How does a gay Palestine Refugee picture his own demise?
On a remote Cuban island, via rum-fuelled hallucinations, the Jews would feature prominently in my imagined death, proving that our cunning Semitic kin have usurped not only our land, falafel and colourful curses, but our sub-conscious as well.
I let myself go in the shower near the hotel pool, emptying my bladder into my shorts, relishing in the relief.
Six days earlier, as I boarded the rickety Cubana jet, I salivated in excitement at the prospect of the foreskin fiesta that awaited me. Like a hummingbird I would hover, from one prepuce to the next, gorging myself on countless pearls of sweet, translucent nectar.
But Allah would prove to be a most unmerciful deity.
There I was, on the sixth day of my trip, so miserably disappointed at the shortage of men, that pissing in the shower would be the highest form of carnal pleasure that my penis would experience on this forsaken island.
And as if this queer Palestine Refugee hadn’t suffered enough…
Suddenly, three topless Italian women invade my shower from all directions. Whichever way I looked, areolae as wide as saucers glared back menacingly. Totally encircled, like Sadat’s Third Army, I stood upright, in a futile attempt to compress my body, as six nipples, hardened by the shower’s cool stream, would peck mercilessly at my torso with the gusto of a thousand famished Ganges vultures.
I looked heavenward and invoked Allah’s name, begging the Almighty to put an end to this mammarian onslaught.
Ya Allah: even Job didn’t go through such horrors. What unforgivable sin have I committed to earn such a fate?
Distracted by complementary margaritas, the sows waddled off.
I cursed their mothers’ vulvas and Allah herself for sending them my way.
I escaped from the Estrogen Gehenna of the resort and walked towards the cave.. There I would find peace, or so I thought…
In the afternoons, I would sit at the mouth of the cave, facing a lip of white sand jutting into the Caribbean. My only companions were a large, sun-faded iguana and a thorny bush that had somehow found a way to obstinately grow into the rocky wall. Inside the cave, upon shelf -like protrusions, I would store bottles of water and rum, a note-pad and a pen.
Sitting naked, or as we say in Arabic: Rabbi Kama Khalaqtani (my lord as you have created me), I would scribble furiously on the note pad, putting the ideas for a future novel on paper, pausing only to imbibe some rum and re-arrange my testicles. Like a gypsy reading a coffee cup, I would attempt to make sense of the pattern that my scrotum would leave in the sand. On the 6th day, the creases would tell me that a great calamity was heading my way. I dismissed my vision as mere paranoia. Surely, my near-lynching at the hands of the 3 topless Italian women was the biggest malheur du jour. Little did I know...
I pondered the following question:
If Rabbi Bar Yochai was able to compose the Zohar in a cave, what kind of work would I come up with if I were to cloister myself in here for the next 13 years?
Then again, Rashbi had the company of his son and a carob tree for sustenance; while, all I have is a thorny bush and a near-comatose iguana. Of course! The Jews have all the luck! We Palestinians always get the short end of the stick.
At that point the iguana turned to me and proclaimed:
"You're doomed, because Allah is a vindictive Moroccan Jewess.
Indeed, Allah (née Renée Abitbol) is a perpetually irate ex-Brooklyn septuagenarian, frustrated at her late Ashkenazi husband's chronic impotence, and in his later years, incontinence. Upon his death, she moved to Miami where she spends her days verbally abusing other condo owners, taking periodic breaks to rain misfortune upon the Palestinian nation as punishment for your people's cheering of Saddam Hussein's 1991 attack on Tel Aviv."
Wallah, if after half bottle of rum the iguana would start speaking to me, what wonders await when the bottle is empty?
And that's when they appeared.
Hola! They greeted.
I looked up from my notepad and saw a nudist couple in their forties. Out of the man's sizable pubic mane dangled a kosher sausage and two pendulous eggs; and on the woman's neck, shone a diamond-studded star of David.
I turned to the iguana for an explanation, where these Renée's emissaries, coming to spy on me?
Shalom! I answered
They smiled, and the man pointed to the water.
Yes, Jews indeed, they've known me for less than a minute and they're already making themselves comfortable.
I asked them how they were able to find the hidden cave but they shook their heads: "Sorry, no Inglés". So I switched to Hebrew, but to no avail. Yet, with my limited Spanish I was able to comprehend that the couple were from Argentina.
As we attempted to make conversation, a frustration festered in my heart, nay a fury, at their mono-lingualism.
How can they speak only one language? Do people in Argentina not go to school? What cave did these dungervolker crawl out of?
I looked at the man and thought, oh member of a tribe that gave the world one out of five Nobel prize winners, how dare you speak one language? And here I am, a Palestinian who speaks five, and my nation only had one Nobel prize winner; won by a man whose only notable skill is the ability to out-slime an eel in a bucket of olive oil.
Turning to the woman:
And you, from wombs of women like you sprung forth great men like Rabbi Joseph Rosen, from whose brain one could reportedly build 10 Bialiks and 4 Einsteins, all geniuses in their own right.
You're a Jewish woman!
You're a Jewish woman!
You're supposed to trill ten languages simultaneously; as your right hand resolves a complex quadratic equation, while your left writes down invitations for the next Hadassah fund-raiser. Not to be outdone, your right foot would light a Sabbath candle, while your left kneads a Challah. Crowning the multitasking achievement is your clitoris, which would strum Hatikva on a miniature guitar, entertaining the rest of the extremites as they go on about their work.
And that's within the realm of the average Yiddische Hausfrau. Many Jewesses are capable of far more.
How dare you speak only one language?
Paying no heed to my grimaces and gesticulations, the couple wandered about, surveying the grounds.
Of course, that's how it all starts. Before long, a group of trailers would gather on top of the escarpment. Within a month they would build a lookout settlement they would name Mitzpe-Iguana, from which they would keep an eye on me, the pesky Arab. Within a month or two they would point to my beloved thorny bush and accuse me of allowing the land to lay fallow. Thus the JNF would expropriate my lip of sand, on which they would plant rows of pine trees. They would then paint a blue line around my feet and tell me that everything outside the line was land earmarked for Mitzpe-Iguana's future expansion.
I protested, jumping up and down, arms flailing.
With my blood I shall redeem my land, you shall not take it away from me!
The couple stood at the mouth of the cave, in between them was the iguana. In fact, it was no sun-faded, near-comatose iguana at all, it was Ariel Sharon! Arik, as it would seem, had been revived and dispatched to the Cuban island on one last mission: to put an end to my life.
As they closed in on me, the Jewess reached into her pubic sideburns and pulled out three sharp knives...
As Renée looked down smugly from the heavens, the massacre began..
Within moments my blood-curdling screams would cease.
Monte Carlo lies in ruins.
The city's wealthy inhabitants went on a destructive rampage in what became known as the Champagne Riots of 2009, or Cristalnacht. Their fury was aimed at the Jews, whom while celebrating my demise had emptied Monaco and other such nests of wealth, of their very last bottle of the pricey effervescent libation.
"Kill the Jews!" cried mobs of blond, heavily bejeweled women in Jackie O' shades and sleek Escada pant-suits, as they overturned smart cars and broke into liquor stores in a futile attempt to imbibe just one last drop of Veuve Clicquot.
But the Jews were too busy celebrating to notice.
Back at the Knesset, Avigdor Lieberman raised a flute of Moët in a toast to Arik Sharon's successful mission, fiercely code-named Sulphur Rain on Sodom's Fruit. After a short speech punctuated by Ahmed Tibi's loud protests, he downed the bubbly and shattered the empty glass on Tibi's head. MKs from across the political spectrum followed suit, reducing Tibi's noggin into a pulp of blood and glass. The revelry continued through the night, as Tibi was permanently transferred to Gaza, where he received over a hundred stitches at Al-Shifa Hospital.
Meanwhile, down in the bowels of Al-Shifa, applause preceded and followed Ismael Haniyyeh's address before a gathering of Hamas leaders:
"Today we celebrate the death of the self-immolating defeatist named Nizo. May a thousand fiery embers burn this self-hating slanderer who portrayed our valiant Palestinian nation as the appendix of the Arab world, void of human capital and perpetually suckling on the teat of the UN, like a sixty-year-old man who was never weaned. Gone is this libelous collaborator, who depicted our brave freedom fighters as bloodthirsty terrorists and our ideology as inflexible and rejectionist. May he never be mourned!"
- - -
But mourned I was, by the three women who made the trek to Cuba.
They stood on the lip of sand, facing the sea.
At their bare feet they laid my sun-bleached jawbone, my only physical remnant.
There stood Amira Hass, Um-Nizo (my mother) and Lisa Goldman, wearing flowing white linen dresses, stained and creased after a day of intense mourning involving the violent pulling of hair and scratching of breasts.
Lisa reached into her scarred, ample bosom and took out a folded piece of paper she had found earlier in the stone wall of the escarpment. Overwhelmed with emotion, she passed it on to Amira, the only one among the three who had the fortitude to read it out loud before an audience of supplicatory Cuban iguanas expecting to get a meal out of the event:
"In the name of Renée the Unmerciful,
As the heavens ominously darken with Renée’s circling vultures; I leave you with these parting words:
Do not mourn, for in death I shall find great liberation!
For it is only through death that this refugee can return to Palestine.
My dear Lisa,
Do one last mitzvah for your dead friend:
I ask of you to arrange for the cremation of my remains and the compression of the ashes into a pellet which you shall take back with you to Tel Aviv.
As soon as you disembark at Ben Gurion airport I want you to locate the busiest men’s room and deposit me in the first urinal you see.
In the porcelain receptacle that would become my temporary grave, throngs of unsuspecting Jews would unwittingly implement the Palestinian Right of Return, one steamy golden jet at a time…
For as I melt away… little by little, I shall become one again with Palestine."