Summer vacation, a wonderful day in June 1993, a Mediterranean floating breeze revitalizing memories from 25 years ago, flashing as fast as a daydream. The sea was a swimming pool, as the saying goes here in Saïdia, the blue pearl, some 40 miles north of Sarah’s city of birth, Oujda, in the north-east of Morocco. Sarah finished her one-hour jog and readied to dive into the warm waters she had a special relationship with compared to all others she’d swum in.
Sarah! She’d migrated with her family in the aftermath of the 1967 Six Days War, like thousands of Moroccan Jews, because the Jewish Agency for Palestine had encrusted in their brains that they had a biblical duty to settle in the Promised Land, and that they were in danger of annihilation if they stayed in this country where they’d lived some 2,000 years since they’d converted from the paganism they’d shared since time immemorial with their fellow indigenous people, the Imazighen ( 
The indoctrination had been steadfastly relayed by a few naturalized French and Spanish Jews who’d benefitted from the “protégé” status imposed by the main colonial powers upon the Sultans in 1863, 1880 and 1912.
The indoctrination had been steadfastly relayed by a few naturalized French and Spanish Jews who’d benefitted from the “protégé” status imposed by the main colonial powers upon the Sultans in 1863, 1880 and 1912. Sarah was 17 when smuggled — this is indeed the “mot juste”— to Israel with a baccalaureate, full of heavenly dreams, after she and Mimoon, her classmate, had loved each other for three years. Her sweetheart consequently went through a nervous breakdown and never married, causing his mother horrible suffering and death, for he was her only son.
And here she was, after so long and without a speck of news.
In Oujda, she stayed for three days with the Benaroch family, who remained there to look after the synagogue and the cemetery. Maurice, the elder son, helped her find Mimoon. “Every summer, your Mimoon stays in Saïdia, where you’d spent vacations together.” The fourth morning, he drove her to Atlal, i.e., Ruins, a hotel 200 metres from the beach. No one knew whether Atlal meant the decaying Kasbah, or Umm Kulthum’s hit song.
Four mornings of jogging on the beach, strolling down streets and dawdling in the souk, and she hadn’t spotted her man. Today she sat down on the Ruins’ sidewalk terrace to sip a “café allongé” and watch the passersby, resolved to befriend the proprietor and manager, Jamal, and inquire about Mimoon. Jamal came, all smiles, to socialize. She introduced herself. Native of Oujda, left for Israel in 1967, currently physics professor at the University of Tel Aviv.
One word leading to another, he joyfully informed her that Mimoon was a good acquaintance of his. He comes here throughout the year, dines, drinks some red wine, and leaves. He hasn’t shown up for a week or so, but he’ll come.
¤
After a few days Mimoon came in, sat at a table for two as usual, and waited to order dinner. Wearing a night-blue robe like a fashion model, Sarah walked toward him. He gaped at her.
“Nice to see you; it’s been an eternity! May I join you?” she calmly said.
“For a surprise, it’s a big one. Please do.”
She voluptuously let her body relax on the chair opposite, her knee furtively brushing his. He blushed, confused.
“How are you, Mimoon?”
“So-so. Why are you here?”
“Visiting my mother country, my home city and a few friends. One friend above all.’’ She smilingly winked at him and passed her forefinger over his chest, slowly, barely touching it.
“Not a word for so long and all of a sudden you got homesick? You belonged here as long as you didn’t relinquish your indigeneity. Israel is now your only homeland.”
“I have two countries; the Native and the Promised.”
Your history, your ancestry belong here. The land cannot be movable; and no one here ever pogromed you or compelled you to leave.
“Biblical! Your history, your ancestry belong here. The land cannot be movable; and no one here ever pogromed you or compelled you to leave. No coercion in religion, a rule we abide by. Of the two countries, you preferred the Promised. Besides the Jewish Agency for Palestine’s brainwashing job, was it due to your biblical name? Though it’s ours, too.” Mimoon whispered in a suffocated voice, holding back his anger and tears.
“Mother gave me this name. I didn’t ask for it. You too bear a name our communities share: Lucky, or Happy?” Eyes wide open, defiant.
“I was neither lucky nor happy, though! Do you know the story of Sarah, Abraham’s wife?”
“No; what is it?”
“Are you pretending, Sarah? Wasn’t it in the Jewish Agency for Palestine’s program?”
“I don’t remember all that Agency, the Hebraic school and the Synagogue taught me.”
“Princess! A name given by God, with strength and the promise that she’d give birth not only to a son, Isaac (meaning “he will laugh”), but to whole nations. Princess Sarah was cruel to Abraham’s second wife Hagar (Hajar) and her son, Ismael — their hangman. Likewise, you were my princess, then my hangman. You’re the image of the other Sarah, akin to your National Biblical country that’s been the hangman of Palestinians. What’s more, a permanently victimized hangman! From the outset denying Palestinians’ very existence; by all imaginable means ethnically-cleansing them. The greater Israel project (Eretz Yisrael Hashlema), you know.”
“What’s the meaning of Sarah in Arabic, Mimoon? Doesn’t the Quran tell the same story of Abraham, Sarah, Hajar, and all the rest?”
Mimoon couldn’t figure out whether this was diversion, irony or inference that the Quran confirmed the Jewish Bible. “Same story, different meanings of Sarah. One: She who makes others happy; two: She who teaches secrets. Queer how one name consists of contradictory concepts: happiness-cruelty/openness-covertness.”
“How dare you say Israel’s policies aim at ethnic cleansing of Palestinians?”
“Because Israel has been implementing the Hebrew Bible’s vision that ‘It is God who will annihilate these peoples before you so that you will dispossess them.’ (Deuteronomy 32:3-5) And the faithful, solely instruments of God, ‘destroy with the sword every living thing in it — men and women, young and old, cattle, sheep and donkeys.’” (Joshua 6:21)
Did this Promised country fulfill its promises to you as it did to those of European origins?
“The land belongs to the indigenous Palestinians — Muslims, Christians, Jews and others — whose forebears are the Canaanites. Did this Promised country fulfill its promises to you as it did to those of European origins?” Articulating his phrases as if explaining physics to his students.
“Those were victims of the Holocaust! Entitled to better treatment, don’t you think?” Mimicking him.
“Come on, Sarah; this is an on-the-spot, improvised justification of your own. You know they discriminate against you because they consider you inferior. And see Palestinians as even worse: non-human.”
“They considered.”
“They still do, save the privileged few who have climbed the ladder, I don’t know how.”
She retorted, stressing each syllable: “I do not see Palestinians as inferior.”
“Do you have any Palestinian friends? Do you go to their quarters?”
“Nonsense!”
Going back to why she came to see him, he continued, “Anyway, I still don’t swallow your story. We’d agreed to go to Paris, get our doctorates, return here, brave prejudices and marry. Instead, you ruined my dreams, and I… I caused my mother to horrendously suffer and die.”
Silence hovered, unbearable!
Jamal walked in, saluted, took their orders. Mimoon, hand trembling, half-filled her glass. They reluctantly exchanged Cheers. Politeness! He smiled questioningly. She frowned, started in again on the whys and wherefores of her leaving for Israel the way she had.
“Please,” he said. “Wait ‘til I’m smashed. I’ll have my fill of this black grape juice.”
She gazed at his lips. He swigged the wine, offered to fill her glass. She pulled it to her chest with an enigmatic smile.
“Remember our song?” he mumbled.
“Ne me quitte pas.”
“I listened to it for years and years. You?”
“I… I… was working so hard and singing the national hymn in a kibbutz that I slept like a rock and forgot it, save a few words.”
“I didn’t forget it, Sarah, despite working on my physics like a convict.”
“That is why you Arabs are romantic!”
I’m Amazigh; only part of my culture is Arab, like you.
“I’m Amazigh; only part of my culture is Arab, like you.”
Again, she dodged answering and diverted the conversation to their work as physicists. “Why don’t we talk physics? You’re a celebrity in the field.”
“I presume you’ve gathered useful information on me. Nutrition? You look like you apply nutrition principles, Sarah.”
“A compliment!”
“More wine? Great night!” He unfolded his arms a bit, as though on the verge of hugging.
She leaned back hesitatingly:
“Mimoon.” Her voice was soft with regret. “I understand your resentment and beg your forgiveness. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was absolutely impossible to see you or anyone else! Secrecy! Too horrible, cloistered at home for a week waiting for some vehicle to pick us up in the dead of night; not knowing when we’d leave, or our itinerary or final destination in Israel.”
“Final destination? Israel? Didn’t that Agency promise Heaven?”
“We got desert, day heat, night freeze, barracks and chores like hell, and no way out of it.”
He stared down at the wine he lazily turned in his glass; said in a softened voice, “I know about this romanced fragment of history. You could’ve left a letter before sneaking away, or written me when you got there or after graduating. Now, please! We agreed we’d talk nutrition… since you seem concerned by my health.”
She explained The Mediterranean Diet. Boring, he found it, so akin to what he’d eaten all his life.
Jamal discreetly served them and slipped away.
Mimoon whispered, “Are you married? Any children?”
“Divorced; two boys; their father is Polish. All three live in the US. Too long a story to tell. You?”
“Polish — a means to climb the ladder? I never married. You guess why!”
Quietness again filled the Ruins. He looked at the bottle of wine, emptied it into both glasses. She gulped hers. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers. No sooner had he put down his glass on the veneer than Jamal was beside him, uncorking the good vintage Ksar Mimoon had often had at this same table for two in the corner adjacent to the kitchen, overlooking the rest of the restaurant.
¤
Mimoon woke up late the following morning; realized he was in an Atlal room; called the restaurant’s number. “May I have a pot of coffee, please? Is Jamal around?”
“Yes, Sir. He is on the terrace.”
“Please serve us when I join him.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Mimoon had slept in his clothes. He hurried into the bathroom, washed and went down to the terrace.
“Good morning, friend.”
“Morning, Jamal; what happened?”
“You fell asleep right on the table. The receptionist and I got you to a room.”
“Sarah?”
“She’d gone up to hers five minutes before; told me you were dozing. She’d like you to walk with her on the beach; she’s waiting in her room for an answer. I invite you both to lunch after. At 3?”
“Okay for the walk and your invitation. Thanks, buddy.”
“Call her when you feel like doing it.”
The couple strolled like they’d done innumerable times before she fatally let him down. He forced himself to look at where the night-blue sea met the azure sky, sensed how she incessantly glanced at him. So many thoughts overwhelmed him. He abstained from talking as he had the night before. She put her palm in his and delicately pressed her fingers against the back of his hand. He turned to face her, puzzled.
“I yearned for you, Mimoon. I’m sincere. Don’t know how to explain why.”
“I’m not asking you that. But to me, it’s all baffling; it will cause me more pain. Didn’t pain originally mean punishment?”
Poena, punishment, like torturing Palestinians, turning them into human wrecks, just as the so-called only democracy in the Middle East has always done. He quickly pulled himself together: “I’ve got to think it over. When are you leaving?”
“One week left. More if you want.”
“Let us continue this way and see what will come out of it. I promise not to get as blitzed as last night.”
She nodded.
At lunch, it was Jamal who did most of the talking, with Sarah answering his inquiries about her family, their life in Tel Aviv and so on. Mimoon seemed preoccupied by something of utmost importance. He nonetheless nodded when he grasped bits of the conversation.
¤
At each dinner, Mimoon let her talk, asking her a lot of questions — a few queries to guide his final decision, relating to her undisclosed purposes behind this trip. She could’ve visited her “mother country” before, as many times as she wished. Never had Morocco denied access to Israelis. The country had played an active role in getting Israelis and Palestinians to negotiate peace, live as two cooperating neighbour-States. And groups of Moroccan Israelis — as travel agents called them — had visited Oujda and Debdoo, either named after David Dou, a rabbi who’d immigrated from Seville, or after its streets’ funnel shape.
“What exactly is your job as a physicist at Tel Aviv University, Sarah?”
“Director of a Projects Department. Can’t divulge more for now.”
Lies, he thought, Deputy Director of the Nu-Physics, i.e. Nuclear Physics, a branch of Tsahal (Tsva ha-Hagana le-Yisra’el).
“Civil or military projects?”
“Research in this field may have both purposes; you know that.”
A deputy director who’s not informed of all projects though is invited to all meetings… Give her the benefit of doubt, he inwardly decided.
She added, “You can see for yourself.”
“Which means?”
“Come work with me, Mimoon. I know you’re very angry, revolted by what’s going on in your department here.”
“How do you know?”
“Maurice Benaroch. The information’s been spreading like wildfire.”
“Intriguing; I can’t make a sound decision, for now.”
“We still have a few days. Besides, there are benefits: high salary, bonuses, apartment, phone, sedan with chauffeur, and other extras.”
… all their efforts to skirt the topic of Palestine were to no avail.
The remaining days, undisturbed by the seagulls shrieking and wings flapping, they meandered on the beach as they’d done in the sixties, barefoot. The wet sand shifted beneath their feet. The gently breaking waves and ionized, salty breeze refreshed and cajoled their faces, alleviating the sun’s heat. They reminded each other of the good old days. But all their efforts to skirt the topic of Palestine were to no avail.
Mimoon wondered why Sarah viewed Israel as a democracy, while Palestinians — children, women and the elderly — were continually being attacked by armed settlers, detained, imprisoned for indeterminate periods by the government without due process, maimed, tortured, murdered. Why she ignored B’Tselem, Haaretz, Norman Finkelstein, Mate Gabor, Ilan Pappé, Eyal Sivan, international human rights NGOs, UN special rapporteurs and many other sources that evidenced all these horrendous facts and more.
Torn between professional problems and the isolation of single life that bordered on social phobia; nostalgia for rejuvenating love; prospects of more success and achievements in his career; and fear of the unknown — he called on his father for advice.
“My dear son, I appealed to Allah for help after each prayer, reread relevant verses of the Holy Quran and Hadith of our Prophet, peace be upon him; you’d better not go there or work for them.”
“But, Father, I’m worth almost nothing here.”
“Son, you’re worth way more than you imagine to your family, friends, colleagues, students who are the future of our country. Those who don’t appreciate you, your competencies and devotedness should not have a say.”
“I’ve worked so hard, I just can’t stand this situation.”
It’s not your country that harms you; it’s people’s greed.
“It’s not your country that harms you; it’s people’s greed. Think of what you can do for your country, not the other way round. The Holy Quran says: Verily, along with every hardship comes relief.”
He kissed his father’s head. The wise man hugged him, begging him to come back soon. Mimoon held back his tears and walked zombie-like toward Sarah, making several detours that, hopefully, would help him make the right decision.
“I understand,” she said, when he voiced his father’s opinion. “It’s quite a shock for him. He needs more time.”
“Can you wait, Sarah? How long?”
“What if I sent you all the necessary documents that will prove you’ll have a far better situation? Do you think it’ll comfort him?”
“That would help.”
“All right then, my dear.”
He was all too eager to hear her call him dear. She told him a joke about her ex-husband. They laughed.
She went back to the biblical country.
After only one week, Mimoon received the documents; not the handwritten letter she’d promised. Sarah… He spent all night trying to figure out what it meant, replaying in his mind the long conversations they’d had.
One conclusion knocked around in his brain. Sarah was no more than a pawn used by the system to make believe it genuinely wanted a true, just and durable peace by engaging in the ongoing Oslo negotiations.
Cruelty taken for intelligence! Now that her attempt to enrol a brilliant physicist was accomplished, they had put her aside. Heartbroken, he nonetheless shaved, primped and walked to his father’s; announced he was determined to stick to family, friends, job and country through thick and thin! Perhaps marry, too… that colleague, also named Sarah – the one who makes others happy — who joyfully welcomed him each time he showed up at his department: Hi, Professor Mimoon… and whose charms he had resisted because she reminded him of the one who broke his heart.
