The Flag

My parents were a modern, well-educated couple, with a firm belief in science, and a healthy disdain for social convention and perceived stigma. I had an unbridled and feverish imagination. Initially, they were quite amused by the stories I constantly made up. However, having started to hear the frightful and disturbing things I told about horrors at my school or the severe and inhuman punishment meted on me by the heartless head mistress, they started to get a little concerned. After reading the fragments of the nightmarish imaginary situations I scribbled in my notebook, they were more than a little scared, understandably so. Then came the murder of Nancy. My little cousin’s blonde and blue-eyed doll. She was found stabbed in the heart twice, mutilated, not a single hair left on her head, and her blue eyes gouged out and, with a noose around her neck, she was hanging from the doorknob. That was the last straw. They decided that I was definitely in need of a child psychologist. Despite what must have been an astronomical cost, they made sure I had my first therapy session in the reassuring familiarity of my own bedroom.

I was six years old.

The list of my childhood phobias and fears was as extensive as it was varied. I was afraid of frogs, rats, snakes, unexpected car accidents that could deprive me of my parents, the vastness of the blue sea and the roar of its waves, stray dogs, thieves (particularly the 40 ones of Ali Baba’s story), the yellow emptiness of the desert, the loud recitation of the Quran, blue-eyed dolls (hence the murder), the genies and Ifrits, the bilharzia lurking in the irrigation canal, and an endless list of other things to which many were added and from which a few were subtracted.

In 1964, another object was added, and it soon found its way to top of the list.

It was a piece of white and blue cloth.

***

Every morning, my brother and I were given our lunch sandwiches in brown paper bags, and a two-piaster daily allowance. Those were enough for a bottle of Masr Cola and a Corona chocolate wafer wrapped in silver, blue and red paper. We loved those little, austere luxuries; the only ones we were allowed in our valiant country that was struggling to build a better future, and to liberate the whole world in the process.

One day, as we were on our way to school, my mother gave each of us a crisp, lilac-colored banknote of five whole piasters. On the right-hand side of the note was a beautiful rendition of Nefertiti’s bust.

“Today someone will come to your classroom, collecting donations for the Palestine Liberation Organization. You are to give them the five piasters”. She gasped with emotion and went on: “May God grant them victory so that the poor Palestinian refugee children will be able to return Home”.

They arrived in our classrooms after the first period. They were serious, unsmiling and spoke in a strange accent. Before we dutifully put our five-piaster notes in the donation collection box, we were given a detailed account of what was called The Nakba (The Catastrophe) – the establishment of the State of Israel in the land that used to be Arab Palestine. In detail, probably more graphic than should have been given to children our age, we were told of the massacres of Deir Yassine, Qebiya, and Tantoura. The words “ethnic cleansing” had not gained currency yet and were never used. But it didn’t take too much intelligence to understand that what happened during that fateful time was simply the uprooting and dispossession of those people and their replacement with others who came from we know not where. Then, we were shown that blue and white piece of cloth. We were told in no uncertain terms that the two horizontal blue lines on it stood for the Nile and the Euphrates. “Their dream is to establish their Jewish State from Iraq to Egypt, from the major river of Mesopotamia to the major river of the Land of the Pharaohs.” They assured us that the slogan “The Land of Israel extends from the Nile to the Euphrates” is engraved above the gate of their most hallowed institution; something called the Knesset. “They will not rest until it becomes a reality.”

With the haunting stories of the starving children, living in tin shacks, wearing clothes that didn’t belong to them, and unable to go to school or go swimming at their local club on Fridays, I was afraid that this was what fate had in store for me and for all the children of Egypt. One of our instructors showed us a picture of an old man with greying hair and a sad resigned smile, holding a big rusty key. We were told that it was the key to his house. He carried it with him on the long, tear-soaked march from his village to the refugee camp. He continues to have it with him, knowing full- well that the heroic soldiers of the United Arab Republic and the fearless Fedayeen of the PLO will one day make it possible for him to insert it in the keyhole of his ancestral home and be back.

When mom came back from work, she found me, trembling, poring over dad’s big atlas. “Show me where the Nile and the Euphrates are.” I said. She opened a map of the Middle East and showed me where the two mighty rivers were located. I burst out crying. “We will become refugees. One day we will come home to find another family occupying it. Another child will take my room, my books, and my toys.”

She took me in her arms in a gentle and tight embrace. In her soothing voice, she said: “Don’t you worry about that. It’s impossible. It will never happen. NEVER. Egypt is too big and strong. We have a mighty army that will make sure nothing of the sort ever takes place and will make them rue the day they even thought of setting foot in our land. Go wash your face, calm down and let’s have lunch.”

***

Most people lose the image of the all-powerful, invincible, and omnipotent father slowly and gradually. With daddy’s first white lie, his falling flat on the face playing racket ball on the beach, a bout of the flu that renders him unable to leave his bed, small pieces of the larger-than-life idol are chipped away. With time, and not too much pain, he is cut down to size. A man you can love without any illusion of his ability to protect you from all evil. Just a good man with all the failings and shortcomings of any other man.

In my case, it came with a bang (no pun intended).

On Monday June 5th 1967, our mighty army, my Dad’s army, the one in which he took indescribable pride and of whose capabilities he spoke nonstop, was crushed, routed, humiliated, and reduced to nothing more than a helpless rabble trying to escape with its life and whatever little was left of its dignity.

Throughout its long history of defeats, invasions, humiliations, and occupations, Egypt’s first line of defense has always been a torrent of tears and a flood of jokes. It joked about its helplessness, its broken heartedness, and the stupidity of the invaders who thought it could be subdued. The jokes after the debacle of 1967 were as witty as they were cruel. Egypt swallowed the bitter pill of its loss of face with a few gulps of self-deprecating humor. It got so bad that El Rayyes, Nasser himself, had to plead with the people of Egypt to take it easy on their defeated brethren.

I took every joke I heard as a personal insult to my father. Every witty but pointed joke diminished him. With every cruel laugh, he lost a bit of his stature in my eyes. He had a nervous breakdown two or three months after the defeat. I watched his endless crying bouts and loud shouting episodes, unable to do anything to alleviate his incomprehensible pain. He sought solace in alcohol, the Quran, and the improbable combination of the two of them together. All to no avail. A few weeks later, he had a heart attack, at the age of 36. Seeing him at the Maadi military hospital, in a blue gown that barely covered his butt, and with tubes coming out of his nose, and pins and needles helping him to stay alive, I saw him for what he was; a thin man, of medium build, hanging on to dear life with a thread. My idol was forever gone. I owe my premature maturity, and my perpetual insecurity to the IDF.

The blue and white flag was fluttering on the East bank of the Suez Canal, a mere 105 kilometers from Cairo, from my room, my books, and my toys. My defeated, broken, and demystified dad was no longer able to do anything to alleviate the fear that filled the heart of his eight-year-old boy. The fear created by that piece of white cloth with its two horizontal blue lines representing the Nile and the Euphrates.

***

With time, a lot of reading, and a couple of wars, I came to the conclusion that my mother’s emphatic assertion: “It’s impossible. It will never happen. NEVER” was absolutely true. Divine Promise or not, the Chosen Tribe of Nomads would have to dislodge more or less 100 million people to achieve that impossible fantasy, a tall order indeed in the second half of the 20th century. Gradually, the fear of finding myself in a refugee camp slowly dissipated until it disappeared altogether in my teens.

Even after knowing the mystical, almost poetic, symbolism of the Star of David; two equilateral triangles representing heaven and earth coming together in perfect harmony, the visceral fear of seeing that blue and white flag never went away. Every time I saw it, it was exactly the same. It brought back memories of Nasser’s humiliated resignation speech, my daddy’s nervous breakdown and the near-death experience of his heart attack. The goose bumps and the chills up the spine were a constant reminder of the terror and humiliation.

***

The unusually high temperature of that spring day in New York was not enough to stop me from my addiction to roaming the streets. I walked aimlessly as usual. On 5th Avenue, I stumbled upon a huge parade. Nothing comes close to the joy of the street fairs and parades that take place every weekend in New York from the beginning of spring until Labor Day weekend in early September. The food stalls, the loud music, the friendly faces, and the complete absence of cars give the city a truly joyous atmosphere. I was very happy and joined the throngs of people enthusiastically.

Then, it hit me.

I was in the middle of the annual Salute to Israel Parade.

The number of Israeli flags, the blue and white pieces of cloth with their two horizontal lines representing the Nile and the Euphrates was beyond count. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them were everywhere. Some as small as a handkerchief, some the size of a kitchen towel, many as big as a bath towel, and a lot, a hell of a lot were large enough to cover a king size bed. Little children, smiling and happy were waving tiny flags. The joyful, foot-tapping tunes of Hava Nagila were blaring from every corner.

The fear that gripped me froze me to my place. Excessive perspiration, extremely fast palpitations, uncontrollable panting, and an unstoppable flood of tears covered my face. I had the worst panic attack of my life seeing all those flags fluttering in the hot, humid wind of that sweltering day.

I don’t exactly have a clear recollection of what happened next. Did I pass out? Did I faint? Did I lose consciousness? I have no idea.

All I know is that, after some indeterminate length of time, I found myself inside a shop on the east side of 5th Avenue. Two women, clearly mother and daughter, were gently slapping me on the face and wiping my sweaty brow. The older lady was fanning me with a tea-towel-size Israeli flag. The daughter was using the much smaller flag to dry my sweat.

“Are you OK now, dear?” The mother asked. “You gave us such a scare! It must be the heat. Have you had any water today?”

Trembling from head to toe, and crying uncontrollably, I managed to mumble something about me being OK. Just fine. Thank you.

She continued to fan me with the blue and white flag while patting me on the shoulder.

“Nothing to worry about dear. You will be just fine. We called 911. They will be here soon. You know, they might take a while with the street closures and all. But they will be here soon.”

By some miracle, I managed to pull myself together. I steadied myself with some difficulty and said: “Thank you very much ma’am. That will not be necessary. I am fine now. I just need to go back home and get some rest. That’s all.”

“Are you sure dear? Maybe it’s better to wait for the EMS.”

One flag fanning me, the other drying off the sweat on my forehead was too much for me to handle. The animosity, the kindness, the fear, the motherliness, the hatred, the bitter memories, the lethal combination was just deadly. I had to get out of there.

“I am sure ma’am. Absolutely certain. I will be fine. Thank you for your kindness.”

She handed me a bottle of water.

“Make sure you drink this. It is just a bit of dehydration. You’ll be as good as rain with a bit of water and a nice long rest.”

Her daughter gave me the tiny flag. It was soft and slightly moist.

“You might need this to wipe your sweat. Safe home.”

I stumbled out of the tiny shop, averting my gaze so as not to see the frightful flags, one of which I was holding in my hand like a burning ember.

Somehow, I ended up on the subway. Still perspiring, I continued to use the white and blue piece of cloth to dry my forehead and my tears. The tumult of emotions raging inside my chest was unfathomable.

Finally reaching my station, I was not quite sure what to do with it. With a bizarre combination of revulsion, disgust, hatred, and a strange tenderness, I placed it gently on the seat next to me and ran out of the subway car.