Thousands of tracer rounds arc from position to position, rainbows of destruction crisscrossing the night sky.
I don’t speak a word of Arabic. I don’t need to. Anyone hearing this mother, no matter their native tongue, would understand the panic and urgency in her voice. Anyone would recognize her fear.
Balanced atop my rickety classroom cart, the old 26” TV replays the scene in the grainy colors of a well-worn videotape.
Two boys, perhaps 9 and 11, lie belly down on the balcony of a high rise apartment, facing away toward a cityscape that’s shrouded in night. The camera is inside the apartment, perhaps under the command of another sibling, perhaps a mischievous father. Mom’s anxious reflection shimmers across the sliding glass door that separates her from her babies. The younger boy has his knees bent 90 degrees, his Converse sneakers flitting playfully back and forth in the air; he’s enthralled by the scene before him.
Thousands of tracer rounds arc from position to position, rainbows of destruction crisscrossing the night sky. The staccato pops of each volley arrive well after their light has faded from the screen. Ricochets whistle haphazardly away from their targets. A helicopter rotates into view from behind a skyscraper. Fire leaps from her cannons as a gunner seeks his targets.
A flash illuminates the streets for a fraction of a second. The video momentarily washes out to a pure, brilliant white. The rocket’s deafening explosion arrives seconds later, clipping the audio and startling the camera’s operator.
It tumbles to the floor; the boys spin out of view. Mom screams in untranslated Arabic for her children to get inside.
Static.
I stare at the TV screen in silence. It is late October 2001, and I need to decide whether I can share his videotape with our class.
Bashar awaits my answer.
Same boys, different dwelling. The high-rise apartment has been replaced by a new suburban house, and Faraj is giving a video tour of their new home. He is older than he was in the first clip, perhaps 16 now. He walks with a limp while his little brother trails him with the camera.
At the front door, Faraj points to a hole, as big around as a fifty cent piece. He sticks his finger through, then his wagging tongue. His English is impeccable as he jokes with Bashar that he is lucky that he’s shorter than the hole. They walk through the living room, past the 50 inch projection TV, to a mint green wall across from the front door. Here, too, Faraj notes a hole.
He gestures for Bashar to follow with the camera. Around a corner and down a hall they go until they’re on the other side of the living room wall. The hole is there too, and in the closet door opposite the wall. Faraj smirks at the camera, raising an eyebrow. He opens the closet door and reaches up to the top shelf, following the path of the holes. He pulls down a steel money box, maybe 12”x6”x4”. Though the camerawork is unsteady and the hall is poorly lit, the dent is clearly visible. With one finger, the boy pries into the dent and, after some struggle, produces a flattened 50 caliber round.
“Stray,” he jokes.
The camera cuts.
And, suddenly they’re back in the well-lit living room. Faraj limps to the impressive picture window which reveals what appears to be an idyllic suburban neighborhood. The houses seem new and clean, the neighborhood quiet and safe. A grand cedar grows across the street.
Then Faraj points to the line of hills rising behind his neighborhood.
“That’s an Israeli tank,” he says, “and that’s an Israeli tank, and that’s an Israeli tank…” he goes on, tracing the ominous shapes parked at regular intervals along the ridge line.
In the second row, I see Ann Meyers’ head tilt just perceptibly to the left. She doesn’t understand.
“But, where are the Palestine tanks,” she asks, working to square her idea of war with these images from her classmate’s former life.
Bashar sighs.
“It’s not a war,” he corrects her gently. “The PALESTINIANS are an occupied people. Israel would never allow us to have tanks.”
Silence swallows the room. He glances at me and lowers his voice.
“That’s why we become suicide bombers.”