A Personal Exodus Story
Reprinted by permission
Introduction
This story was written as the positive act of
a 'witness', witnessing what transpired to my family and me, during the early
days of June 1967; having been deported from Egypt and having immigrated
subsequently to America. The story starts on the first day of the 'six days' war
and takes us step by step from jail to jail and finally onto a freighter to
reach the first safe haven of many, Crete, Koln, Paris and finally America.
During these events, I report on what happened,
what I saw and experienced as well as how I felt; as they say "the good, the bad
and yes the ugly" is portrayed uncensored. You'll meet my companions on our
trek, you'll get to know me and other fellow Jews with all our strength and
weaknesses, i.e. warts and all; while trying to cope with the hardships imposed
upon us for the one basic reason, we were Jews living in an Arab country.
During our exodus we met people that helped us and
extended a helping hand on the spot; lifting our spirit in the process so we
don't succumb to desolation and despair, especially when we most needed it. Can
one imagine exiting from a train station in Paris with nowhere to go! Yet we
found ourselves in the open arms of one Jewish community after another. We will
re-experience together, my emotional reunion with my family living in France and
with my parents after we were rejoined in Paris.
It is not simply a flat narration of events,
though harrowing or even 'humorous' at times it might have been, it was
important as well to record how I felt and how such events affected me in the
near and long term.
Regardless of the hardships of my Exodus
experience I still see myself as a peace loving Jew. I have not learned to hate,
and I strongly believe that "hate only begets hate"! I cannot see myself hating,
and if understandably then, then definitely not now, and that if all I have
learned from my Exodus experience was to hate, I would consider my life a
totally wasted one.
A Personal Exodus Story
By
Israel Bonan
Prelude: It was in early June, I was in my
last year of college; actually last month of it. All I needed to graduate was
the senior project and completing the oral defense. My sister was already
married and in the US; my brother had already left for the US as well.
All I needed was to finish college, take a summer
vacation tramping around the country visiting Luxor and Aswan with my friends
and any antiquities I had not seen before I permanently departed with my parents
to join my brother and sister; all in good time (may be September of 1967).
* * *
June 5th 1967: I had to be at college, for a
prelim discussions with advisor etc..., I arrive around 9 am and soon after we
hear that war broke out with Israel. While at college, you have to understand
that higher education was free with the proviso that students after graduation
will be contractually obligated to serve 4 or 5 years in the government employ
in whatever capacity they can provide the recent graduates with; to the
exclusion of Jewish students. So I could see the glee in other student eyes as
they began to congratulate each other about their assignments which will
undoubtedly be in Tel Aviv, and in very short order. I kept my composure,
something we had to learn so we don't betray our emotional tendencies and
allegiances. Since no educational business could be transacted because of the
new developments, all appointments were canceled and I faced going back home. It
was impossible to get a bus to come back home, since the Egyptian government
started re-deploying them for army purpose, and you could see the rioting and
public clamoring starting to shape up in the streets.
I did the best thing I could, I
started walking, mostly running,
from Cairo University at Guiza
to Bab El Look in Cairo, a good
4 to 6 miles at least. Exhausted
I reached home, and started to
listen to the radio.
Since early in the war, the radio blaring was all
about the good fight and the dominance of Egyptian artillery in safeguarding the
Egyptian skies over Cairo. Tens and then hundreds of planes every hour were
reported shot down in total victory over the invading Zionists.
We had a dear friend and neighbor
that lived upstairs from us, we
were kind of inseparable who
stopped by, as usual, and saw
our anxieties and tried to keep
us optimistic and cheerful, and
not to worry about what is
happening (he knew we had
relatives in Israel, I am sure
of that). Yet with every radio
announcement and the tally of
planes shot down over 300 by mid
afternoon, I could see his hard
to suppress glee, while at the
same time he was trying to calm
us down.
I wish to add that this type of divided loyalties,
not only of his, but of Jews in the Diaspora was and is not uncommon. I repeated
that episode because it struck me as a two way street and that I should
understand it from not only our perspective but his as well. I still respect
him, alas he passed away recently.
Sunset came, my father arrived home by then as
well; the house lights were off , due to the imposed air raids protocol; and my
father and I were standing in the balcony around 9 p.m. talking. My father
shared his anxieties with me, when he started remembering what happened during
the prior war of 1956, when they began rounding up the Jews shortly after the
war started and was pondering what we will have to do for this war.
Around 10 p.m. a knock on the door and a couple of
policemen ask if ESRAEEL BOONAN was at home.
* * *
We start at the knock on the
door, and me leaving at 10 p.m.
with a couple of policemen who
requested the pleasure of my
company.
I left with them, apprehensive to say the least,
in the dark of night made inkier with the air raid imposed extra blackness. I
was escorted to a car, and we drove to another location where they picked up
another soul mate, a young kid, that I did not know, who could not be older than
18 years of age; and I was 22 at the time. After we drove for a while we were
escorted to the Mosqui precinct.
... My mother later on told me that my father ran
after the car for a long while after he tried unsuccessfully to inquire as to
where I was being taken, with no answers forthcoming to calm him down or ease
their anxieties. He came home dried mouthed and frantic... the situations we put
our parents through for just being nice Jewish boys.
... We found out later on that on the first night
they started rounding up all Jewish males from 18 to 55 years old, my father was
spared the indignities of it by being 57 at the time, his cousin was not so
lucky, and he ended up in jail with his own son at the same time until released
a few month later.
We walked into a large precinct hall, with the
desk officer sitting further to our right, and a lot of uniformed and plain
clothes policemen circling around, and we both faced "Captain Hosni" who started
his introduction with a reddening slap across our faces. In my case that act of
kindness ejected my glasses off my face which came tumbling down shattered to my
feet. I bend down to pick them up, to his snickering and his voice saying that
he really "meant was to break them into pieces", so I handed the glasses back to
him and he completely mangled them and handed the glasses back to me; the
glasses were gold rimmed, and more to come on that.
The next few minutes of
interrogation, if we can call it
that, had to do more with using
his cane on our backs and
continuing his savagery while
goading us for being Jews and
that they will annihilate us
etc... During that time the
shirt and undershirt were torn
off our backs; and all I can
remember beyond that was, that
the kid next to me, behaved
exactly as I did, not a whimper,
not a cry just stood ramrod in a
tragic acceptance of physical
abuse pretending no impact
physical or otherwise; which
succeeded only in infuriating
him.
Finally, he stopped, may be he got tired, or may
be he was reserving his strength and the night was still young; and we were
escorted to the seated officer for processing. The first thing he asked us was
if we had any gold in our possession; so guess what, I handed him my mangled
glasses in response. You can well imagine that it did not sit too well with the
other onlookers and that it cost me the wrath of a policeman's unruffled
feathers on the way out of the precinct hall while heading into the holding cell
for the night.
* * *
While we were being escorted out
from the main police station
hall, I was stopped by a non
uniformed policeman, who needed
to vent some more of his anger,
may be at Jews, may be at his
wife or his boss, who knows; and
he became slap happy on my
leathery face, for a while
longer.
We were then escorted to the holding cell, we need
to try to remember that I was already without my glasses, which added a measure
of disorientation to my state of mind, and with a torn shirt on my back together
with my youthful companion. The room was pitched black, but after our eyes
adjusted a bit, we could already notice shapes and forms moving about or sitting
on the few benches strewn in the room while other found a crouching position on
the floor, where they were visited throughout the night with the creepy crawlers
the big fat bed bugs, I know.
The mood was subdued, a few people whispered, and
all through the night we could hear the next batch of Jews that were escorted
into the station, where shouts and loud cries were the norm throughout the
night, and some of my fellow Jews started snickering with every new batch, that
they were getting the royal treatment, especially if the cries were unusually
loud, much to my further discomfort and distress.
One individual stuck in my mind, and that was a
young man who was a 'stutterer' which must have provided a bit more of an extra
diversion to our jailers, because he came into the cell in an extremely sad
state having compounded his miseries with his own unfortunate handicap, in the
hands of his non empathic tormentors.
And the room kept filling up all through the
night. A little after midnight, while a new batch of fellow Jews were escorted
in; we heard a voice from the cell, a Jew "taunting" captain Hosni! He was
telling him, '... you know the Israelis can drop a couple of bombs on the Aswan
dam and you have a real problem on your hands...', paraphrasing what was said,
and meant. Captain Hosni, of course did not miss his cue; he lunged at the
prisoner, this hapless Jew, the offender and with ferocity started to pound on
him savagely anew. He stopped only when another voice in the Jewish crowd
exhorted him with words to the effect '... Kefaya baka ya Hosni...' (i.e. enough
already Hosni). Captain Hosni, turned to the voice unexpectedly wincing and with
a measure of pain in his face pondered aloud..' is that you Mr. Simon, you're
here too... I'm sorry'. Mr. Simon will have his own story later on, suffices to
say he was related by marriage to my family. Captain Hosni stopped the beating
and retreated after asking Mr. Simon if he needed anything, and Simon requested
a change of cloth and some towels and a few other personal items.
As an aside, we found out that this hapless Jew,
was known to the police intimately, since he was alleged to be a communist, and
that he had previously visited the premises on other occasions.
Finally the sun broke through the dreary night,
and a new dawn of eventful activities laid ahead.
* * *
The first rays of the sun
trickled into the holding cell;
the shifting shadows started to
crystallize into recognizable
human forms, a friend here, a
relative there all bound by one
common denominator, their
jewishness.
We started to mingle, and reach out to one
another, we asked about our experiences, what just happened and speculated on
the future and what it would hold. There were between 40 to 50 of us milling
about in the early morning hours of the new day.
We could distinctly differentiate between, what
I'll refer to as pre and post Captain Hosni. The disheveled and out of sorts
were the privileged ones to have been personally introduced to the captain
during his shift; the others looked only frantic and no more.
Once again, one person stood out among us, and not
by choice, in the holding cell. It was a middle aged, slightly pudgy man with
half his scalp shorn off, while the other half still replete with his own hair.
Was it a change of heart on the part of his tonsorial helper? Or was it the omen
of what would happen next? I will refer to this man in future narration as Mr.
Mohawk, and why pray tell am I heaping my early scorn on him? It is because I
have the privilege of knowing the end of this narrative, and while my opinion of
him started on the right footing, it became progressively obvious that it was
not his striped appearance that affected my perception of him but rather his
striped nature that remains in my memory to this day.
After the early hours of the day wore off, a few
policemen and their higher ups flung open the cell doors, and stated that they
will require all the people whose names will be mentioned aloud to form a line
on one side so they can be transported and moved to another location.
After the procession of people left
the cell, it was clinked shut
again; a dozen or so of us left
behind began to regroup and
assess our situation and that of
the ones that just vacated the
cell.
It became quickly apparent to us that we shared
yet another common denominator, we were all foreign nationals (even though we
were born, raised and lived all our lives in Egypt; that is another story onto
itself) in possession of passports and answer to a foreign country. Some were
French, other Italians, Iranians, I was Tunisian? Thanks to my grandfather and
father after him that kept and renewed such an identity, which also saved us
from being expelled earlier from Egypt during the 1956 war. Mr. Mohawk was left
behind as well, they had started to shave his head when they realized that he
was of Italian nationality, so they stopped mid way and left him in his case as
a half Italian I suppose, but then half Italian in this case was definitely
better that none.
We found out later that the ones removed from the
cell were all 'apatride', identified as without any nationality. Some of them
where my closest friends growing up, which I knew from the synagogue and at
school. A good number of them remained incarcerated for more than 3 years, until
indirectly through the auspices of the United States government and directly
through the Spanish embassy they were presented with Spanish passports by
tracing their ancestries to Spain, an ironic twist to the inquisition story some
400 years later.
As for the rest of us, our story will take a
distinctly different turn.
* * *
The tension had not subsided,
even though we surmised that we
will be treated differently than
the ones that had already left
early that morning for places
unknown.
We need to remember while I was a single person,
there were among us the family men that had wives and children they left behind.
The worry level for all us had not significantly subsided, and we lethargically
awaited what will happen next.
Around early afternoon we were called upon to file
out of the cell, we were processed through the desk officer; prior to which I
had noticed that I was wearing a gold bar mitzvah ring on my finger. It had
totally escaped me to give it to them on my way in, and thought better of
keeping it on my finger while shipping out. I removed the ring and put it in my
pocket instead.
We were led then to an open bed truck, and the
truck navigated the streets of Cairo, from one precinct to another collecting
more Jewish and other foreign nationals. I recognized a few more friends and
acquaintances, some old and some young.
We came to stop at one precinct, next to the Opera
house, and we had to wait a while to allow them to bring this man who looked
more like a 'butter ball' turkey when he was piled up in the truck with us. He
was curled up in a ball like shape, black and blue bruises on his rounded and
humped back, and his face was flushed. The description is not meant to be unkind
to him, it is what I remember vividly and the closest honest description of his
condition.
While we were waiting for him in the truck, a few
of the locals passing by, started to gather around the truck, milling about
trying to figure out who, and what we were. Suddenly it must have clicked in
some ones mind to shout 'Jews'; next thing soda bottles began to fly around us
for all sides. While I am still nostalgic about the slim Coke bottle of yore, it
was made of glass and plastic soda containers were not in vogue yet; that day
its heft and its lethal trajectory was not welcome to say the least.
The truck thankfully pulled out shortly there
after, trailing behind us was a mob that continued to pelt us with whatever came
into their hands. We continued traveling in the truck and gathering more people
and finally we left for the outskirts of Cairo and we drove on a highway leading
away from the city.
We did not know it at the time, but we were headed
for 'Kanater' (water falls) prison, somewhere in the outskirts of Cairo, it was
a prison that was partially used to house incarcerated foreigners awaiting their
fate. While on the way, the sun had set, and I remember that one of policeman on
the truck tried to shake us down. He asked for money so he can guarantee we will
be treated well when we arrive there; he knew where we were going and tried to
be enterprising about it. I remember a five piasters exchanging hands, all 'we'
could muster having left in a hurry from our respective domiciles; of course
that transaction did not fair us any better once we reached our destination.
We knew when we reached this dark and foreboding
structure that we were coming to the end of this particular journey and
embarking on a brand new experience, because we were received with a loud shout
from an inmate that still rings in my ears. It was a blasphemous uttering about
G_d, words I will not repeat but only want to record.
* * *
It was early in the night of
June 6th when we arrived at the
Kanater prison. We stepped off
the truck and filed into the
prison administration building,
one at a time. On my way in, I
crossed path with a good friend
of mine on his way out, an
Italian nationality who was
being transported out of prison;
he was in good shape and good
spirit, a slight contrast to the
way I must have looked to him
coming into the prison.
The desk officer, took whatever information that
was needed to keep his records straight, and we were branded with a number, not
tattooed; I still remember the shape of it, a triangle with a number in it,
washable and not permanent on the skin yet indelible in our memories.
Then we were grouped in threes to share a dorm
room, so to speak. I was teamed up with two other individuals, my cell mates.
Like anything else I wanted to remember
everything, I started to count the number of holes in the grid of the cell door,
the number of bars in the external elevated window, the dimensions in steps of
the concrete floor; why I ask myself now? Was it that important? Obviously the
memory of all this information was lost in the context of the events themselves,
soon after, anyway.
The cell was small, lined up in each of 3 corners
with a metal bed, with a very thin mattress-like accouterment, and a blanket for
cover. We all went in, introduced ourselves and started a cell mate friendship
that I am sure they will still be able to recall as much as I do. After all do
we ever forget our 'summer camp' buddies!
It might come as a surprise to the readers that
none of my cell mates were Jewish! One, the eldest among us was Moslem, and the
second one was Christian!
We started to arrange our
belongings and our sleeping
arrangements; I had the easiest
job of all since I had only the
torn shirt on my back, and the
pants I was wearing and nothing
else; they were a bit more
prepared I suppose, but not by
much.
The first order of business for me and one of the
other two was to take care and fuss over our third cell mate. He was the 'butter
ball' gentleman I depicted earlier in my narration. He was in pain, his body was
blotched in deep black and blue discoloration, and he could hardly straighten up
or move, we laid him down on his bed and we took turn to massage his body and
his sores to alleviate his pain, for which he was grateful and thankful for this
act of kindness on our part.
Like any camp mates, we started to recount our
ordeals and what circumstances brought us to this place; scary stuff without the
benefit of a camp fire.
The eldest, the Moslem among us, was probably in
his late forties gave us a lot more information than we would have had he not
been an ex-con himself; since he had at prior occasions visited the premises. He
was a refined gentleman, in every sense of the word, an intellectual of
excellent breeding, so what was he doing here? He had the misfortune to be the
Times correspondent in Egypt, and 'by choice' was married to a Christian British
national, a bad combination that earned him a prior visit to this prison during
the 1956 war as well.
He was sure that when this war started that the
same thing, jailed for an extended period of time, will happen to him again this
time. So he took his precautions while at home to pack for his expected stay, he
was packing his underwear and a copy of the Koran and the Bible in his bag when
the police knocked on his door. He let them in, an officer and a retinue of
policemen, and they asked him to come with them to the precinct. He stalled a
bit and asked them to wait until he finishes packing; at which point the officer
slapped him on the face, in front of his wife, and pushed him around to expedite
his departure. He turned around and, in kind, slapped the officer back and told
him '... you have no rights to slap me around in my own home...'. The officer
kept his peace, allowed him to pack and say his good byes, and off they went to
the precinct where we ended up picking him from. At the precinct, what you'd
expect happened, officers and policemen ganged up on him, and punched him into
the shape and state we found him in.
He explained to us about the prison, that it was
for not only foreign nationals, but for political prisoners as well. There was a
big contingent of 'Moslem Brothers' , a fanatic Islamic group, that was in and
out of favor with the government (at one point they had staged an assassination
attempt on president Nasser at the time and currently were out of favor). He
told us that they were held without due process, and are released once in a
while only to be brought back again when they got rounded up for this or that
reason.
He also shared some prison rumors, as they say you
get plugged into the rumor mill once 'inside'; about the fifth floor residents
of the prison, being the long timers, and that they have lepers among them, and
how they get rid of their mattresses when they die.... but then I digress.
Because we were kind and compassionate towards
him, at the first occasion, he offered to share with us his most valuable
possession/commodity that he brought with him, 'toilet papers'. In his long
stays in prison, it is understandably painful to be without it. To which we
promptly declined his offer, and thanked him for his consideration, we began to
sense that his stay will be a bit longer than ours and wanted to leave him well
stocked, just in case.
Next came the story, of the Christian among us.
His first name was Joseph an actual British national who owned and ran a factory
in or around Cairo, the capital of Egypt. He was with his family when they
knocked on his door and asked him if he was Joseph 'X', he told them no, and
that his name was Joseph 'Y'; the officer retorted '...close enough, come with
us...'. He was dragged to a precinct and like the rest of us was brought into
this prison.
Lastly, I recounted to them the story of the Jew
among them and the circumstances that brought me there as well.
I got to admit that all this 'bonding' happened
either the first night or on the next day June 7th, which was uneventful except
for establishing the prison routine for us.
We were staying on the first floor, not the fifth!
A large courtyard surrounded by cells all around. We were let out for an hour in
the morning, allowed to shower and walk around the courtyard, at a time not
shared by other inmates. Food was simplistic, dark pita style bread with
something fried (egg plant, falafel...). We had to also clean our cells a chore
that could be relegated, if we wished to, to another inmate by trading for
instance cigarettes that we were entitled to but did not smoke, or food we did
not eat or wished to eat.
At night, the prison radio was piped to a loud
speaker, and that was our only contact to the outside world, were news of the
war was coming in, fast and furious, about the decimation of Israel and the
heavy fighting and the Egyptian troops winning battle after battle in 'El Arish
and Gaza'; which prompted the correspondent among us, later in the week, to
reflect ... 'how could we be winning if we are fighting at Cairo's door step?'
Giving us an educated guess as to what was really happening in the war.
* * *
Thursday the 8th of June was
another bright day, we had the
whole day planned by the
prison's authorities. It was a
day to be spent outside of the
prison, considered a real treat
for the other inmates, as well.
Any inmate who had a court appearance, or a legal
matter to tend to, were scheduled to leave for the city courts and government
departments as necessary. Our contingent needed to get exit approval from the 'Mogama'a'
which is the closest thing to the State department's INS and the visa office
combined.
A truck, this time covered with tarp on all sides,
was densely packed, some were seated on benches on three sides of the trucks, I
and a few others were standing up in the middle of it. Among the prisoners
sitting were a few policemen, to maintain the peace; the officer in charge sat
in the front cab with the driver.
While standing in the middle of the truck, I had
sitting on my right an inmate in a gallabieh (Arab dress), and abutted to him
was a policeman threateningly holding his riffle; and maintaining the peace!.
All of a sudden the inmate assumed a crouching position on the bench, lifted his
dress over his haunches and started to strain, he had the palm of his hand
positioned below his 'sphincter' in expectation of catching something. After a
few moments of straining he palmed off a balloon like item (a prophylactic of
sorts) wrapped around a few of his personal belongings. One of the things he
took out of the balloon was something he took great pains in handling, he rolled
it into cigarette papers, lit it and started smoking it and passing it around,
first and foremost to the policeman sitting at his side, maintaining the peace!.
He started unwrapping other items, among them a
letter to give to his wife who'll be waiting in court for him, he also started
to talk to the inmate on his right telling him that his cell mate was still a
virgin, he never had to carry anything so intimately before on his body; the
whole scene and conversation was surreal and to me, hilarious! I could not stop
internalizing my laughter any more until something even funnier occurred.
I was also standing next to another
Jew, that throughout the trip
was incessantly fretting loudly
about the business he left
behind, and his old mother; and
that all he wanted was just to
go back, as if we had any choice
in the matter. We continued to
listen to him with a mixture of
empathy and annoyance at his
droning repetitious diatribe and
at his open display of anxiety;
until all of a sudden he started
screaming at the top of his
lungs '... thief, thief, he
stole my watch, he stole my
watch, thief....' The officer
stopped the truck, I looked on
my left and noticed another
inmate holding a pin in his
hand, he pricked his scalp just
above his left eye, and a stream
of red blood started oozing out
on his face, he in turn started
screaming '... he hit effendi,
he hurt me, I am losing all my
blood....'.
The officer emptied the truck, took a look at the
screaming bloodied inmate, frisked him, found the watch, handed it to the Jewish
inmate with these words '... if we had waited a couple of more minutes he would
have hid it in a place we would not be able to get to...'. The watch at face
value could not have been worth much, but it was 'his' watch and 'he' got it
back.
Back to back events that provided a lighter moment
in an otherwise few days of strained existence.
We finally arrived at the intended government
building we were let out and had to wait our turn to talk to the officials about
what, we did not know yet?
My turn came, I was asked if I had my passport on
me? Since I usually did not carry my passport on me let alone in my condition,
it was suggested that I'll be escorted by a policeman to my home to pick it up,
especially since my home was less than a couple of miles from the place.
While we were waiting for the ride to fetch my
passport, I remember meeting another person, he was a strapping very well
dressed black man. I struck up a conversation with him only to find out he was
an American, a medical student studying in Cairo. I mentioned to him my
intentions of going to the US and that I was a Jew, his comment was that it will
be much easier for me as a Jew in America than in Egypt, that the Jews have a
stronger influence in America. He was also being deported as an undesirable, or
may be for fear of his safety as a foreigner.
The policeman and I were driven to my home, I
apologize having to reiterate the condition I was in, because that's what my
mother opening the door will see, I was wearing a torn shirt, without my
glasses, and manacled; "a real evil doer, in other words a Jew in Egypt".
My mother opened the door, and if you knew my
mother, or any mother for that matter, you can readily guess how she reacted
seeing me in the shape I was in. I was all business, I asked her for the
passport, she suggested and asked permission to gather some cloth to give me.
While she was packing another pair of pants and a clean shirt and retrieving my
passport, I started telling her about whom I saw in the precinct's holding cell
the first night, and that they were in good condition and she should call and
tell their mothers that they were all right when they left the precinct.
A few minutes later, my neighbor
friend came down, wanted to hug
me, saw my manacles and the
state I was in and I could see
his face flush, his eyes tearing
and he was besides himself; we
ended up signaling our hellos
with the policeman's presence
always felt. Finally my mother
handed me the passport, a small
bag (actually an old attaché
case) with a few articles of
clothing, assembled in haste; we
kissed and I was escorted back
to the foreboding government
building.
... Later on my mother told me, the superintendent
of the building, a distinguished Nubian man and his son, teared when they saw me
manacled coming in and later on leaving the building, and came to commensurate
with my mother. My neighbor friend openly cried, that he could not communicate
with me, and talk to me and about the condition I was in. Another one of our
neighbors, living on the same floor, was heard commenting that 'I must have done
something wrong' or else why would I be in manacles, a neighbor that knew me for
more than 11 years and now thinks of me as "a real evil doer, in other words a
Jew in Egypt".
We remained in the building, until late at night,
they had a lot of processing to do, the building was kept dimly lit because of
air raids still being sounded; we were sitting in the corridors, on the floor.
The night was chilly, and a draft of wind caused me to shiver; one of the Jewish
men present asked Mr. Simon (he was introduced in an earlier chapter) if he
could "lend" me one of the blankets he was schlepping around, just until we
leave, because I was shivering. Needless to say, he did not respond, he did not
even turn around but sat there holding on to his blankets. I still shiver at his
callousness.
Finally the eventful day came to an end and we
were escorted back to the prison late at night.
* * *
Friday June 9th was spent mostly
in the cell, where my cell mates
and I shared our experiences of
the previous day.
It was then that I found out that
Joseph will be allowed to go
home, and will be granted a 48
hours deadline to sort out his
affairs and leave the country
with his family.
It is ironic that destroying things usually takes
a lot less time than building them. Here was a businessman that must have
sweated to build something of value, to have it disappear in the span of 48
hours because he was ... fill in the reason, does it matter?
When I heard he would be allowed back home, I
experienced a level of angst that I had never experienced before. Will I also be
allowed back home? On one hand, should I not rejoice? I will be allowed to help
my older parents which were left to fend for themselves in a hostile
environment. On the other hand, I will have to face walking in the streets
again, looking over my shoulders, dreading every minute of it. My heightened
paranoia and my filial duties and responsibilities clashed relentlessly in my
head that day. Should I pray to be let out, to go home and help my parents pack
up and leave; or should I just pray to leave? I emotionally came apart, to my
disgust.
I cannot describe my feelings or emotions any
better, except to sum it up by saying that I felt ashamed of myself, of my
thoughts and emotions that day. I only wish that I could have been stronger,
since I decided not to pray at all; and in a way the decision was made for me.
If I am allowed one last prayer now, it would be that my sons (and all children)
never ever have to face these choices during their lifetime, because no one
should have to.
The radio that night brought the final news of the
real story of the war. The Egyptian president, Gamal Abdel Nasser, took to the
airwaves and solemnly declared that the army sustained heavy losses and that he
can only blame himself for it, and with that he tendered his resignation
effective immediately. Marshall music replaced the original propaganda machine
that spewed for more than five days declaring the exact opposite of what was
happening all along, during the war.
I found out later the fate of the effusive
propagandist and radio announcer, that so inflated non existent successes that
even the generals in the field decided to believe him and not to venture out to
fight, since they had already won, and were caught off guard and surrendered
when the Israeli army surrounded them. He was accused of hyping the propaganda,
that could have been a reason for their defeat, he was severely beaten and
incarcerated! Can you imagine if he had gone to the airwaves with a message like
'... we are losing the war, they are fighting at our door steps ...' what would
have happened to him then? It was the true personification of the axiom of '...
being between a rock and a hard place...'.
Early on Saturday June 10th we were awakened, and
I was asked to get ready to depart, we said our good byes and I remember taking
Joseph's address in England to correspond with him. As an aside I found out
later that he left for England with his family and shortly upon his arrival his
father passed away, it was not to be an easy June for any of us.
There were 15 of us, we climbed an uncovered truck
and we started rolling. Even though it was barely dawn when we left, we could
feel the excitement in the streets. The government machinery was preparing for
huge orchestrated street demonstrations. President Nasser needed to be brought
back to power by public acclamation, no less. The context of an orchestrated
demonstration was nothing new to us; as school children on a moment's notice,
even in the private Brothers school we attended, they would pull us out to the
streets with a lunch box to stand in a designated area along a major avenue, to
applaud a visiting head of state, or to cheer for the 'idee du jour'; as a well
oiled controlled state machinery would tend to its business.
We were taken to another concrete building into
yet another holding cell, this time the guards were all army paratroopers armed
with machine guns, who whisked us very quickly and inconspicuously into this
temporary enclosure.
There were no benches, we sat on the concrete
flooring. We could hear by now the riots, demonstrations, call it what you may,
building in strength. Noises, shouts, cries for Nasser to come back to his
beloved people and country. How can any man or woman, resist the temptations of
really believing in that self orchestrated aggrandizement, it's real heady
stuff. Some 15 million people shouting and crying out their love for you, how
can you not believe it! even though you set it in motion, mere details ...
details. Well, Nasser obviously succumbed to this outpouring of love and decided
to remain in office to which he had initially been elected with a 99.9% of the
popular vote.
By then we were all lethargic in the room; one man
with a trembling hand lit up a cigarette and started smoking; that sinful act on
Sabbath drew the ire of Mr. Mohawk who immediately pointed to him and with a
holier than thou attitude proclaimed '... it is because of people like you that
the Jews suffer ...'. The man nervously looked at me with pleading eyes and said
'... see Bonan what he's saying...' (last name usage is a common form of
address). All I could muster, was to ask Mr. Mohawk to leave him alone.
I wish I was stronger then also, but I was not; I
wish I were able, at the time, to comfort them and try and help them cope with
what we were going through, but I did not. I completely closed on myself,
cocooned as we all did into our own coping mechanisms to emotionally survive our
ordeal.
A few hours later we were called upon to board the
truck again, the demonstrations by then were going full bore. They asked us this
time, for our own safety, to lay bellies down on the floor of the truck on top
of each other, so we do not stick our heads up above the truck confining sides,
lest the mob figures it out that we were Jews and cause us harm. From the corner
of our eyes, we could see people in their balconies waving and cheering as well,
and our ears were deafened by the noisy demonstrators, both our senses of sight
and hearing did not serve us well that day. It also was very decent and
practical of them to think of our well being at a time like that; what would
they think of next, for the Jews with passports?
Once we were at the outskirts of Cairo and out of
harm's way, we were asked to readjust our seating arrangement and we traveled
for a couple of hours, destination the port city of Alexandria. We knew by then
that we will be thankfully deported out of the country. It is a truly ironic
twist of words to use both 'thankfully' and 'deported' in the same sentence!
Once we reached our destination, we
lined up once again to talk to
the officer in charge. While in
line, at the check point they
searched us, they actually asked
for my shoes to check their
soles and see if I was spiriting
something of value out of the
country; like a house, a
factory, gold, diamonds, you
name it they'll look for it.
This nit of an event opened the
flood gate of emotions in me,
and coupled with the events of
the last 6 days came crashing
down on me. My eyes welled with
tears and I uncontrollably began
to weep, silently. Mr. Mohawk
approached me and said words to
the effect '... Bonan you held
up until now, we are almost out
of here, why now ...', coming
from a clod like him it was
still the right thing to say. So
I finally composed myself and
filed in to see the officer in
charge.
First thing the officer asked me was if I had any
money, I wanted to do a pirouette for him, so he can see me from all sides and
judge for himself the state I was in, but I did not, and answered him
perfunctorily that I did not have any money. So he had the gall to tell me that
I should remember that the Egyptian government is paying for me to be
'deported'; to which I gratefully thanked him, accepted the exit ticket from him
and was escorted with the others once rounded up to a ship for our exit voyage,
the 'Ankara' of German registration.
* * *
The Ankara was a cargo ship,
with a sizable hold, and a large
upper deck. The dozen or so of
us Jews were rounded up and we
were to be confined to the hold
with an armed policeman keeping
watch from the deck above
looking down on us.
It was a ridiculous picture, 15 men
sitting on the floor in the hold
of a ship with an armed guard.
What harm had we done and what
harm can we now do, to deserve
the humiliation, while others of
various nationalities, Greeks,
English, French, men and women
were milling about on the deck
above; free to roam as they see
fit. Those people were also
expelled 'undesirables' that the
Egyptian government saw fit to
deport at the time.
It had been a long day, by then, I had not been
able to visit the bathroom for over 12 hours and I was in dire need to relieve
myself. I requested to go, and an armed policeman escorted me to the ship's
makeshift latrine on the main deck, and waited for me outside. As hard as I
tried to urinate, I could not; I spent close to 30 minutes, and finally worried
that the policeman will at any minute break to door or ask me to get going;
decided to forgo urination for a while longer (with foreboding images of people
getting hospitalized for similar symptoms a story I remembered my father
recounting) and went back to the well secured hold.
Finally, it was departure time and the ship eased
off the pier towards the open Mediterranean sea. It was late in the afternoon
and the sun was setting in the horizon. I remember standing with others from our
group at the ship's stern looking at the receding shore line wanting to etch the
picture of receding from Egypt in our memories. I remember then, that I spit in
the sea, it was at the time an apt and fitting reaction to my bottled up
emotions and the capping off of 22 years of my existence in Egypt; but then it
was only a mere spit in an otherwise large sea.
Somehow I remember that we had better
accommodations than the rest of the other passengers, who slept on the deck in
makeshift arrangements, while on the other hand we slept on beds in actual
'tiny' rooms. We asked the captain to grant us permission to take a shower after
recounting our ordeal to him, there were a few hundred other passengers yet he
did grant us the showering privileges, but not to the others.
During this time, Mr. Mohawk was having a field
day, he was ecstatic and full of mirth and pep; he kept repeating how good we
will be treated, he saw himself being fitted by a private tailor with the best
fineries, after all we were now officially "refugees". His half shaved head and
his spouting off made for a caricaturic moment. I don't know where did he ever
get his frame of reference, but there was no understanding him anymore. He also
took it upon himself to speak for us Jews, and after securing a couple of empty
coffee cans, he started collecting donations for the Jewish refugees on board
the ship. A lot of people actually gave him whatever coins and moneys they could
part with, which was liberally, judging from their own circumstances at the time
and how full the cans where at the end of the exercise.
Mr. Mohawk called me at the end of the day to his
room, inebriated after imbibing whatever was handed to him that day, dropped the
cans on the bed, a few coins landed on the cover; I remember some Italian Liras
among them, worth a few cents, and he pushed a few Liras towards me '... here
Bonan, I knew your father back home, take some ...'. I thanked him, but did not
accept any, especially that he never even offered any of it to the group on
whose behest he undertook the collection. Holier than thou indeed!.
The trip was uneventful, except that we felt
clean, were properly fed and felt safe. Our destination was Crete.
We landed in Crete a couple of days later towards
dusk, and we were escorted to a motel on the island; with clean accommodations.
I believe from this point on that we were wards of the Red Cross who took care
of all our needs.
The next morning, we awoke and I remember one of
our meals, which ended up with a plate full of 'grapes'. Mind you without
glasses, they looked big and dark, juicy and with funny stems, until I bit on
one and the pit inside it told me this could not be grapes. A 'sheheyanu' (the
experiencing of something new, in Hebrew) moment, I was eating for the first
time in my life Bing Cherries, and they tasted good.
Some of my recollections, that bear mentioning;
the hotel clerk that escorted us and talked to us on occasion, asked us not to
talk politics because they did not have the free and open society we thought
everyone else but the Egyptians had.
The next day arrangements were made
to fly us to Koln, Germany, on a
US military transport stationed
on the island. I remember my
naiveté when I asked the
American officer if the plane
was a Mig, a Russian plane;
because of a similar tail
design. The officer, a young man
corrected me with a smile and
gave me the plane's designation
which I do not remember
(possibly A C3 transport plane,
if there was such a thing).
We departed Crete late morning, the plane was not
fitted for passenger accommodations, we sat on long benches, strapped in our
seat belts; with the noisy drone of the engines magnified by the lack of any
sound insulation inside the cabin. Some of us drowsed into an uncomfortable
sleep.
Around 2 or 3 am in the morning we landed and
taxied somewhere in Germany for a rest and refueling stop. We came out of the
plane and descended the stairs that were rolled up to the plane exit door, which
were made of unusually large steps with ample spaces between them. The reason
for this minutiae is that one of the older passengers, slightly over 50 at the
time, landed his foot between two rungs, fell and broke his arm. He was sent to
the infirmary, and his arm put in a sling cast, the cast was very professionally
done and he was asked to remove it and possibly replace it in a couple of weeks
when he reached his destination, but which destination?!
A couple of hours later we boarded the plane
again, and flew some more until we landed in Koln. Once in Koln, we were
escorted in busses to the main Red Cross tall steel and glass building. We
first, if memory serves me, were physically checked by a doctor, we also had
clean accommodations to sleep in, and good food. I remember one in particular, a
side dish, with string beans and onions that I could not get anywhere else later
on to my dismay. At one point we were asked if we needed clothes, and we were
offered the option to select what we wanted or needed from a pile of clothes,
heaped with all sorts of pants, jackets and suits. Since all I had with me was,
what my mother could stuff in the attaché case, I decided to pick a suit, that I
still remember and which unfortunately did not fit and was never worn.
A nice young man was our guide while we were
there, and he went to great length to assist us in anyway possible. We were
given postcards to write to our families, if we wished, and we did. My parents
later told me that they received the card which was sparsely written and to the
point '.... I am safe , I am with the Red Cross, don't worry about me, hope to
see you soon...' was all it intended to communicate; being worried about the
Egyptian censors and what further elaboration might cause, as harm to my
parents.
The officials of the Red Cross asked us what we
wanted to do and where we may wish to go next. One Iranian among us, decided on
Iran; Mr. Mohawk decided on Italy; and that is the end of his cameo appearance
in my narration. The rest of us chose for one reason or another to go to Paris,
France; my reason being I had relatives there, and besides, that would have been
my destination anyway, had I left Egypt on my own accord a few month later.
They gave us each 30 Deutsche Marks and a train
ticket to Paris, while the train was to leave in the afternoon, the guide took
us out shopping. In a fruit and vegetable market I was introduced for the first
time (another sheheyanu moment) to pears the size of a fist, so juicy and tasty
by comparison to the ones we ate back home, in Egypt. By then, I was furiously
assaulted by all the changes and new experiences, all at once, which made for
quite a transition in my life.
We finally boarded the train, headed for Paris,
all 13 of us that were left for this leg of the adventure.
* * *
The train departed the station
on its way to Paris, France. I
like to take a moment to explain
that of the 13 of us left for
this leg of the journey, only
myself and an elderly man in his
late forties early fifties had
any linguistic abilities beside
speaking Arabic; I spoke French
and English, and my new friend
spoke French fluently; all the
others knew only Arabic.
The train whistled its way through various
countries on the way to Paris. The train stopped at the French border, and a
French border agent knocked on the door of our compartment to verify and stamp
our passports to accord us entry to France. We woke up from our slumbers to
produce the requested papers.
When my turn came, I handed him my passport, he
opened it and sifted through it page by page until in frustration he asked me to
get up, get my bags and leave the train, because he cannot and will not grant me
entry to France!
He started mouthing off that my passport was
written all in Arabic and not a single word in French or English; which of
course was true. This passport was produced by the Tunisian embassy in Cairo, to
serve as ID papers for the Egyptian government and was not intended for travel.
A quick thinking, from my French speaking friend,
and with some of what you may call quiet diplomacy, he succeeded in convincing
the agent to let me go through to Paris. He very nicely and softly reminded him
of our ordeal and that the Greeks, the Germans as well as the Americans have all
helped us so far, so will it be a Frenchman that will block our progress in
joining our families, after what we've been through as it was. In the mean time,
while I was listening to my friend coaxing the agent to let us through, I was in
utter desperation with this new unexpected wrinkle; finding a Tunisian consulate
to internationalize my passport was not a likely option to consider; neither was
going to Tunisia, not knowing what will come next!.
The agent finally shrugged the whole episode off,
muttered that he will let me through, except that he will not officially stamp
my passport. So I was grudgingly allowed entry to France, albeit illegally.
The train proceeded into France and we arrived in
Paris, if I remember correctly at 'La Guare De L'Est', sometimes in the early
morning hour of 9, 10 a.m. local time. Somehow, I remembered the day to be a
Sunday, and that it was the day for celebrating the end of Shavuouth (the
Festival of weeks, in the Jewish calendar).
We, my French speaking friend and I, gathered the
group at the end of the concourse, we exchanged our Marks into Francs, we helped
them buy breakfast and we asked them to remain put, until we go out scout what
to do and come and get them.
The streets outside the station were almost
deserted , no one to talk to or ask for directions. Whomever we encountered and
asked about a synagogue or a Jewish center could not help us until we came
across a young woman who vaguely remembered a Jewish organization near by; she
gave us the directions to reach it, and we thanked her and went on our way.
We found the place, but as you might except its
offices were deserted, being a Sunday and a holiday, we waited patiently until a
middle aged man showed up with his newspaper and his tallit (prayer shawl) bag
who came to observe the holiday at the center and he was not sure himself why no
one was there. We repeated our story to him, a story that will be repeated often
enough in the next couple of weeks, he wished us well and gave us a direction to
go to 'Rue Poissoniere' where there is an Algerian Jewish synagogue where we
might find help.
We went back to the station, informed our
colleagues and again reminded them to stay put until we came back. My friend and
I took the metro (the subway) and somehow we managed to locate the station and
the synagogue.
The service was nearing completion,
the gabbai (an official at the
synagogue) heard what we had to
say, he requested a couple of
members from the synagogue to
hear us repeat our story; after
we were done they asked us to go
back to the station and bring
the rest of the contingent to
the synagogue as well.
We doubled back, brought the rest of our group
with whatever belongings we were carrying and joined the congregation which was
gathering around us to rehear our story after the services ended. The synagogue
had an adjoining functions area, fitted with tables and the congregation was
assembling to partake in a prepared lunch; to which we were invited.
During lunch, we could notice the excitement in
the assembled congregation, they started to prepare for how to deal with us as a
group. The next day was the last day of the Shavuoth holiday, and all Jewish
agencies will still be closed and they had to make arrangements for us until
they reopen the following day.
In Paris the main Jewish center, was entrusted and
prepared, to accept Jewish refugees coming from the middle east, and communist
Europe. They arranged to lodge them, to give them a living stipend and provide
for their needs during the transition period required until they decided where
they wished to resettle. In case of Jewish families that wished to emigrate to
United States, there was a period of roughly six month of stay required, which
was the time needed to acquire the necessary entry visas and abide by the
refugee quotas for admission. Such would be my case, especially after I reunited
with my parents.
They decided to find room for us in one of the
Jewish orphanages until the following day when the COJASOR (cannot recall what
the acronym stood for) Jewish agency accepted responsibility for us.
Car pools were immediately arranged, each one of
us was handed some 50 extra Francs from a quick collection; no more tin cans,
and a half shaved head man to front for us this time. Need I say that it was
uplifting, well may be I should; it was a downright emotional experience to see
Jews come to assist other Jews in their time of need; not to take any credit
away from the international Red Cross that also fulfilled that humane need when
it was most needed; the difference being the community handled it on the spot,
with no prior preparation just people helping people.
* * *
We were all delivered safely to
the awaiting accommodations
where we spent the night. That
night we were led to attend the
last day of the holiday in an
orthodox synagogue. At the end
of the service we repeated our
story to a new batch of
interested listeners; some of
them extended a holiday dinner
offer at their homes, which some
of us accepted.
For myself I accepted a gentleman's offer to join
him and his family that night. It was held in a small apartment where the whole
family was gathered, the older parents, the brother, wife, sister. It was a nice
table set up, and a friendly atmosphere. I found out about how they handled the
Sabbath and Holidays protocol in dealing with lights for instance, not having
access to the Sabbath 'goy' (a non Jew that helped Jews during Sabbath to turn
on/off lights etc...), they had electronic 'Timers' instead.
The discussion evolved around a lot of topics,
until I asked the person, a brother that was unescorted at the table, on my left
whether he was married? Innocuous question, but it turned out to be an
emotionally charged one; the poor fellow was married, his wife had skipped out
on him, and he broke down to the point of incoherence afterwards. I could see
the pain in the man's face when I asked him the question, and he started
literally rattling and mumbling incoherently. His brother tenderly tried to calm
him down, and the gathering explained to me what had happened to him and why.
I was to sleep at their place for the night, and I
remember how uncomfortable I felt and must have made others feel. Morning came
and I was taken back to the original Jewish orphanage school.
After the holiday was over an agent from the
COJASOR came to see us, and escorted us to their offices. We met a few social
workers which explained to us what will happen next and any arrangement that
will ensue. I remember asking if anything could be done for the fellow that
broke his arm, he was asking me to translate for them on his behalf that he will
need to fix his cast; I also took the chance to ask them about getting a new
pair of glasses for myself, if possible, while relating our individual stories
to them.
They started to line up 'pensions' rooms (small
hotel accommodations) for us to stay in, and to tell us what they will do for
us, how much of a stipend etc..., the details of living as refugees. They also
suggested, the when and the where, to go to attend to the broken arm and the
glasses and that I was to act as the guide for the broken armed man, in a week's
time when they completed the necessary arrangements.
The Algerian congregation did not abandon us
either, they extended an open invitation for us to attend their Sabbath services
and join them for the luncheons afterwards for as long as we were in Paris. And
if that was not enough, they saw the conditions we were in when they first met
us, and recognized our needs for clothing, underwear, shirts etc... which they
also planned to provide us once they got our sizes pegged, something again
unexpected but welcomed by all.
A few days later, while milling about in our
pension hallways, curious community members of all sorts came to inquire about
our stories. This area of Paris was the main center for people in transition to
other destinations as mentioned earlier. So not only the ones in transit but any
of their relatives as well that came to visit, would stop by to learn about our
stories.
One of such folks was there that day, and I
ventured to ask him if he knew so and so, an aunt, a cousin an uncle anyone, I
knew lived in France at the time. Lo and behold he was the next door neighbor to
one of my aunts who lived in Sarcelles, a suburb of Paris. I asked him to relay
the message, that I am in Paris, that I was OK and to say hello to them for me.
A couple of hours later, one of the congregants
from the Algerian synagogue came to the pension carrying a heavy load of new
clothes as I had mentioned earlier; he started to dole it out to each of us and
for which he was thanked profusely by all. I have to take the time to explain
what it must have felt to accept charity, for someone who was not accustomed to
being on the receiving end of such kindness, from total strangers. It was not
easy, but that will be an understatement. It accentuated our total nakedness,
not being able to support ourselves; the utter helplessness at being displaced
to the point when even the cloth we are to wear are being provided through
handouts.
During this emotional moment I
heard my name being called, by a
voice I recognized very well.
From the bottom of the stairs I
heard my cousin calling me with
his endearing exhortation '...
Ezzayak ya wesekh ...'
(transliterated: how are you
bum!). I remember him charging
the stairs a few steps at a
time, we hugged, the both of us
crying.
Suddenly my world became whole again, I never
would have thought that seeing a cousin, or any next of kin, after the
experiences we went through will have the effect it had on me that day. I need
to say this, and need to say it now, that I am still tearing up as I am writing
this sentence.
Regardless of who helped us up until now, it was
still the familiar face, the familiar voice, the familiar smile that made me
whole again and made all the difference in the world for me. Suddenly, being
naked, being clothed did not matter anymore, the whole gamut of emotions was
drowned in the simple reunion between two family members. THAT MOMENT, I WILL
NEVER FORGET, TO THE DAY I DIE.
Things came together quickly then, my cousin came
to pick me up to join his brother and my aunt and others for dinner that night.
The air never smelled fresher, the food never tasted better, the company never
felt warmer than that night with my family.
I spent the time recounting my experience,
laughing mostly while recounting it because I was already leaving it behind me,
I was and I most importantly 'felt' safe then; how corny of me, all because I
was with family again. But there is nothing corny about it, I don't know if my
cousins and aunts knew of how I felt then; and I am sorry for not having shared
how I felt about this emotional moment, before now with them, and ask for their
forgiveness.
* * * I
had to wait for little over a
month before I finally was
reunited with my parents and
until then our core group
settled into the routine of
waiting.
During that time, I helped the man
with the broken arm visit a
doctor, but his nurses were not
able to do as good a job as he
was originally outfitted by
their German counterparts. He
wished he never had to undo the
original work, but it was too
late, and in time his arms
healed as expected. During that
trip to the doctor, I also had a
side trip to an optometrist, and
since I knew my prescription I
readily volunteered the
specifications while she was
setting up her equipment to test
my vision; upon which the
optometrist reminded me of her
purpose, so I apologized and let
'her' do her job. I was then
fitted with a new frame and a
new pair of glasses. I could
see, and hear better again!.
Another incident, had to do with one of the
sessions I had with the social worker in charge of my case. She was a pleasant
middle aged woman, kind and friendly. In one of our conversations I intimated
that I was a student, with a month left to graduate and would I be able to get
to complete my studies when I reached the states?
... I was up till now a true dependent, my father
did all the working and providing, my mother all the nurturing, raising and
loving and our, mine and my brother's before me, mission in life was to be as
good a student as we could be. The concept being, graduate, and then get your
chance at helping, until then even if we wanted to work who would have let us
earn any money and for what type of labor. As an aside, by the time the 1967 war
had started, no public jobs had Jewish postings, most of the private businesses
were sequestrated and nationalized, Jews were being displaced from their jobs
regularly and discriminately. So any possibility of earning money intended to
supplement my father's was outside the realm of possibility.
Now I return to my social worker earlier
unfinished response to my query. She reflected a bit before announcing that with
over 200 Million people in the US why would anyone care about Israel Bonan, or
his education; and that what is expected of me was to start building my own
future and shape it in any way I desire relying totally on my own industry. She
was sitting across from me, and watched me holding back my tears, knowing fully
well that her message came across loud and clear. I was a 22 years old man, and
it's all up to me to rebuild my life. While the message was harsh and direct,
when I reflected on it later on, it was perfectly on target and even though we
found a lot of people who would later help us stand on our two feet once in the
US, it was the right message to give, a positive surprise will always be
preferable to a negative one, and I was eternally grateful for the way she did
it. One more turning point in my life, that sooner or later I had to face, and
which could not be postponed any longer.
While visiting my social worker we also had the
occasion to interview with a representative of the Jewish Agency, from Israel,
to discuss the possible immigration to Israel. During several of our
conversations I was offered a full scholarship to the Technion Institute in
Haifa as an inducement to accept. When the proposal was made, forcefully, what
are you crazy, not to accept, in an '...are you out of your mind' kind of tone.
I had to slow him down a bit by explaining that I was important to my parents
and their quest to reunite with my brother and sister in the US. That I will
need them to share in the decision making, because it is a family issue and not
a personal one. My personal desire at that juncture, mostly shaped by my recent
experience, was to go to Israel, yet I have not even once visited Israel to this
day?
Finally, the day came and my parents joined me in
Paris. At that point the social worker relocated us in a different pension and
the motions were set afoot to acquire the necessary visas to immigrate to the
US, through the auspices of the HIAS organization.
Now for my parents turn, and their story.
* * * I
remember the drive from the
airport, we used the official
'cousin's car service', official
because it included the official
Paris street guide and tour
guide extraordinaire; one of my
cousins, the other one drove the
car.
This actually made for a lighthearted reunion,
describing the sights to my parents in my cousin's unique and endearing way
brought a smile to my parent's faces after a traumatic month spent agonizing
about my fate, and after having to shut down their lives hastily in one country
to reunite and restart a new one, in a different country, in their old age.
The COJASOR relocated us as a family in another
pension and life was kick started for us as a family again. I will not dwell on
the minutiae of living or experiences or further family stories, because this
narrative is and was not about me, but more about any refugee or dislocated
families having to go through the hardships entailed in their personal exodus
and recounting what they had to go through to reach their safe haven beyond
which their life, if lucky, eventually reached the normalcy we all crave as
human beings.
Over time we mutually recounted our stories, and
since you know mine by now I'll will relate what my parents recounted to me
surrounding this eventful episode in their lives.
After the fateful night when I was wrenched out of
our home at night, my father the next day went to inquire about my fate, in
several precincts and could get no one to account for my whereabouts. My parents
left messages to a dear friend of mine from school and college (Ali) who had
helped me before, to see if he could help them again. I will insert that story,
as a relevant one to the overall account, shortly as an aside, Ali's brother in
law was with the 'Mukhabarat' the internal security apparatus of the regime.
First I want to contrast this initial reaction of
my father and parents in general, to those of others whom I had their individual
accounts related to me by other friends who went through similar experiences.
This individual's, a friend of mine at college, father was seen, not too long
after the hostilities in '67 started and his son incarcerated (the son remained
in jail for over 3 years) and later on, lunching alone, without a care in the
world and having made no inquiries on his son's behalf or lifted a finger to see
him out of his predicament. May be he was too good at hiding his feelings.
A brief relief came over my parents when I visited
my mother to pick up my passport, at least to know that I was alive at the time.
It was then that the stories about the hostile neighbor, the superintendent of
the building and that of my friendly neighbor were recounted to me.
After I was deported out of the country, my friend
Ali came to visit my parents at home, took them aside, as far away from the
telephone handset, locked the door behind them and explained that even with the
phone "on the hook" (i.e. disengaged), they should be very careful talking near
it. He told them that I had already left the country and that they should not
worry about my safety any more and that no harm had come to me.
... It was Ali also, who in my first year in
college, saved me from expulsion from Cairo University. During the first term at
the college and one month before the mid term finals, I went to inquire about my
exam entrance ID card only to be told I did not have one and that I was expelled
from school!! No confirmation letters, no nothing, expelled and no rhyme or
reason given. Through his brother in law, Ali found out that someone reported me
as having made a 'political' joke and had reported me to the 'Mukhabarat', they
in turn contacted the school and had me summarily expelled. To make this long
story short, it took me the whole month to undo this damage and to have me
reinstated the Thursday (Friday all offices take the day off) before the
Saturday final; by having a clerk walk my papers by hand from office to office
until the registrar of the college finally stamped the final readmission around
4 p.m. that afternoon and I got reinstated. Police state, denial of free speech,
intrusions in personal daily lives, lack of basic human freedoms are only part
and parcel of what the country was like or came to be before the 1967 exodus
account.
Back to the original narrative, after Ali told
them of my fate, they hugged and kissed and he wished them a safe departure. My
parents at least had the peace of mind to know I was safe and started in earnest
to dispose of their life long belongings. They could not take more than a few
pounds each in money, no gold or watches or the like worth more than a few
pounds more; so their mission was actually that of liquidation and getting all
sort of clothes that they can take out of the country with them.
A life long quest that ended up in leaving all
their most precious possessions behind. They started selling off their
furniture, their jewelry; to people they knew all their lives and some of them
did take advantage of the situation to secure better prices, I guess you can get
blood from a stone after all; this must have left a sour taste in my mother's
mouth and was fresh in her mind, because she punctuatedly related it in her
discourse as, can you believe it?
My parents also got in touch with another one of
my friends, George who helped them secure my college transcripts, had them
translated and officially stamped to at least show prospective colleges my
official credentials when the time came. He also helped them buy clothes for me
and helped them in packing.
Next was the story of Saad, he was another
neighbor living for a while across the street from us; we made the introduction
some years back by waving from balcony to balcony. We introduced ourselves and
vice versa and we struck a deep friendship that lasted until we left the
country. Our differences, religious or otherwise never mattered, he was a young
man of character who understood neighborly friendships and commitments. While we
were still in Egypt he invited us, my brother and I, to his father's farm where
we were introduced to his expanded family (some may be 10 siblings). We also
attended his wedding later on, and he told us that once he tried adopting my
father's flirting and joking techniques with my mother on his own wife only to
have it backfire on him, call it clash of cultures, may be!. Whenever Saad
visited his father's farm he would come back loaded with gifts for my parents,
farm raised pigeons, bags of rice etc. that his father sensing the bond we had
developed with his son insisted on gifting us with.
The introduction of this friend was also intended
to reflect on how they, Saad and his father and family, treated my parents after
they heard the news of my departure and since the war started. Saad extended his
father's invitation for my parents to come and stay with them in the farm and
away from harm's way. We also found out, later on, that Saad was earlier being
recruited to join the 'Mukhabarat' which he declined, while we were still in the
country, when he found out that he'll have to report about us while working for
them; he did not wish to compromise his integrity when it came to his friends.
May be if we all of us, in this crazy world, are friends we'll pause before we
bring harm to each other, and the world will be better for it. To Friendship!!
* * *
Before I complete the exodus
narrative itself and delve into
its possible effects on me and
my life afterwards, I'll
complete the discourse by
relating a few more eye witness
accounts that transpired during
and after the war to wrap up the
account of these events.
From friends I met later on in the United States,
I learned that life was not safe in Cairo during these events for anyone that
looked different or acted different. Case in point, an uncle to my friend, a
Christian by birth, was assaulted in the streets and beaten for being created
with blond hair; in the masses mind, indicative of being a foreigner, an
American for sure. Regardless of his exhortations that he was Egyptian, and not
a Jew or a foreigner, being blonde was enough reason for punishment.
When my aunt living in Egypt at the time came to
Europe later on, she related the story of a Jewess who was known to us, who was
married to a native Egyptian. Her husband was known to be a mild mannered man
who used to fast with wife in celebration of Yom Kippur displaying his keen
tolerance of the differences between his and his wife's religion. This man was
so totally devastated after the war, to see the Egyptians routed so badly, his
morale and psyche was so traumatized he could not escape his feelings and openly
demonstrating them.
If anything, that was to me a predictable
harbinger of what to come. It was no different to me in analyzing the situation
and contrasting it to world war I; that there was no doubt that the seed for
WWII's were planted before the last shot of WWI was fired. Redressing this
shameful accounting of the Egyptian army during the six day's war would be of
paramount import if any peace is to be reached with its enemies. The Yom Kippur
war was the culmination of such events that set the momentum for peace between
Egypt and Israel. But alas, peace is not an inert concept that nations reach and
sustain indefinitely without nurturing and fostering over time, much to my
chagrin that momentum has not progressed beyond cessation of war, a cold peace,
between these two countries and an active peace has not truly materialized
since.
Peace like freedom is not earned
just once, it is to be earned
every day of every year of every
century. It is a continuous
quest that does not "end" with
the signing of a declaration or
a treaty, but indeed the
opposite, it "starts" with it.
A few years after we settled in the
US, I met some of our college
colleagues in NY and over dinner
they related to us that there
were a good many of them that
felt angry about our treatment
during and after the war of '67,
and they offered a sincere
apology, and I found no reasons
not to accept it.
Reflections on physical pain and
humiliation:
I will spend a few words in my accounts to
describe my thoughts on being traumatized during the first night of my ordeal.
Was physical pain an issue? As far as I can recall after the first sting it did
not really matter much. I often asked myself how far they could have gone before
the physical pain became an issue? A somber reflection, borne out of my having
read a Holocaust account early on in my life, I was at the time 10 years old;
well I am sure it would have eventually mattered, since cruelty knows no bounds.
Yet in the case of what transpired that night it was still of tolerable
proportions.
Did I feel humiliated then? I don't believe so
either. Upon reflection, to be humiliated is to have the act witnessed by people
you care for or people towards whom you feel respect. The scene was so totally
devoid of such an audience that humiliation was not to be a factor.
What I felt most at the time was the utter
helplessness that comes with facing the unknown physically and reacting to the
emotional sting, having to do with the added scars of the loss of emotional
control, be it anger or desolation. The why me, the Jew in me, the oppressive
nature of the episode, a jumble of helplessness overcoming and enveloping me;
raw emotions borne out fear for life and deep despair.
I often and still ask myself, if that episode
affected my sense of justice, of tolerance of rooting for the underdog? I
believe the roots of the answer lied originally in my upbringing and who I was
and still am mostly; yet that episode served to underscore and magnify it.
I did describe though, when it was
that I felt humiliated in my
earlier narrative, it was when
we, the soon to be expatriated
Jews, were rounded up in the
hold of the Ankara being guarded
by a policeman while the other
non Jews, in contrast, were free
to roam about. The sense of
humiliation came about from
their, the others, the soon to
be shipmates, witnessing our
arbitrary difference and how it
was being addressed by our
country of birth.
I need to add a twist to summing up, in an
intentionally dispassionate way, about what transpired to the Jews in Egypt
during that period. The event I am about to recount happened when I went to
apply for College, in the US, to complete my degree, since Cairo University had
denied me my diploma.
The dean of the school of Engineering at the time
during my personal interview with him, asked about what happened to me and after
I recounted an un-embellished version of my exodus story to him; he shrugged and
answered matter of factly that it was no different than when we 'Americans' had
to 'temporarily' incarcerate the Japanese American during world war II, for
national security reasons. Needless to say, if anything, he succeeded in
deflating my recently acquired rancor for Egypt and Egyptians, in view of the
treatment of its Jews, and put it more in perspective for me. They, the
Egyptians, were right in punishing me for being Jewish much in the same way the
'just' Americans did in WWII to its Japanese American population, it was after
all national security considerations. Or did he? I could not help myself, at the
time, to think that he was a callous oaf of a dean.
It took the better part of 45 years after the end
of WWII for America to see that event, as an unconscionable act, to have
indiscrimenately jailed innocent people without any judicial due process and
purely on the basis of their ancestral lineage. But such is the nature of
civilization, it is a continuous 'work in progress', a long and unending quest
to improve upon our perceptions of ourselves, our actions, our rationalizations
and about what we perceive as ethical or unethical and how we accordingly
justify our actions. If not so, who would have believed a holocaust was possible
in the middle of the twentieth century.
* * *
On Staying in touch with friends
and of Hating Egypt:
I am often asked about whether I stayed in touch
with my Egyptians friends and whether I still hate Egypt?
I'll start by answering the second and more direct
question. Aside from the fact that once in a while I blow up emotionally, when I
see the effects on television, of terrorism and I display a high note of disgust
at the acts and its perpetrators; my answer is unequivocally no, I do not hate
them or hate Arabs in general, for that matter.
To acknowledge and feel hate as
part of your character is to
succumb to the very notion you
attribute to your antagonists,
and that is something that I
will not hand my tormentors. And
yes, in doing so, I do put
myself on a higher ethical and
moral grounds than they were, at
the time. If all I acquired from
my exodus experience is hate,
albeit understandably, it would
have been nothing more than a
cheap commodity that is easily
acquired.
Who will I have me hate, Ali, George, Saad or
their families? Will I make them the exceptions and hate the rest of the
Egyptians and Arabs? I have, at this point, to spend a few words in describing
and articulating my attitudes and point of view on this particular subject.
... I can't help but recognize a parallel in what
I am about to ascribe to myself, as being portrayed in a biblical story in
Genesis. It was the patriarch Abraham that bargained down with the angels of G_d
the fate of Sodom and Gomorra when he pleaded his case to save the two cities if
they only found fifty good citizens down to only ten. Well, I found my ten and I
dare add that I found a hundred more, that is my basic premise. And it is for
the sake of these people that I learned and constantly teach myself the
discipline of not hating; and because "hate begets hate" and it can only get
worse.
From my own experience living in Egypt while
growing up, I recognize that people who know you, as to who you are, how you
behave as a human being, how strong your relationships are and develop a sense
of your character will not only befriend you but they will also defend you to
other who might not know you as well or at all. I have been in situations, while
in school and in college, where a hostile attitude towards me as a Jew, was
deflected by one friend or another in more than one occasion, much to my
gratitude.
To trace how badly, as Jews, we fared in the late
60's is to acknowledge the mere fact, and here I am not talking about
statistics, but more about a qualitative view of the situation we found
ourselves in. In the early forties there was a striving Jewish community in
Egypt, for expressing the point let's assume we were 100,000 strong, if each one
had a circle of people that knew them of 10 or more we measure minority not only
by the original number but by trebling it with the number of people who knew
you, now it's a million strong in a 15 to 20 million people living in Egypt at
the time, makes it a sizable minority. They knew who we were, dealt with us as
people, as friends, as neighbors as business partners, and if asked will still
remember us fondly.
A successive outflow, starting in '52, with the
coming of the Egyptian revolution, and in '56 first Arab/Israeli war reduced the
numbers significantly. We found ourselves as a true minority. May be less than
ten thousand, trebled to even a 100 thousand in a hostile sea of over 30 million
will not constitute a measurable minority. So the majority knew us only through
the hatred of their president Nasser and his speeches. Will it come as a
surprised to the readers, that we, the Jews in Egypt listened to Nasser's
speeches and laughed at his denigration of the Jews, because the SOB was
'funny'. It was not the laugh of appreciation, it was as if we was describing
some other people or some other minority, but laugh we did. So what do we expect
from the other 30 million people listening mesmerized to his speeches and that
have no contact with any Jews except through his venom.
Two points to ponder, the one about the
Palestinians vis a vis the Jews and Israelis, where all they know is what their
math book suggests, where killings Jews is one number added to another or all
they recognize is the muzzle of an uzi and the barrel of tank. And vice versa,
the Israelis vis a vis the Palestinians where all they experience is violence
and all they see is bombs in the shape of human beings.
The second point, the peace with Egypt and Jordan
was supposed to bridge these countries with Israel; so how many cultural
exchanges or businesses were started and how many more Jews are now known better
by their Arab counterparts and vice versa. The question is only rhetorical, and
helps only to describe the state of affairs we find ourselves in, Israelis (and
Jews) vis a vis Arabs; and on a grander scale Americans vis a vis Arabs
(especially after the terrorist act of 9/11).
Now I get back to the original question of whether
I still hate Egypt and Egyptians. When I left Egypt I considered the situation
hopeless, in a state controlled country, the free flow of knowledge and of
freedom are suppressed so how can a different spin on hatred of the Jews can
occur and how can they ever reconcile with the Israelis, first without another
war and second really do a 180 degrees turnabout to reach a peace with Israel.
It was, to me inconceivable. I was still going
through my own rationalizations and forcefully expressing that there will be no
way in my lifetime that it will happen; when Nasser proved himself human, not by
erring, since he had continuously done that before, but by dying. His
replacement Anwar Sadat had a reputation of a yes man, and flirted with
communism and nazism during his revolutionary days; I am not quoting these as
facts, but rather as rumors, and I have no way of validating or substantiating
them.
It was not until the '73 war had
come and gone, and '78 peace
overture came around that
culminated in the signing of a
peace accord between Egypt and
Israel that I saw what one man
can do to stem a tide; the
little boy's finger in the dyke
ceased to be a story and to me
became a reality. I then and
still am now in awe of Sadat's
courage in turning the tide in
such a dramatic way which
brought Egypt back into the
international fold and by
finding the proper threads to
pull to achieve the peace with
Israel.
Needless to say Sadat set an example, to me a
positive one, to some Egyptians a negative one, judging from his calamitous
ending a few years later. At the time this was happening I found the little
voice in me, and I used it to express what the symbolism of Sadat's traveling to
Israel at the time meant.
... A little detour at this juncture will help
explain the previous paragraph. I had at the time asked to make a presentation
to the men's club of the synagogue I belonged to, to try and express the points
that surely would have otherwise been missed by other congregants.
In the Egyptian country side, blood feud was not
unknown. In expressing it during my presentation, I used the Hatfields and
McCoys as examples of family feuding, the feuding was very structured, it was
like each family had access to the family tree of the other side, and the
killing and avenging went on dictated by the next in line on a given tree
branch. In a sense the next to be killed, was known to both parties before the
act itself would take place.
Folklore suggested that, the blood
feud was stemmed only by having
the next in line to be killed,
to have the courage to gather
his death shroud in his arms and
walk directly to the one who
would exact vengeance on him and
present himself as the
sacrificial lamb to be either
slaughtered, as his fate would
have dictated, or have his life
spared through the benevolence
and chivalry of the avenger. It
was viewed as an act of total
cowardice or total courage in
this context, and nothing in
between.
In my view Sadat did symbolically just that, he
held his death shroud in his arms and reached out to his enemies, in their own
land; and to sum up my views of it, it was not an act of a coward but that of a
statesman. Needless to say in my audience some saw it as I stated it, others did
not see peace as an alternative but only strength and military power as the
effective tools against the Arabs, while others yet were anxious to start
noshing on the bagels and lox in front of them. Such was, as expected, the gamut
of reactions during the presentation.
I do wish to mention, that by signing the peace
treaty, prime minister Begin also rose to the occasion and had to shed his prior
image of a warrior and rose in my eyes as an equal statesman to Sadat.
Of note, the torah reading for the week after the
signing of the peace treaty in Camp David, had to do with Moses second discourse
to the Jewish people, reminding them " ... not to abhor the 'Egyptian', because
you were a stranger in his land ..." (Deut. 23:8). Speaking of ironic.
So now that I have had the luxury of having lived
my life and reflecting on my own views, with a measure of hindsight, I can
reiterate my belief that a single person can and more often than not, do change
the tide of events whether they are motivated by hate or by reason. My only hope
for the intractable situation in the middle east is that we find more of the
latter because G_D only knows how many of the former there are, on both sides.
* * *
Now I'll try to address the earlier question of
whether I kept in touch with my friends in Egypt since I'd left.
Aside from a few that emigrated from Egypt I was
not able to maintain contact with the others. Of the few that did, we visited
each others homes and maintained a healthy contact since they had ventured out
of Egypt. I recently mourned the parting of my dear neighbor, he was a dear
childhood friend in the true sense of the word friend.
There is though one event that I need to cover
that left me unsettled to say the least and that I wish to share with you.
Since the early 70's I had been trying to reach
Ali, it was important for me to thank him personally for what he had done to
help my parents. I knew at one time that he was present in Canada for his
doctorate studies, and though I tried I was not able to reach him.
With the ease of communications these past couple
of years, e-mail became a way of connecting to close and distant parties, and it
bridged so many of the communication hurdles that existed before and it
re-ignited old friendships anew.
One day recently, I got a request from one of my
friends that I stayed in touch with to ask me whether or not I wished to
correspond with a high school and college colleague his name is Mohammed.
Mohammed was from a nice and well to do family and though he was not an intimate
friend, he was nonetheless a close friend. I jumped on the request and started
an e-mail correspondence, first to reminisce about the good old days, him
remembering my mother's cooking and me reciprocating with tidbits of events that
time could not wash out from memory.
At one point, I asked him to connect me with a few
morefriends, some of them were also dear to me and I did correspond with them.
The one I dearly wanted to connect with was Ali, Mohammed promised to get me his
e-mail and I waited.
A few weeks later I received an e-mail from
Mohammed with a Power Point attachment. I opened the attachment and it depicted
a set of peaceful and serene scenes, of ocean waters, waterfalls, mountains and
imbedded in between these scenes the picture of the crouching Palestinian boy
that was caught in the cross fire and was killed in Palestine during that period
of time. It was at the heights of the second Intifada when both the Israelis and
Palestinians were at it in every respect.
I can only now reflect on my reactions when I
received this e-mail. A jumble of emotions ran through me like wildfire. I felt
that all what I stood for, whether it be connecting with people, building deep
friendships, knowing and befriending each other was after all utter nonsense. At
the end of the day, I was still reduced to only one common denominator, my
jewishness.
I felt the searing sensation of being thrown out
of Egypt for the second time, and having to relive my exodus anew. I became once
again, not Isi, not the human being that broke bread with them when in Egypt and
most certainly not someone they once knew. I became only a Jew, and a Jew like
all other Jews; thinking the same thoughts, arguing the same points feeling the
same way i.e. a 'cookie cutter' Jew made from an ancient mold that the
anti-Semites of old have forged a long long time ago, and nothing else. So much
for goodwill among men.
My natural reaction then was to reciprocate, by
sending them some scenes of bloodied Israelis, or of planes flying into the
world trade center. Anything to point out to 'them' that the pot should not call
the kettle black. In a sense, dehumanize them and highlight their common
denominator, they are afterall Arabs and Muslims who must think alike, must
behave alike, must share the same allegiances as other Arabs. Nonsense vile
emotions, I did not follow through with my vile outburst of anger and vengeful
spirit, and I am glad I did not.
Since that e-mail, I stopped writing, yet Mohammed
as if nothing had happened sent me later an e-mail of good wishes for the new
year which I promptly replied to, perfunctorily wishing him and his family the
same.
I do not wish to paint the event solely on
Mohammed as its instigator, I believe he did what he did as a response, in my
estimation, to Ali's snubbing most likely any of my advances to touch base with
him. Yet, I do not wish to exonerate Mohammed completely, because as they say in
Arabic ' shatamak elli allak ', transliterated to mean,' the one who insults you
is the one who relays someone else's insult to you '.
In my next chapter I'll draft an open letter to
the Ali I once knew, a letter of forgiveness because after all I still cherish
knowing him as a friend, acknowledge gratefully that he helped my parents,
confident in the knowledge that his anger as was mine not endemic but skin deep.
* * *
An open letter to my friend of
old Ali...
I forgive you,
For forgetting who I was, a friend.
And I pray to you Lord,
To never let me forget I once befriended you and called you my brother.
I forgive you,
For thinking of me only as a Jew.
And I pray to you Lord,
To renew my faith and my resolve to be the Jew I always was and always will be.
For that is who I am, much the same as you are a Muslim.
I forgive you,
For believing that Jews are all alike.
And I pray to you Lord,
To enrich the world with diversity of thoughts and open our minds to avoid the
conformity of the 'one' thought, of the 'one' mind and of the 'one' opinion; for
there lies the strength of any people or any culture.
I forgive you,
For assessing different values for human life.
And I pray to you Lord,
To never let me accept the tragic death of the innocent in terms of numbers we
weigh in the balance and scales of vengeance; but to let me value each lost life
as if it was my own.
I forgive you,
For not wanting to communicate with me.
And I pray to you Lord,
To grant me the wisdom to still hear what you are not saying to me.
Ali, I do again wish to thank you for helping my
parents during their difficult times, and long for the day when your heart will
reason with your mind and you'll find it easy again to address me as your
friend.
Brief thoughts on the roadblocks to peace in
the Middle east:
'.... I come in one day, in our Paris'
pension, and I see and hear my mother crying. Big tears, heavy hearted tears,
the ones that are gushed remembering where you've been and where you find
yourself ...'
I asked her what's the matter, and she started
telling me that she could not find a cloth pin to hang dry the cloth she just
washed; when back in Egypt she had everything she needed.
After our harrowing collective experience just to
get to this safe haven, my mother was crying over not finding and missing a
cloth pin. Now that last reflection, was left intentionally without a question
or exclamation mark to end it.
I am not going to deny that my first reaction was
to display my total callousness then, I could not and would not allow myself to
see her point of view. It took me the better part of thirty years to ponder what
she could have meant saying what she said, and empathizing with the tears she
shed that day and the few more that followed.
In a nutshell my mother left behind, in Egypt, her
cloth pins. We were not the richest folks while in Egypt, we were a middle class
family of modest means; so I will not speak of riches of wealth or any such
things, I'll only stress that she left behind her 'cloth pins', and that she
cried her heart out that day remembering and missing them.
How many other Jews in all the Arab countries
combined that also had to leave their cloth pins behind?
How many of the Jews that left all
their real wealth behind are
today clamoring for its return
from the Arab countries? How
many of us are asking for their
'cloth pins' back? So because we
don't ask for what's ours, we
end up losing our rights of
'return' of what is truly ours?
It was a saddening circumstance, when after a
majority of Israelis, influenced their government and its leaders to push the
formula of peace and advance it with their Palestinians neighbors only to have
their hopes dashed when the Chairman decided not to accept the Israeli prime
minister's give all proposal, because the Chairman wanted his people 'cloth
pins' back.
Mr. Chairman, do you really want a peace
negotiation, where accountants sit down to arbitrate your losses as well as
ours, because you could rest assured we will clamor for restitution of our
losses now, it's only fair, so we can reach an equitable solution. Do you Mr.
Chairman, want to take that chance in allowing the counting of wealth left
behind on both sides to take place, in front of the whole world to see and
judge.
That being said, I not only can understand what my
mother was crying about then, but I can also appreciate what any Palestinian
must be longing for; because to understand one event is to understand both.
If this was the only road block to peace, I'll say
the day will come when leaders from both sides and not accountants will move the
cause of peace forward.
I did not mean in the section above to articulate
any of my political opinions or advance one position over another; I merely
attempted to reflect on the incident with my mother and however jumbled my
methods to link it to current day events and sensibilities. I hope I might be
able to elaborate on my views in a different context.
Now back to my mother; I described above the bout
with my own initial callousness with regards to her emotionally agonizing moment
and I wish now to contrast it with my mother's nurturing side, in another
episode that happened after a few years of living in the united states.
I had, since June 5th 1967, taken to commemorate
the events by fasting on the anniversary date for a few years hence. I had also
kept the attaché case that my mother gave me in Egypt when I came to pick up my
passport, and in it I had stored the torn shirt and tee shirt as well as a few
other memorabilia of my experience; allowing myself a constant reminder of what
occurred to me during that time.
We can well imagine, after a couple of years how
the cloth must have yellowed out from storage and inattention, and how dusty the
case must have become. So one day, after a few years had passed, and around the
yearly anniversary of the events, I went looking for the attaché case in the
closet, to my consternation it was gone.
I asked my mother about it, only to find out from
her and in a very casual manner, that she threw it out because it was dirty;
that from a mother that had kept every jar from every pickle or jam purchase
since her arrival in the states, habits don't die easy, if at all. Do they,
indeed?
I honestly do not remember my reaction then, after
so many years; was it indignation? Did I throw a tantrum? Or did I just accept
her wisdom to move forward and forget about the past, with just a slight
whimper? She was at her best when it came to those little gestures, G_d rest her
soul.
* * *
A lasting Obsession.
Finally and in a way of closing this chapter of my
life, I feel the need to address the reasons for my continuously drawing
parallels between what happened to me during that period of my life and other
major 'Jewish' traumatic events. If you recall in earlier chapters I was
obsessed with remembering trivial details, and to try to cling on to them
regardless of their significance in the overall mosaic of the events.
... I was 10 years old, a student in the catholic
brother's French private school in Cairo, 'College Des Freres de la Salle'; one
day at school I was approached by one of the brothers, a nondescript teacher and
soccer coach; he was not to me anyway at the time, neither a mentor particularly
nor one of those strict disciplinarians either.
Cher frere 'Ambroise' was of polish descent, small
in built, wiry and of a pleasant disposition. He handed me that day a book, a
soft covered book, titled 'J'est survecue a Auschwitz'. This book was written by
a French catholic woman who was interned at that camp during the war and the
book delved and dwelt on the atrocities that occurred in the camp, and detailed
the Jewish experience with no holds barred. I remember reading the book in its
entirety, and I remember that for the following week after reading it, I was in
a depressed mood unknown to me prior to that experience, I could hardly eat or
interact with friends and family totally, in total contrast to my natural
demeanor at the time. I returned the book to frere Ambroise and thanked him for
allowing me to read it.
I still remember frere Ambroise affectionately to
this day. Long after this experience I continue to think of him as a man of
character, who could have very easily been summarily deported from the country
for having the book in his possession, in the first place, let alone lending it
to a Jewish student. He introduced me at my tender age to a historical event
that left me with the burden of understanding what it meant and what it
continues to mean to this day.
My obsession, if I can call it that, was to try to
equate what happened to me during that episode of my life and compare it to that
distant experience, which was culled from reading about the Holocaust. So I
tried, yet remembering the number of tiles in my cell or the shape of the
washable number stamped in my arm while insignificant in this context, and
dwarfed when compared to the events of the Holocaust, was all I could muster to
tie myself back to my jewishness. It was unmistakably because of my jewishness
that the events were happening again, and this time to me.
Now that I began to better understand my
jewishness as I grew older, I can articulate my obsession best as that borne out
of the collective Jewish suffering. It is not something that tore me away from
my roots, on the contrary it cemented it further.
But I also recognize the
passiveness inferred by any
obsession, and besides being a
victim in the eyes of others for
my jewishness is not what I
expect my jewishness to confer
upon me. So, to me bearing
witness is not a selfish or a
passive act after all, and I
take this opportunity to
encourage other Holocaust
survivors and anyone who had
experienced the bigotry
associated with being singled
out because of their religion or
their color, to speak of their
experience. We owe it to
ourselves and to others to bear
witness to what happened to us,
so future generations do not
take their liberties and
freedoms for granted and assume
they were there all along and
will continue to be there as a
birth right, because they are
not.
And so I have, in my simple way written about my
own exodus experience. I am still proud of my jewishness; and I am amazed as to
how virulent the anti-Semitism of the era we live in, still is. But may be I am
still thinking as one of Pharaoh's Jewish slaves if yore that wandered in the
desert for 40 years, and never entered the promised land, as free people; and
that may be, just may be, the new Jewish experience for the non slaves among us
will turn out to be a better one. I can only pray for it to be so.
Reprinted by permission
Copyright © 2003 Israel Bonan. All Rights
Reserved.
Contact:
israelbonan@msn.com
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