The Marsh Angel Page 3

  d. Hostile Terrorist Activity

  Two weeks before the end of the course, the big day arrived: the cadets were called in one by one to the course commander’s office, to be assigned their placement— a decision which would more or less shape the rest of their military service. The cadets that went in before Tamir mostly left the office happy and thrilled, revealing their assigned posts to anything within earshot. Tamir went in heavy-hearted. He didn’t know what his fate held in store, but he hoped it would be translation or open-source intelligence. Either one of those two options would allow him to pass the rest of his service immersed in Arabic, and Arabic alone; his life would be linguacentric, and everything else would quietly fade way into the background. He imagined an untroubled life, surrounded by dictionaries, uneventful and without urgency; a life with an air of academic solitude, the prospect of which he found enticing. Or perhaps we would be sent to the Jordanian arena? No one really cared about Jordan… He wanted something insignificant, remote, far from where the action was. He wanted to be forgotten.

  These thoughts raced in his mind as he drew his hand to his forehead in salute. The commanders looked at him with impenetrable matter-of-factness. There wasn’t much sympathy in their eyes. They mildly commended him for his achievements, but noted his discernable weakness in technical aspects. Therefore, the course commander said his effeminate cadence, we’ve decided to station you at Kidonit.

  Syrian intelligence analysis, after all? Tamir blurted out unintentionally.

  No, there’s a small division in Kidonit that deals with HTA, Hostile Terrorist Activity, the course commander said.

  HTA?... He hadn’t heard a single word about HTA throughout the entire duration of his training.

  Palestinian organizations in Lebanon.

  Tamir didn’t know what to say. He had never even considered this possibility. Why not translation? he finally asked.

  There are very few spots in translation, and we have our considerations to make, the course commander concluded. HTA is a fascinating field. I’m sure your service will be very meaningful.

  Tamir knew perfectly well that ‘meaningful service’ and ‘fascinating field’ actually meant ‘inconsequential service’ and ‘insipid field.’ Maybe it’s for the best, he thought to himself. He rose to his feet awkwardly, saluted, and left the office.

  e. A Distant Star on the Border of Dawn

  Tamir stood by the curb outside the base and tried to hitch a ride home. He was deep in reflection, and in no particular hurry. He had a seven days’ leave before having to report in Kidonit Base, but he was hardly excited about the prospect of spending an entire week in the kibbutz. A small Subaru pulled up. As he leaned into the window, all he saw at first was the color violet, a deep violet, like a hazy thought, like a yearning. It’s her sweater, he realized a moment later. She wore it over a plain linen dress. Above it hovered a smile, kind yet cautious. The Cheshire Cat sprung to Tamir’s mind, he didn’t know exactly why. She said she’s heading north.

  North is good, he said, tossed his large bag in the back, and got into the passenger seat.

  The two sat in silence for a while. She drove with one hand, placing the elbow of her other hand on the edge of the open window and resting her head against her hand. Her graying hair billowed in the wind, reminding Tamir of a picture of a stormy Baltic Sea that hung in his parents’ bedroom. She asked Tamir if he minded that she smoked. He said it’s fine. She offered him a cigarette. He thanked her and took one, even though he very rarely smoked. That moment, though, felt appropriate. His long and arduous intelligence training was behind him, and before him… What in fact was before him? He admired Buddhist monks capable of stretching the present moment right to the edge of their being, leaving no room for the past or the future, completely devoted to the pure nothing, clear as crystal. He closed his eyes, inhaled the sweet smoke, and let the breeze caress his face.

  So, do you like serving in Intelligence?

  He opened his eyes. What makes you think I’m in Intelligence? The cadets had placed the unit insignias they received during the closing ceremony in their pockets. They were instructed not to wear it in public. They were even warned they could be a target for kidnapping. They were told the story of an intelligence analysis officer from the Hermon outpost who was captured by the Syrians during the Yom Kippur War and told them everything he knew. And he knew a lot. They were drilled on the primacy of secrecy, and the necessity of having a cover story ready. Tamir had no such cover story at hand, and thought to himself that he really wouldn’t mind being kidnapped by this woman right now.

  Well, she laughed, you don’t have to be a genius to know that hitchhikers outside Bahad 15 serve in Intelligence. Besides, you’re the only ones who walk around without insignias.

  He smiled. You’re on to me…

  She raised her gray, pretty eyes to the rear-view mirror, to the huge bag deposited haphazardly in the back seat. Did you just finish your training?

  Is there anything you don’t know about me?

  I don’t like those training courses of yours.

  No? How come?

  They teach you to look at people through the scope of a rifle. Every Arab becomes an enemy.

  Well, some of them really are enemies…

  And some aren’t.

  Yes… He suddenly thought about the shanty village of the Arab al-Ghawarneh.

  The problem is that it’s not just an inevitable truth or a strictly professional matter, she said begrudgingly. This entire country looks at reality through that same lens. The whole country perceives an entire diverse group of people as nothing more than an enemy. It’s destructive.

  Are you a politician or something?

  Hi, I’m Amalia. I’m the director of a foundation named Al-Shajara. Do you know Arabic?

  The tree, Tamir casually translated.

  Well, at least they teach you Arabic there. But even that, it’s military Arabic. I mean, not Arabic poetry, not… She stopped talking, visibly upset.

  Tamir turned to look at her. So, what does your organization do? Poetry readings?

  Don’t be sarcastic.

  Okay, I’ll do my best. But I can’t promise.

  Her mouth curved slightly. Tamir wasn’t sure whether that was an expression of discontentment or a budding smile. We gather data on Palestinian refugees around the world, she replied. We create a map of families, of roving and wandering, starting from the villages and cities they were displaced from.

  What for?

  For the memory. For the history. For future generations. And also to help people who are searching for their relatives.

  So, you’re like a Palestinian Diaspora Center?

  Something like that, her smile broadened. A low cloud descended over Atlit. She slowed the car down, and navigated slowly through the thick fog.

  Did you ever hear about Damun?

  Of course. al-Damun. Their watermelons were famous all over Palestine.

  Really?

  Yes.

  It’s near my kibbutz.

  Oh, you’re from there?

  Yes.

  She fell silent, fixing her gaze on the fog ahead.

  There’s nothing left of the village. Just some loose rubble, he said.

  Yes.

  Do you know what ever happened to its inhabitants?

  Most of them fled to Lebanon. They reside around Tyre and the al-Bared River near Tripoli.

  Did you hear about the Bedouin tribe, the Arab al-Ghawarneh?

  Of course, we followed that story closely. It makes me furious.

  And where did they go?

  Most of them scattered in near-by villages, Makr, Jadaida… Or relocated to Old Acre.

  There were two twin girls there…

  What were their names?

  Dallal and Sa’ira Zaidani, Tamir said, recalli
ng the newspaper article he read.

  I remember Sa’ira, she gave an interview… But I don’t know what happened to them. I could try and find out.

  Tamir was silent. She drove incredibly slow. The impenetrable fog made the road and the world surrounding it nothing more than an abstraction. Suddenly, a green road sign appeared out of the fog. Oh, she said, this is my exit. I assume you need to continue on this road towards your kibbutz?

  Yes.

  Well, I was glad to meet you. What’s your name, anyway?

  Tamir.

  That’s a lovely name. Goodbye, Tamir.

  He remained seated, looking at her. She turned her violet torso to face him.

  Yataharaq al-hubb kama law kan najm ba‘id ‘ala hudd al-fajr, he said.

  Love burns… She hesitantly translated, taken aback.

  Love burns like a distant star on the border of dawn, he said.

  What’s that?

  Arabic poetry, he replied.

  * * *

  1. Riders in the Chariot (Yordei HaMerkaba)— A term denoting esoteric knowledge in the possession of an exclusive, select few. Originally, the term referred to a group operating during the first century B.C.E. who claimed to possess divine knowledge. The term ‘chariot’ (merkaba) is derived from the first chapter of the book of Ezekiel, where the prophet witnesses a sight resembling a chariot.

  2. Unit 8200 — A unit of the Israeli Intelligence Corps specializing in SIGINT— signals intelligence— dealing primarily in interception of communications. The unit, which is under the direct command of General Headquarters, is the largest intelligence collection unit in the IDF. It is considered to be the Israeli equivalent of the American NSA.

  3. Intelligence Analyst — A person whose role it is to receive raw intercepted communications, to decide its level of importance and urgency, to annotate it as necessary, and pass it on to relevant intelligence-processing bodies and decision-making authorities.

  2. KIDONIT

  I have devoted my life to tough and disagreeable work because I needed to love. And therefore I love the country I serve, her mountains, her valleys, her dust and despair, her roads and her paths.

  — Benjamin Tammuz, Minotaur

  a. Behind the Curtain

  Kidonit is a medium-sized base couched at the top of one of the towering mountains of the Upper Galilea. The road to the base, bereft of any road signs, winds through monotonous pine forests. All the pine forests in the country look the same, Tamir thought to himself when he first passed through on his way up to the base, staring blankly out the window of the ride he hitched after a particularly long wait in the intersection at the foot of the mountain. The forest trees clustered together, enveloping the car and Tamir’s scattered thoughts. When the view opened up fleetingly, the rooftops of Safed were visible in the distance. But that did little to lift Tamir’s spirits; he felt a mixture of dulled, suppressed excitement and muffled anxiety. When the car finally emerged from the forest, revealing the base for the first time, it struck Tamir as commonplace and unremarkable: the same drab military aesthetic, the same loose assortment of makeshift structures, the same tired and hollow gaze in the eyes of the guard at the gate.

  Tamir reported to the administration office, the quartermaster section, and the armory. He was equipped with everything that he would need— and especially with everything that he would never need. They showed him his quarters— a plain room with several bunk beds, again. He was told that his roommates were all intelligence analysts and translators. But don’t think that just because you’re from intelligence analysis you won’t have roll-call! the master sergeant warned. By the tone of his voice and the scorn in his eyes, Tamir understood that intelligence analysts enjoyed some sort of high status, or at least purported to, to the abhorrence of other people in the base. He nodded in silence. Tamir locked his new possessions in his designated locker and made his way to the place known as the ‘bunker,’ where he was to meet his supervising officer, the Hostile Terrorist Activity Intelligence Analysis Officer— the HTA-IAO.

  From the outside, the bunker looked like a sort of truncated hill, modest in size, with a well-made concrete entrance shaft in one of its sides. Tamir entered through the shaft and found himself descending down a surprisingly broad slope, covered by a likewise-surprising high ceiling. He descended for what seemed like an eternity, before reaching an electronic gate. The guard asked to see his identification; said something to someone over the internal radio, and sent Tamir over to the security officer to receive an access badge with security clearance. When Tamir got back from the security officer’s office with his new badge strung around his neck, the guard once again spoke with someone over the radio; a couple of minutes later, from the depth of the bunker emerged a short, broad-shouldered, slightly hunched first-lieutenant whose face was laced with tiny red spots glowing like an incandescent rash. Tamir saluted hesitantly. The officer seemed pleased by the interaction, but quickly told Tamir that such formalities will not be necessary. They will be working closely together, and such rigid ceremoniousness would be a waste of time. The first-lieutenant snuffled his nose and introduced himself as Harel, the HTA-IAO. He shook Tamir’s hand; his palm was warm and moist. Tamir felt an urge to wipe his palm on the side of his pants, but managed to resist it.

  Tamir followed Harel the HTA-IAO down the bunker. At the bottom, a strange and glorious underworld revealed itself before him, luminescent with a permanent florescent glow. Under the white light, a swarm of people with strange complexions buzzed around. Later, Tamir came to assume that the greenish color of their skin was the result of spending weeks on end in the bunker, from dawn to the small hours of the night. Their pigments must simply be fading away. He looked around at his surroundings. The people looked industrious and busy, their gazes focused on screens in stations scattered all around the compound, their faces clenched in concentration and exhaustion. The priests of the temple, Tamir thought to himself, keepers of the eternal fire.

  Harel briefly explained the communication protocol in the bunker, and then took Tamir outside to show him the massive field of antennas sprawling down the mountain. He explained at length the different types of antennas, their models, where they are pointed, and what they receive, but Tamir’s eyes wandered off to the mountains in the distance, basking in the warmth of the low afternoon sun and caressed by feathery clouds. Suddenly, he saw a couple of old station-wagons bouncing along the rough dirt road adjacent to the base, right beneath the antenna field. He looked at Harel curiously. Harel shrugged his shoulders and said that there are a few graves of tzadikim4 scattered around the base, and that people come to venerate them. Tamir was surprised. He thought that this was a highly classified area, the kind that civilians were barred from entering. It is, Harel replied, but there’s an order to let these observant people in. No one wants to confront them. In the beginning, the army used to stop them, but then they’d sneak in through the forest and it was a real mess. Finally, they just gave up. Orders from above.

  They went back down the bunker and made their way to the reception rooms. The rooms were filled with audio analysts— known as ‘producers’5— sat in neat rows, earphones to their heads, hunched over their panels and stations. Team commanders and shift managers walked around the rooms, leaning in occasionally to peek at the screens, listening in and helping decipher particularly unintelligible sound bites. The rooms bustled and buzzed, but all Tamir saw were the tired, hollow gazes in the producers’ eyes. A round, giggly producer looked over at him. Her eyes reminded Tamir of the fertile muddy earth which clogged up the Hilazon stream during winter; her lips appeared as if they were conjured up by the pen of an old scribe who used to ply his trade in Jerusalem. Ophira! the team commander scolded her, though with a certain softness, or so it seemed to Tamir. Stay focused! We’re off in fifteen minutes, let’s give it one last push… The shift manager looked over at Harel and his new in
telligence analyst. His American field uniform shirt was unbuttoned, and a large golden chai pendant dangled from his neck over a white cotton t-shirt. He reprimanded Harel for distracting his producers. Alright, Zaguri, alright… Harel uttered grudgingly and snuffed his nose.

  At the center of the bunker was a broad room which all of the reception rooms led to. It was empty, completely silent but for occasional whispers and the dull drone of screens. There were several stations there, with numerous computer screens alight with a toxic-green glow. A broad desk was situated in the center of the room, covered in desk trays containing neat stacks of paper. Behind the desk, an officer with the rank of captain sat leisurely on an impressive executive chair, typing something on his keyboard. Occasionally, someone would walk up and place something on his desk; every couple of minutes, one of the three phones on the desk— white, black, and red— would ring. In the adjacent room, behind a large glass divider, three people sat hunched over some documents and dictionaries. In a far corner of the same room, two seemingly older soldiers were sat, earphones on their heads, and a look of concerted effort on their faces.

  This is the intelligence analysis room, Harel said, and over there is the translation room and the transcription station. Our intelligence analysis room? Tamir asked with a certain awe, and in his heart thought— the Holy of Holies. The IAO sat in the center of this micro-universe, relaxed and authoritative, overseeing everything and governing all, seeming to Tamir at that moment like some kind of legendary giant. He differed in appearance from Harel significantly: Harel was reserved, constantly snuffed his nose, slightly awkward, and covered in reddish spots, but the IAO, who sat on his throne in a pair of army-green cargo pants and a loose-fitting American field uniform shirt, exuded poise and strength of character, with a head full of light-colored hair and an air of incisiveness in his demeanor.