sea. It is in Arabic, with barely legible handwriting, almost like the scribbles of a child. Whoever wrote this isn't getting any calligraphy awards. As for the text itself, the author is addressing a "Daftar", or "notebook" in Arabic:
January 1st, 1972
Dear Daftar,
Among the Lost Tribe, I have discovered my greatest treasures. Not even the Qumran Scrolls are more valuable to me. They have made me rethink the entire world and the meaning of my life. If only Yafa could see this. She would be just as excited as I am.
Best regards,
-Yusra Hamad
I begin to seethe, hisses of air coming between my teeth. The nerve of her! After all she didn't do, now the great, almighty Dr. Yusra Hamad dares to believe I would be excited by her work. Some great treasures made her rethink the meaning of her life? It should have been me and Baba that did that to her!
"I'm afraid you're wrong sir," I apologize to Prime Minister Said. "I have no interest in the slightest."
I slam the journal shut. There would be no more to discuss. The Prime Minister looks astonished. On the other hand, Professor Salib is barely surprised.
"She's always had a strained relationship with her mother," explains my Professor to the Prime Minister.
"That woman is not my mother," I snap, "She happened to be the one who conceived and birthed me."
Prime Minister Said gives a solemn nod.
"Well, then, what do you know of the Lost Tribe she writes of?" inquires Said.
"Too much," I reply, with an eye roll for added measure, "Dr. Hamad always went on and on about them. They were said to be a culture of people isolated from the rest of humanity for who knows how long? They were known to explorers for millennia, from Hanno the Navigator of Carthage to Ibn Battuta. European Conquistadors heard the stories and identified them with one of the Ten Lost Tribes of the Northern Kingdom of Israel, hence their name. The Lost Tribe was also known for their extensive knowledge of herbs, from stuff that likely preserved this-"
I waved the journal.
"To an herb that could preserve certain traits of parents in a child," I concluded.
The Prime Minister and Professor Salib both nod.
"Dr. Hamad set off to find them when I was twelve," I continued. "I always thought they were a myth, like Prester John. Well, until now, with this journal. I guess she had nothing left to live for after my father and her split. So she went off on an adventure."
The memory of that moment means nothing to me. I never cared for that woman. Yet my eyes still water a little. Probably bitter tears, not tears of grief.
"Well Yafa," Said interjected, "How do I put this? Dr. Hamad isn't the only one seeking the Lost Tribe."
I pause, raising an eyebrow.
"Who else is?" I inquire.
Prime Minister Said nods to Professor Salib who hands me a polaroid photo. Taking it, I begin to examine the image on the polaroid. It is of an F-shaped rune, much like the one I found on the thieves' uniforms back in the Yucatan's jungles.
"What does this thing mean?" I ask.
"Well, remember the time your cousin Janna led a student protest movement to protect Sheikh Jarrah?" Prime Minister Said asks me back.
I nod.
"Well, this symbol is linked to the Ansuz Foundation," he explains. "It's a think tank that the outside world knows very little about. However, we know its current chairman, Hugo Nordmann II, is also the CEO of Nordmann Global, which tried to establish a branch on top of Sheikh Jarrah."
I nod.
"Wasn't Nordmann an SS trooper back in his youth?" I inquire. "And wasn't his father Himmler's favorite banker and an SS officer himself?"
"Yes," Said confirms. "Nordmann Sr. even bankrolled the Holocaust. It's why I ordered the city to cancel Nordmann Global's contract,"
My heart sinks for my Aunt and her birth parents. Thank god her daughter, our little JFK, fought them off our land.
"The Ansuz Foundation is seeking the Lost Tribe as well," reveals Prime Minister Said, breaking my silence.
I look at him, my eyes wide.
"They are?" I gasp. "They're just a think tank, as you said!"
"Linked to far-right terror across the world," Said further explains. "Palestine has been trying to warn the UN about them, but to no avail."
Well, that explains the thieves in the Yucatan. I stare at Prime Minister Said, realizing the implication of his statement.
"Yafa, if you don't find the Lost Tribe first," warns the Prime Minister, "They may very well meet a fate only Nazis can deliver."
####
"Yafa, your mother wanted you to know of the treasures she found with them," my Aunt Judith tried to persuade me.
She and I were on a trail in the Mount of Olives near Jerusalem's Old City. The light of the setting sun pierced through the clouds, a pillar of light that turned everything into an orange shade. We walked past olive tree after olive tree, the symbols of our nation and homeland. Palestine was so beautiful, how could Dr. Hamad abandon this land?
"You know what Dr. Hamad did to our family," I replied, my tone bitter as a lime. "Or rather didn't do. Why should I help her with this Lost Tribe?"
I storm off to a small, aging, gnarled olive tree, taking a seat on its root. It had been with me since I was a child, as it had been for Aunt Judith. It was always there for her and I in a way that Dr. Hamad never was. After all these years of absence, she finally sends a journal, expecting me to share an adventure with her. Expecting me to be in awe over some tomb of riches collected by this Lost Tribe whoever they were. Like that's ever going to happen.
"Yafa," the soft voice of my Aunt says, as she kneels beside me. "If you don't do this for your mother, do this for the Lost Tribe."
I whip my head towards my aunt, an eyebrow raised.
"What do you mean?" I inquire.
"If the Ansuz Foundation really is tied to the Nazis," she begins to explain, "They may be in real danger."
I nod, as I begin to stroke my chin.
"You and I are fully aware of what those monsters are capable of," Aunt Judith continues, with a sniffle and a shed tear. "I survived Auschwitz, but I wouldn't have survived the loneliness if it weren't for my new parents."
I nod, recalling the generosity of the Hamad parents, my maternal grandparents. How they birthed a daughter like Dr. Hamad is anyone's question.
"My new mother told me why she helped me," Aunt Judith says. "Do you remember what the reason was?"
"It was because saving one human life, means saving all humanity," I answer. "It's a Quranic passage. Baba's been really getting into it lately. And so was Teta."
Aunt Judith nods.
"If this tribe is actually out there," Aunt Judith continues her point, "Saving their lives from this Ansuz Foundation would mean saving a whole Tribe of Humanities!"
I nod pondering the logic. If the Ansuz Foundation were truly connected to the Nazis, they would be the heirs to the ultimate evil this world has ever faced. The descendants of the pinnacle of imperialist, colonialist, and supremacist philosophy. Roaming the world today. I have only one answer to respond with.
"I'll take Said's offer," I declare. "But it's not for Dr. Hamad."
Aunt Judith's eyes light up, as she makes a gentle smile.
"It's the right thing to do," she affirms. "Hey Yafa, there's a scorpion on the tip of your keffiyeh."
I lightly elbow my Aunt for this poorly-timed joke causing her to chuckle. I then look down at the tip of my traditional Palestinian scarf and gasp. Crawling on it is a massive scorpion, with huge pincers and a relatively small stinger.
"AHHHHH!!!!" I scream, leaping up in a panic, "Get it off, get it off!"
"Yafa, it's not deadly, the claws are too big," explained Aunt Judith. "My biologist friend taught me that. Probably not a deathstalker!"
"Kill it, kill it!" I continue to scream, unmoved by reason, flapping the tip of my Keffiyeh in order to shake it off.
"Yafa, if you end one scorpion, you kill all of its kind," Aunt Judith attempted to counter. "If you apply the Quran to this."
"Good!" I reply, as I finally fling the wretched creature into a distant bush.
####
Author's Note:
Hello everyone,
Sometimes taking a stand can be hard. Sometimes one may lose friends for doing so. Sometimes one may be misunderstood. But do not lose hope, for what are we without hope. Educate yourself with the links below.
I don't know if anyone actually reads this novel. But for any who do, thank you. Genuinely from the bottom of my heart. If you're out there and enjoy my work, please comment, leave a review, anything. I think this is a story worth telling.
Best wishes,
-Benedict Sky
Links:
https://decolonizepalestine.com/
https://bdsmovement.net/
https://www.jewishvoiceforpeace.org/