Son Of Hamas Part 4

"Wow!" I said aloud to no one in particular. "Some Palestinian faction still has the power to a.s.sa.s.sinate Israel's prime minister! That should have happened a long time ago." I was very happy for his death and the damage it would do to the PLO and its watered-down capitulation to Israel.

Then the phone rang. I recognized the caller's voice immediately. It was Ya.s.ser Arafat, and he asked to speak to my father.

I listened as my father spoke into the telephone. He didn't say much; he was kind and respectful, and mostly he just agreed with whatever Arafat was saying on the other end of the line.

"I understand," he said. "Good-bye."

Then he turned to me. "Arafat has asked that we try to keep Hamas from celebrating the death of the prime minister," he said. "The a.s.sa.s.sination was a very big loss for Arafat because Rabin showed such political courage in entering into peace negotiations with the PLO."

We later learned that Rabin had not been killed by a Palestinian after all. Instead, he had been shot in the back by an Israeli law student. Many in Hamas were disappointed by this piece of information; personally, I found it amusing that Jewish fanatics had shared a goal with Hamas.

The a.s.sa.s.sination put the world on edge, and the world put more pressure on Arafat to get control of the Palestinian territories. So he launched an all-out crackdown on Hamas. PA police came to our house, asked my father to prepare himself, and locked him away in Arafat's compound-all the while treating him with the utmost respect and kindness.

Even so, for the first time, Palestinians were imprisoning other Palestinians. It was ugly, but at least they treated my father respectfully. Unlike many of the others, he was given a comfortable room, and Arafat visited with him from time to time to discuss various issues.

Soon all of the top leaders of Hamas, along with thousands of its members, were locked away in Palestinian prisons. Many were tortured for information. Some died. But others escaped arrest, became fugitives, and continued their attacks against Israel.

Now my hatred had multiple focal points. I hated the Palestinian Authority and Ya.s.ser Arafat, I hated Israel, and I hated secular Palestinians. Why should my father, who loved Allah and his people, have to pay such a heavy price while G.o.dless men like Arafat and his PLO handed a great victory to the Israelis-whom the Qur'an likened to pigs and monkeys? And the international community applauded Israel because it got the terrorists to recognize its right to exist.

I was seventeen and only months away from my high school graduation. Whenever I visited my father in prison or brought him food from home and other things to make him more comfortable, he encouraged me, saying, "The only thing you have to do is pa.s.s your tests. Focus on your school. Don't worry about me. I don't want this to interfere with anything." But life no longer meant anything to me. I could think of nothing else except joining the military wing of Hamas and taking revenge on Israel and the Palestinian Authority. I thought about everything I had seen in my life. Was all the struggle and sacrifice going to end like this, in a cheap peace with Israel? If I died fighting, at least I would die as a martyr and go to heaven.

My father had never taught me to hate, but I didn't know how not to feel this way. Though he pa.s.sionately fought the occupation, and though I don't believe he would have hesitated to give the order to nuke the nation of Israel if he had had the bomb, he never spoke against Jewish people, like some racist leaders of Hamas did. He was much more interested in the G.o.d of the Qur'an than in politics. Allah had given us the responsibility of eradicating the Jews, and my father didn't question that, though he personally had nothing against them.

"How is your relationship to Allah?" he asked me every time I visited him. "Did you pray today? cry? spend time with him?" He never said, "I want you to become a good mujahid mujahid [guerilla soldier]." His admonition to me as his eldest son was always, "Be very good to your mother, very good to Allah, and very good to your people." [guerilla soldier]." His admonition to me as his eldest son was always, "Be very good to your mother, very good to Allah, and very good to your people."

I didn't understand how he could be so compa.s.sionate and forgiving, even toward the soldiers who came again and again to arrest him. He treated them like children. When I brought him food at the PA compound, he often invited the guards to join us and share in my mother's specially prepared meat and rice. And after a few months, even the PA guards loved him. While it was easy for me to love him, he was also a very difficult man to understand.

Filled with anger and a desire for revenge, I started hunting for guns. Though weapons were available in the territories by this time, they were very expensive, and I was a student with no money.

Ibrahim Kiswani, a cla.s.smate from a village next to Jerusalem, shared my interest and told me he could get the money we needed-not enough for heavy guns, but enough for some cheap rifles and maybe a pistol. I asked my cousin Yousef Dawood if he knew where I could get some weapons.

Yousef and I weren't really that close, but I knew he had connections that I didn't have.

"I have a couple of friends in Nablus who might help," he told me. "What do you want with guns?"

"Every family has its own weapons," I lied. "I want one to protect my family."

Well, it wasn't exactly a lie. Ibrahim lived in a village where every family did indeed have its own weapons for self-defense, and he was like a brother to me.

In addition to wanting to take revenge, I thought it would be cool to be a teenager with a gun. I no longer cared much about school. Why go to school in this crazy country?

Finally one afternoon, I got a call from my cousin Yousef.

"Okay, we're going to Nablus. I know a guy who works for the PA security force. I think he can get us some weapons," he said.

When we arrived in Nablus, a man met us at the door of the small house and led us inside. There he showed us Swedish Carl Gustav M45 submachine guns and a Port Said, which was an Egyptian version of the same weapon. He took us to a remote spot in the mountains and showed us how they operated. When he asked me if I wanted to try one, my heart started to race. I had never fired a machine gun before, and suddenly I was scared.

"No, I trust you," I told him. I purchased a couple of Gustafs and a handgun from the man. I hid them in the door of my car, sprinkling black pepper over them to throw off any Israeli dogs that might be sniffing for weapons at the checkpoints.

As I drove back to Ramallah, I called Ibrahim on the way.

"Hey, I got the stuff!"

"Really?"

"Really."

We knew better than to use words like guns guns or or weapons weapons because there was a good chance that the Israelis were listening to everything we said. We set up a time for Ibrahim to pick up his "things" and quickly said good night. because there was a good chance that the Israelis were listening to everything we said. We set up a time for Ibrahim to pick up his "things" and quickly said good night.

It was the spring of 1996. I had just turned eighteen, and I was armed.

One night, Ibrahim called me, and I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was really angry.

"The guns don't work!" he shouted into the phone.

"What are you talking about?" I shot back, hoping no one was listening to our conversation.

"The guns don't work," he repeated. "We were cheated!"

"I can't talk now," I told him.

"Okay, but I want to see you tonight."

When he arrived at my house, I immediately lit into him.

"Are you crazy, talking like that on the phone?" I said.

"I know, but the guns aren't working. The handgun is okay, but the submachine guns won't shoot."

"Okay, they're not working. Are you sure you know how to use them?"

He a.s.sured me that he knew what he was doing, so I told him I would deal with it. With my final exams just two weeks away, I didn't really have time for any of this, but I went ahead and made the arrangements to take the malfunctioning guns back to Yousef.

"This is a disaster," I told him when I saw him. "The handgun works, but the machine guns don't. Call your friends in Nablus so we can at least get our money back." He promised to try.

The next day my brother Sohayb gave me some sobering news. "Israeli security forces came to the house last night, looking for you," he told me with a worried strain in his voice.

My first thought was, We didn't even kill anyone yet! We didn't even kill anyone yet! I was scared, but I also felt a bit important, as though I was becoming dangerous to Israel. The next time I visited my father, he had already heard that the Israelis were looking for me. I was scared, but I also felt a bit important, as though I was becoming dangerous to Israel. The next time I visited my father, he had already heard that the Israelis were looking for me.

"What's going on?" he asked sternly. I told him the truth, and he became very angry. Through his anger, however, it was clear to me that he was mostly disappointed and worried.

"This is very serious," he warned me. "Why did you get yourself into this? You need to be taking care of your mother and brothers and sisters, not running from the Israelis. Don't you understand that they will shoot you?"

I went home, threw together some clothes and my schoolbooks, and asked some Muslim Brotherhood students to hide me until I could take my exams and finish school.

Ibrahim clearly didn't understand the seriousness of my situation. He continued to call me, often on my father's cell phone.

"What's going on? What is happening with you? I gave you all that money. I need it back."

I told him about the security forces that had been to my house, and he started to shout and say careless things on the phone. I quickly hung up before he could implicate himself or me any further. But the next day, the IDF showed up at his place, searched it, and found the handgun. They arrested him immediately.

I felt lost. I had trusted someone I shouldn't have. My father was in prison, and he was disappointed in me. My mother was worried sick about me. I had exams to study for. And I was wanted by the Israelis.

How could things possibly get any worse?

Chapter Ten

The Slaughterhouse1996.

Although I had tried to take precautions, the Israeli security forces caught up with me. They had listened in on my conversations with Ibrahim, and now here I was, handcuffed and blindfolded, stuffed in the back of a military jeep, trying to dodge rifle b.u.t.ts as best Icould.

The jeep rolled to a stop. We had been driving for what seemed like hours. The handcuffs cut deeply into my wrists as the soldiers lifted me by my arms and pulled me up a set of stairs. I could no longer feel my hands. All around me, I heard the sounds of people moving and shouting in Hebrew.

I was taken into a small room where my blindfold and handcuffs were removed. Squinting in the light, I tried to get my bearings. With the exception of a small desk in the corner, the room was empty. I wondered what the soldiers had in store for me next. Interrogation? More beatings? Torture? I didn't have to wonder for long. After just a few minutes, a young soldier opened the door. He wore a ring in his nose, and I recognized his Russian accent. He was one of the soldiers who had beaten me in the back of the jeep. Taking me by the arm, he led me down a series of long, winding corridors and into another small room. A blood-pressure cuff and monitor, a computer, and a small TV sat atop an old desk. An overpowering stench filled my nostrils as I entered. I gagged, sure I was about to throw up again.

A man wearing a doctor's jacket entered behind us, looking tired and unhappy. He seemed surprised to see my battered face and eye, which had now swollen to twice its original size. But if he was concerned about my well-being, he certainly didn't show it. I had seen veterinarians who were kinder to their animals than this doctor was as he examined me.

A guard wearing a police uniform came in. He turned me around, put the handcuffs back on, and pulled a dark green hood over my head. I had found the source of the stench. The hood smelled like it had never been washed. It reeked of the unbrushed teeth and foul breath of a hundred prisoners. I retched and tried to hold my breath. But every time I gasped, I sucked the filthy cloth into my mouth. I panicked and felt like I would suffocate if I couldn't get away from the bag.

The guard searched me, taking everything, including my belt and bootlaces. He grabbed me by the hood and dragged me through the corridors. A right turn. A left. Another left. Right. Right again. I didn't know where I was or where he was taking me.

Eventually we stopped, and I heard him fumble for a key. He opened a door that sounded thick and heavy. "Steps," he said. And I felt my way down several treads. Through the hood I could see some sort of flashing light, the kind you see on top of a police car.

The guard pulled off the hood, and I realized I was standing in front of a set of curtains. To my right I saw a basket of hoods. We waited a few minutes until a voice from the other side of the curtain gave us permission to enter. The guard locked manacles onto my ankles and stuffed my head into another bag. Then he grabbed the front of it and pulled me through the curtains.

Cold air poured out of the vents, and music blasted from somewhere in the distance. I must have been walking along a very narrow corridor because I kept b.u.mping into the walls on either side. I felt dizzy and exhausted. Finally, we stopped again. The soldier opened a door and shoved me inside. Then he removed the hood and left, locking the heavy door behind him.

I looked around me, once again surveying my surroundings. The cell was about six feet square-just enough room for a small mattress and two blankets. Whoever had occupied the cell before me had rolled one of them into a pillow. I sat down on the mattress; it felt sticky and the blankets smelled like the hood. I covered my nose with the collar of my shirt, but my clothes reeked of vomit. One weak lightbulb hung from the ceiling, but I couldn't find the switch to turn it on or off. A small opening in the door was the only window in the room. The air was clammy, the floor wet, the concrete covered with mold. Bugs swarmed everywhere. Everything was foul and rotting and ugly.

I just sat there for a long time, not knowing what to do. I had to go to the bathroom and stood to use the rusty toilet in the corner. I pushed the flush handle and immediately wished I hadn't. The waste didn't flush down the hole; instead, it leaked out onto the floor, soaking into the mattress.

I sat down in the only dry corner of the room and tried to think. What a place to have to spend the night! My eye throbbed and burned. I was finding it hard to breathe without choking on the smell of the room. The heat in my cell was unbearable, and my sweat-soaked clothes clung to my frame.

I had had nothing to eat or drink since some goat's milk at my mother's house. And that was now souring all over my shirt and pants. There was a pipe protruding from the wall, and I turned the handle, hoping to get some water from it. The liquid came out thick and brown.

What time was it? Were they going to leave me here all night?

My head pounded. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. The only thing I could do was pray to Allah.

Protect me, I asked. I asked. Keep me safe and bring me back to my family quickly. Keep me safe and bring me back to my family quickly.

Through the thick steel door, I could hear loud music playing in the distance-the same tape, over and over and over. I used the mind-numbing repet.i.tions to help me gauge time.

Again and again, Leonard Cohen sang: They sentenced me to twenty years of boredomFor trying to change the system from withinI'm coming now, I'm coming to reward themFirst we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin4 In the distance, doors opened and closed-a lot of them. Slowly, the sounds drew nearer. Then someone opened the door to my cell, shoved a blue tray inside, and slammed the door shut. I looked at the tray as it sat in the sewage that had oozed out after I used the toilet. Its contents included one boiled egg, a single piece of bread, about a spoonful of sour-smelling yogurt, and three olives. A plastic container of water sat to one side, but when I lifted it to my lips, it didn't smell right at all. I drank a little but used the rest to wash my hands. I ate everything on the tray, but I was still hungry. Was this breakfast? What time was it? I guessed afternoon.

While I was still trying to figure out how long I had been there, the door to my cell opened. Someone-or something-was standing there. Was it human? He was short, seemed to be about seventy-five years old, and looked like a hunchbacked ape. He shouted at me in a Russian accent, cursed me, cursed G.o.d, and spat in my face. I could not imagine anything uglier.

Apparently, this thing was a guard because he shoved another stinking hood at me and told me to put it over my head. Then he grabbed the front of it and jerked me roughly through the corridors. He opened the door to an office, shoved me inside, and forced me down onto a low plastic chair; it felt like a little child's chair from an elementary school cla.s.sroom. The chair was secured to the floor.

He handcuffed me, one arm between the chair legs and the other on the outside. Then he shackled my legs. The little seat was slanted, forcing me to lean forward. Unlike my cell, this room was freezing cold. I figured that the air-conditioning must be set around zero.

I sat there for hours, shaking uncontrollably in the cold, bent at an agonizing angle, and unable to shift into a more comfortable position. I tried to breathe through the foul bag without ever taking a full breath. I was hungry, exhausted, and my eye was still swollen with blood.

The door opened, and somebody pulled off my hood. I was surprised to see that it was a civilian, not a soldier or guard. He sat on the edge of the desk. My head was about the level of his knees.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"I am Mosab Ha.s.san Yousef."

"Do you know where you are?"

"No."

He shook his head and said, "Some call it Dark Night. Others call it the Slaughterhouse. You are in big trouble, Mosab."

I tried not to show any emotion at all, keeping my eyes focused on a stain on the wall behind this guy's head.

"How is your father doing in the PA prison?" he asked. "Is it more fun for him than an Israeli prison?"

I shifted slightly in my seat, still refusing to answer.

"Do you realize that you are now in the same place your father was taken after his first arrest?"

So that's where I was: the Maskobiyeh Detention Center in West Jerusalem. My father had told me about this place. It used to be a Russian Orthodox church, perched on top of six millennia of history. The government of Israel had converted it to a high-security facility that included police headquarters, offices, and an interrogation center for the Shin Bet.

Deep underground was the ancient warren that served as a prison. Black and stained and dark, like the rat-infested medieval dungeons you see in the movies, Maskobiyeh had a nasty reputation.

Now I was suffering the same punishment my father had endured. These were the same men who had beaten him and tortured him all those years ago. They had spent a lot of time working on him, and they knew him well. They also never broke him. He stayed strong and became only stronger.

"Tell me why you are here."

"I have no idea." Of course, I a.s.sumed I was here because I had bought those stupid guns that didn't even work. My back felt like it was on fire. My interrogator lifted my chin.

"You want to be tough like your father? You have no idea what is waiting for you outside this room. Tell me what you know about Hamas! What secrets do you know? Tell me about the Islamic student movement! I want to know everything!"

Did he really think I was that dangerous? I couldn't believe that. But then, the more I thought about it, I realized that he probably did. From his point of view, the fact that I was the son of Sheikh Ha.s.san Yousef and was buying automatic weapons was more than enough cause for suspicion.

These men had imprisoned and tortured my father and were about to torture me. Did they really believe this would make me accept their right to exist? My point of view was very different. My people were struggling for our freedom, our land.