28/7/00

Rite of Return

When the Israelis promised to reveal the secrets of aliya to the Palestinians, it was time to send Secret Agent Ali into action.

    "Sit."
    Just as he was trained, Ali a-Alia obeyed. He sat.
    "Your next mission, Ali, is difficult but vital. Vital to our people. You are on a mission from Allah. You understand?"
    "You say kill, Ali kills."
    "No, no, it's nothing like that. We want you to go undercover, and be a Jew."
    "Oy."
    "What?"
    "I'm practising."
    "Good. Now practise being a Zionist."
    Ali gasped. "Sir, you are speaking to a patriotic Palestinian!"
    "I shall explain. Do you read the newspapers? We want to set up a ministry to absorb refugees, and we must know how the Israelis do it. Allah knows, these Israelis are very good at settling Jews and unsettling Arabs."
    "Aha. So you want me to blow up the ministry?"
    "Fool! We want you to discover their secret! Shave your mustache, dress like a typical Jew, go to their offices and proclaim you want to become a citizen of that godforsaken country. Find out how it's done. And report back to me. Is that clear?"
    Ali a-Alia looked very displeased. "But can't I do it with a mustache?"

ALI FOUND the correct office and, full of confidence, walked right in. At the door, a man grabbed his bag and rummaged through it. Ali felt deeply offended, as if he -- well, never mind. He made a mental note: "Place old man at door to check for Arabs with bombs."
    Slightly flustered, Secret Agent Ali stumbled over to the information desk. "I want to become a Jew," he said.
    The information man glared at him. "So get yourself a rabbi."
    Ali reddened. "Silly me! I am a Jew! Now I want to be an Israeli Jew."
    "Second floor. Take a number."
    Take a number? Whatever for? Maybe there were door prizes! "Two," he said hopefully.
    Upstairs, he found a crowd of people waiting patiently, or perhaps impatiently, he couldn't tell, because he had no experience in waiting. Ali only had to fire his gun into the ceiling a few times, and he got served immediately. But these Jews did things differently. He made a note of that.
    He took a seat and realized he would have to speak to these cursed people because, after all, he was on a mission from Allah. But how does one begin when speaking to a Jew?
    Ali faced the fellow next to him and cleared his throat. "Shalom," he said.
    He said what?!
    Ali blanched. He had been tricked. "That is not to say I am for the peace process," he blurted.
    "Of course," the other fellow said pleasantly. He offered his hand. "I am Pavel, from Kiev. I am new immigrunt," he said proudly.
    Think fast, Ali thought. He smiled nervously. "I am from, uh ... America, yes. I am ... I am Bill. Bill from United States of America."
    Pavel was impressed. "You make aliya from such a country? Why should you not stay there and get rich?"
    "Because this is my homeland, since Abraham," Ali said hotly.
    He had not come here to indulge in small talk. He was on a mission, and he had to find out how this immigration process worked. He had some tough questions to ask.
    He got right to the point. "Been waiting long?"
    Pavel nodded. "Years."
    I see, Ali thought. "So you don't work. You just wait."
    "No, yes -- I mean I work and I wait. I work as a waiter."
    This was the most confounded thing Ali ever heard. His Palestinian people worked and worked and got paid zift, and these Jews made a living doing nothing!
    "Oh, but it's not always nothing that I do. I wait, then someone comes in, then he waits, then I wait on him, then we both wait until I can wait on him again, then I wait until he's finished which I know he is because he calls the waiter and then waits, then pays, then leaves. That's how it works, my friend."
    Ali made a note of that. He wondered if the citizens of Palestine could really learn anything from these Israelis.
    He stepped up to a young man standing off to the side, swaying intensely. "Tell me, what brought you to Israel?"
    The man stopped swaying. After a long moment, he spoke. "God sent me."
    Ali brightened. "Hey, me too! I'm on a mission."
    "You're a missionary?!"
    "Yup."
    Ali was on the floor. He had no idea why. "Are we not all Zionists?" he shouted at the flailing, black-hatted man. "You should save your violence for the Arab enemy!" Ali thought that was a brilliant thing to say, considering.
    Alas, there was much he did not understand.
    "You are a Zionist!" the Jew shouted at the poor Palestinian. "The secular State of Israel? Ptui!! That is my enemy!"
    Ali crawled away and slumped back into his seat.

FROM OUT of nowhere, Ali was attacked. Again. Well, that's what it felt like when he was knocked off his chair by a slap on the back. He was about to confess everything. Looming above him was a large man, with a large grin. Ali always hated Jews, but now he knew why.
    "Listen, pal, don't take no crap from those guys. You know how they are." The large man got Ali into his chair. "Couldn't help overhearing you're from America. Me too. Please to meet ya. I'm Israel."
    "I'm Palestine." Ali didn't know what he was saying.
    "Ha, ha, that's a good one!"
    Pulling himself together, Ali remembered that he was on a mission from Allah. He asked this fellow -- did he say his name was Israel?! -- he asked if his immigration process had been difficult.
    "Nah. I was at a party in the Israeli embassy. They got me drunk. I started talkin', y'know, about how come the Jewish State seems to have more Ay-rabs than Jews, and they say oh yeah, put your money where your mouth is. Well, I got plenty o' both, so I figured what the hell, next thing you know I'm on a plane and here I am, a goddam Israeli citizen, if you can believe it, and I'm still not even sobered up yet." He chortled and winked, and elbowed little Ali off his chair again.
    Ali was incredulous. So this is how they do it! 
    "But lemme tell you, pal, no matter what you've been through as a new immigrant, the next part is the worst." He nodded to the door. "The bureaucracy."
    At that moment, the door opened. From inside, a voice barked out: "NEXT!"
    Ali was flung from his seat again. "G'wan, pal, it's your turn."
    He swallowed hard. "Allah have mercy," he muttered. He was never so afraid in his whole life.

"SIT," THE clerk commanded.
    Ali a-Alia obeyed. He sat.
    "Ya Jewish?"
    "Oh, yes, very, I swear, I can even prove it!"
    The clerk glared at the sweaty little Palestinian agent. "Awright, keep your pants on, I'm only asking. Who else but a crazy Jew would want to come live in Israel?"
    "Exactly what I think, sir."
    Ali was beginning to understand that you should never agree with a Jew. 
    He couldn't blow it now. This was the most important part of his mission: to learn the internal workings of this nefarious immigration enterprise. He had come this far, infiltrating the very nerve center of the global operation. If by sheer luck he escaped alive, he would be a national hero. (If not, a national martyr, which is good too.)   
    The Israeli clerk glared at him.
    The Arab spy fidgeted.
    The clerk reached into a drawer. He removed a pile of secret documents. He handed them to Ali.
    Trembling, Ali took them.
    How many millions of Jewish immigrants had experienced this solemn ritual -- and now, for the first time, a Palestinian Arab, he, little Ali! It was a very moving thought.
     "Yalla," the clerk snarled. "Take these forms. Fill them out. If you're going to be Israeli, you might as well learn how to fill out forms. NEXT!"
    So! That's how they do it!
    Ali flew out of there like a wind across the Sahara. If his cherished people were to learn anything from these Jews, he realized, it was that creating a nation has nothing to do with guns and revolution and mustaches. It was all just paperwork.
    Arafat must be told at once. Won't he be pleased!