Sadness Is a White Bird

A Novel

Moriel Rothman-Zecher

• Publisher: Atria Books
• Year: 2018
• ISBN:
  9781501176289
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

**A 2019 Dayton Literary Peace Prize Finalist**
**A 2018 National Jewish Book Award Finalist for Debut Fiction** In this "n uanced, sharp, and beautifully written" (Michael Chabon) debut novel, a young man prepares to serve in the Israeli army while also trying to reconcile his close relationship to two Palestinian siblings with his deeply ingrained loyalties to family and country. The story begins in an Israeli military jail, where—four days after his nineteenth birthday—Jonathan stares up at the fluorescent lights of his cell and recalls the series of events that led him there. Two years earlier: Moving back to Israel after several years in Pennsylvania, Jonathan is ready to fight to preserve and defend the Jewish state. But he is also conflicted about the possibility of having to monitor the occupied Palestinian territories, a concern that grows deeper and more urgent when he meets Nimreen and Laith—the twin daughter and son of his mother's friend. From that morning on, the three become inseparable: wandering the streets on weekends, piling onto buses toward new discoveries, laughing uncontrollably. They share joints on the beach, trading snippets of poems, intimate secrets, family histories, resentments, and dreams. But with his draft date rapidly approaching, Jonathan wrestles with the question of what it means to be proud of your heritage, while also feeling love for those outside of your own family. And then that fateful day arrives, the one that lands Jonathan in prison and changes his relationship with the twins forever. "Unflinching in its honesty, unyielding in its moral complexity" (Geraldine Brooks, Pulitzer Prize–winning author), Sadness Is a White Bird explores one man's attempts to find a place for himself, discovering in the process a beautiful, against-the-odds love that flickers like a candle in the darkness of a never-ending conflict.

I

Muskeljuden

ONE

EVERYTHING WAS SALT AND SWEAT, summertime and sharpened swords. It was Friday, July 25th. The date of our catastrophe, Laith.

Or mine, at least.

Two days after my 19th birthday. Two days before I was sent here. One lifetime ago. Now, in the fluorescent glow of this jail cell, I can still feel echoes of the South Hebron heat on my skin. Mostly, the desert painted in shades of red on the canvas of my face, but when I looked in the mirror that morning, on July 25th, I thought I saw a faint hum of brown glimmering beneath the sunburnt crust, threading between the black and ochre tapestry of my almost-full beard. A twinge of Saba Yehuda’s complexion, maybe. A twinge of my grandfather’s Salonican toughness. You might not have recognized me. My scalp was a hedgehog. My eyes glinted strangely in the glass of the base’s bathroom, yellow-green and nearly fearless.

We’d been in the Territories for almost a month by this point. One night, on guard duty outside the settlement of Kerem El, I pulled hair after hair out of my beard, just to stay awake. Afterward, back in my bunk, I wondered blearily if the Commander would notice patches and revoke my beard permit, make me shave it all off. He didn’t. I kept the tiny, coiled hairs in my pocket for three days, until I came to my senses and realized how weird that was.

Patrolling the Palestinian villages in the area was more interesting. No one else called them “Palestinian,” of course: everyone said “Arab villages” or “enemy villages” or “Arab outposts.” They were wobbly shanty-clusters that seemed like something you’d expect to find on the outskirts of Mumbai or Sao Paulo, only here there was no major metropolis in sight, just desert and the sprawling town of Yatta, whose economy was reportedly based on stolen cars and whose yellowish houses huddled together along the horizon’s hills.

None of the South Hebron villages had running water or electricity. Eviad claimed that was how they chose to live—“It’s their Bedouin culture, and shit”—but I was skeptical. I was usually skeptical when other Israelis spoke about Arabs. I was a discerning soldier, a different kind of soldier: ears always perked, eyebrows always raised. Almost always, at least. I remembered Kufr Qanut. I’d promised myself to sever my right hand, Laith, to suture my tongue to the roof of my mouth before I let myself forget: I was here to protect the Seven Other Villages, just like I told your sister I would be.

Some of the dusty children scampering between the tin-sided structures would ask us for candy during our patrols, and I’d give it to them when I had it. American candy too, that my dad brought back from a visit to our old home in Everbrook, Pennsylvania. I could feel through the wrappers how the heat turned the sweets gooey and soft, just like I liked them, but I didn’t allow myself to open even a single package. They weren’t for me. They were for the saucer eyes and twinkle laughs I’d get as I told the kids, in Arabic, not to eat all the candies at once, making a silly face to go along with my silly suggestion.

And then there were the dogs: chained to various desert shrubs, their rib cages bulging like broken accordions, raspy gurgles in their throats as they barked halfheartedly. They didn’t seem threatening, the dogs or the villages, but still, in the back of all our minds (yes, even mine) were the stories: the shepherd Yaron Ben Yisrael, stabbed in the throat. The ambulance filled with explosives. The old farmer in the suicide vest. The ambush at the Sheep Junction in ’03, where three guys from the Lavi unit were taken out in less than a minute. One moment: three boys laughing, pulling jackets tight, thinking about warm blowjobs and hot chocolate. Next moment: three corpses draped in torn olive green, blood coagulating in their chests alongside foreign lead and misplaced bone shards and half-baked hopes for the coming weekend and the one after that.

On a shelf inside my head, alongside the piles of my good intentions, I’d placed a little sign that read “No Illusions.” These were the Territories, after all. This wasn’t Beit al-Asal.

There was one village, Suswan, which seemed to have more going on than the other villages. Structurally, it was the same: dilapidated houses, tragic mutts, graffiti sprayed on the rocks reading “Freedom Falestine” in English and “No to the Zionist Colonization” in Arabic. The difference in Suswan was the number of people who seemed to be constantly coming and going. On the day of my birthday, July 23rd, our patrol passed by Suswan and I noticed a big group seated in a semicircle by the village’s olive grove. We were packed into the belly of an armored vehicle called a Ze’ev—a Wolf—whose shell was built around the skeleton of a Ford F-550, and was designed to protect against light weapons’ fire, as well as Molotov cocktails and rocks. The driver was a sullen, chain-smoking professional soldier named Evgeny. He was at least five years older than us, and Russian, and it wasn’t clear how well he actually spoke Hebrew, so he sort of faded into the background of the Wolf: dashboard, windshield, Evgeny. I’d been appointed patrol commander for the afternoon, and I told Evgeny to stop at the outskirts of the village. At first, it didn’t seem like he’d heard me or, if he had, like he gave a shit about what I was telling him to do.

“Evgeny, man,” I repeated, in louder, slower Hebrew, “Atzor kan. Stop here.”

The Wolf veered left and rolled to an off-road stop, earth clods and small plants crushed under its tires, and from the way Evgeny looked over at me, I wondered whether he might murder me in my sleep. This was a running joke I had with Gadi and Tal and Eviad: “Good night, dudes,” we’d say. “See you in the morning, unless Evgeny gets you first.” I looked at him now, at the bluish bags under his gray eyes, and felt a little bad that we’d decided he might be a serial killer, just because he was pale and brooding. Maybe he wasn’t even brooding. Maybe he was just shy.

“You don’t have to come,” I said. “You can wait here and smoke or something.”

Evgeny blinked.

I looked back at Gadi, Eviad, and Tal, at their lopsided smiles as they stretched their arms and cracked their knuckles and tumbled out of the Wolf into the sweltering sunlight.

“I’m going over there, guys,” I said, closing my door gently. “Any of you want to join?”

“Is this Arabian booty call, America?” Gadi said, in English, and Tal and Eviad laughed.

“Go fuck yourself,” I said, in Hebrew, running a hand over the side of my beard to obscure some of the blood vessels glowing below the skin of my cheeks.

“The Commander said we should make sure they notice us, right? And anyway, aren’t you curious to see who all those people are?”

I gestured toward the semicircle: eight or ten fleshy pink faces sheltering from the sun in the sparse shade supplied by Suswan’s silver-leaved olive trees. They were wearing beige vests, and some had crucifixes dangling from their necks. In the silence that followed my question, I could hear that they were speaking what sounded like German. There was one Palestinian guy sitting there with them.

“Not so curious, to be honest,” Eviad said, and Gadi made a thrusting motion with his pelvis and I flicked both of them off and Tal laughed. I took a deep breath, tasting the smoke from the three cigarettes lit, almost in unison, around me. Evgeny had gone to smoke on the other side of the Wolf. I was the only guy in my platoon who didn’t smoke, as well as the only one who spoke Arabic. A few others could speak a bit, and everyone knew “Waqaf, waqaf walla ana batukhak” and “Iftah al-bab.” We’d all learned those phrases—“Stop, stop or I’ll shoot you” and “Open the door”—from postdraft friends or older siblings, back when we were still in high school. And “Jib al-hawiya,” of course. “Give me your ID card.”

As I walked toward the group, leaving Gadi, Eviad, and Tal leaning against the Wolf’s boxy frame, I felt the hot air grow brittle. The Germans began babbling anxiously and a few reached into their fanny packs and withdrew digital cameras, which they pointed at me. I froze. I was tempted, for a split second, to raise my hands, just to clarify that I meant no harm. But then I reminded myself that I didn’t owe anyone an explanation, definitely not a group of Germans. I decided to try talking to the Palestinian guy, who I saw as my likeliest ally, alone.

“Ta’al hoon,” I said, gesturing to him like he was an old friend. “Come here.”

He was wearing a purple polo shirt with a tiny silhouette of a porcupine emblazoned on the left breast. His hair was cropped close on the sides and was longer and heavily gelled on the top. He had dark skin, and hazel eyes whose color I found comfortingly pretty. He looked up at me and then looked around.

“Ana?” He asked, touching a finger to the center of his chest.

Who else would I be talking to in Arabic, I thought, Rolf and Hildegard? Then I felt bad for feeling impatient. This guy was probably a decade older than me, and I was holding an M-16—and one that was fixed with a grenade launcher, at that. Although “holding” might not be the right word: too separate, too distant. My weapon had come to feel like a fifth limb. We’d only been out of Advanced Training for a few weeks, and this was the first time I’d ever actually spoken to a Palestinian adult while in uniform, not including the occasional text messages I sent to you, Laith, or to Nimreen, but that was different.

“Min fadlak,” I said, making my voice softer, taking my sunglasses off. “Please.”

The man stood up slowly and walked over to where I’d stopped, about ten paces away from the group.

“Ma saweitish ishi,” the man said, as he neared me, his hands tilted upward, palms out. Not totally unlike how I’d thought to position my own hands a moment earlier, but I didn’t think about that then. My mind was focused on the sandpaper hs and guttural as and rumbling rs. I wanted my accent to sound good, for him to know how well I spoke his language.

“Aarif, ya zalameh,” I said. “I know, man. I didn’t say you did anything. I just want to talk.”

It did. My accent did sound good. Languages are mostly about confidence. At that moment, my private tutor was shaped like an M-16.

His shoulders relaxed a bit, but his eyes were still narrowed, and his hands floated for a moment like two confused birds, wondering whether to flit into the safety of their nests or not. He eventually pretzeled his arms across his chest, burying his hands in his armpits. I get, in retrospect, as I retell this story, that he was probably afraid. That his pockets were not comfort nests for the birds of his hands but rather the opposite: his pockets were filled with danger. The danger that I, the armed soldier, might suspect danger: knife, screwdriver, grenade, box cutter, et cetera. But I didn’t yet know myself as someone to be feared.

I cleared my throat. I could hear the guys laughing back by the Wolf.

“Salam aleikum,” I said. “May peace be upon you.”

“Wa-aleikum,” he said. “And upon you.”

“Ana ismi Jonathan,” I said, introducing myself, taking my right hand off the handle of my gun and extending it toward him.

The man hesitated, and I felt a burst of sour fear in the back edges of my mouth. That he might not shake my hand at all. That he might leave me standing in humiliating limbo, vulnerable and exposed to the flashes of the German Canons and Nikons and to the knowing smirks of Gadi and Eviad and Tal. I wondered if they would see this rejection and turn their laughter on me: “Bleeding Heart Yonatan can’t even get a handshake from the Arabs he loves so much.”

After a moment, though, the man did shake my hand, limply, but no one else around could know that, not the Germans, not the Israelis. He did not introduce himself in return.

“Tell me about your village,” I said.

“What?”

“About Suswan. For example, how many people live here? What’s life like? Who are they?” I gestured toward the group.

“Our guests,” the man said.

“Guests from where?”

“Austria,” he said. “International solidarity visitors.”

“What kind of solidarity?” I said, my Arabic sharpening as I glanced at the dangle of crucifixes, at the shiny cameras cradled in veiny hands. “Against the Jews?”

I wasn’t thinking about my accent, then. I was thinking then about my grandfather, about Salonica, about the Germans.

“No, no,” the man said, “just against the demolition orders given to us by the Jews.”

“What demolition orders?”

The man snorted and mimicked my question in a nasally voice, “Ei awamr hadim?”

I bit down on the soft flesh of the inside of my cheek.

“Demolition orders for our entire village,” he said.

“Why?” I said.

“B’tisalni ana?” he said, with a woodchip laugh. “You’re asking me?”

I took a moment to try to pluck the splinters of his laughter from my mouth before speaking again. “Did you get permits to build here?”

“You don’t give us permits, here or anywhere. Do you really not know this, or are you playing games with me?”

“I’m—I’m new here,” I said, my accent faltering. I wondered if I should switch to Hebrew.

He snorted again.

I thought about my grandfather, about his voice when he said he was proud of me. I straightened my back and spoke in what I hoped was a crisp tone, still in Arabic: “What I mean to say is, I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t know all the details. It seems complicated.”

The man was quiet.

I thought about you and Nimreen, about how I told you I’d be decent, told you I’d still be me.

“But if there’s anything I can do to help,” I continued, “just tell me, okay?”

The man looked up at me, his eyes wide, a little smile playing on his lips. I thought he looked grateful. I felt hairs rising on my nape. This was why I’d started learning Arabic in the first place: to communicate wit...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Dedication
• Part I: Muskeljuden
• Part II: Righteous Arabs, Gentle Jews
• Part III: Al-Kalf
• Part IV: The Most Beautiful Man in Salonica
• Part V: White Lilies
• Part VI: When I Lie Down and When I Rise Up
• Acknowledgments
• Additional Notes
• Reading Group Guide
• About the Author
• Copyright