26/3/00

Ebb of fear, flow of calm

    So much elation burst forth when I finally met Bassem, and we embraced exuberantly, and kissed. His eyes sparkled with pure joy.
    He was free, free at long last.
    Bassem's cruel fate was profiled in this column on July 26; one of six Iraqi refugees who crossed the border seeking asylum, he endured an impossibly harrowing 11 years. Now at age 31, he can look back in disbelief: the five years in Saddam's army, the three wars he fought in, so many bullet wounds that he lost count, the various escapes, time and again eluding Saddam's death squads, the perilous dash for the Israeli border -- and after all that, six desperate years in Hasharon Prison without a single day's leave.
    For a few months, I stayed in regular contact with Bassem. He would call me from prison on Friday afternoons, and through our conversations -- by now he speaks fluent Hebrew -- his story emerged. But except for momentary eye contact in court one time, we had never met.
    After their 17th court appeal, the six Iraqis were released. Finland took one of them, and temporary sanctuary was found for the rest on two kibbutzim.
    That is why I was at Kibbutz Ga'aton, near the Lebanese border, kissing an Iraqi Moslem warrior.  

OUTSIDE HIS room, the lawn is sprinkled with red poppies. I reminded Bassem that in prison, he had said what he misses most was "seeing flowers and beautiful women." Well?
    It seems that when these young mujahedin arrived at the kibbutz -- not having so much as laid eyes on a woman in six years -- the kibbutzniks kept their young women and children away. 
    "Hey, they were right to be afraid," Bassem laughs, but he is startled to learn of another possible reason for their apprehension: he had not known about what happened at Ma'alot, just five kilometers down the road.
    Afraid they were. "I was put to work in the kitchen -- but there were no knives. Nobody was friendly to us, we could sense the fear and suspicion. People would edge away."
    He began to break through on his first day at work. "I said boker tov [good morning]. Everyone was keeping far from me. At 10 I made myself a cup of coffee and offered to make for the others. I made a few jokes. I suggested we say lehayim over a glass of wine. After two hours we were laughing together, by the afternoon someone put on trance music and we were dancing while we cleaned up the kitchen. Then someone said, 'Hey, you're not Iraqi -- you're Ashkenazi!' The ice was broken."
    But not enough: the Iraqis continued to feel alienated.
    "They thought we were ... I dunno, monsters, criminals. So after a week, I asked for a chance to address the kibbutzniks. I told them about ourselves, and what we had been through, and I think everyone was crying. From that moment, they've been wonderful to us. Families who weren't at the meeting invited us to their homes to hear our stories."
    Bassem must have made quite an impression. He is articulate, sensitive and intelligent; for someone who has spent his adult life at war or in prison, he is surprisingly urbane, cosmopolitan. His dashing good looks, natty attire, and magnetic personality suggest he has been groomed in high society. This is The Enemy?
    Another of the Iraqis on Ga'aton, Abed, says there was some staunch opposition to the kibbutz taking them in. "One woman I work with, her husband is like a boss of the kibbutz, he was very against it. But he got to know us a bit, and now he says he hopes we stay forever."
    Abed's own story must have chilled them, while his cheery nature warmed them. Abed, 37, has suffered even longer than Bassem. Saddam took away four of his five brothers in 1981 for speaking against the regime. "We still don't know if they're alive or dead." His parents, with but one son left to them, know Abed is alive, but not where.

FREEDOM FINALLY came when Ga'aton, and nearby Kibbutz Yechiam, agreed to grant them temporary sanctuary.
    After the 17th court appeals in six years, "When the court finally told us we're free, I was not excited," Bassem says. "I was in shock. I didn't believe it. I went back to my cell and slept." 
    That evening, he was awoken from his nightmare and taken to his dream come true. Ga'aton was pure paradise.
    Bassem, his eyes moist, recalls those first hours. "At 10 that night, I opened the door of my room, and stepped outside to check there were no guards there. For six years in prison, every night at 10, our cell doors were shut. I said to Ismael and Abed, 'can you believe it?!'
    "Every couple of hours that night, I went outside for a walk on the grass.
    "The next morning I woke up and I couldn't believe what happened: I opened the door. No guards. People passing by said 'boker tov, boker tov.' For the first time in so long, so long, I felt at peace." 
    Abed works in the avocado fields, and nothing could be better. "It is wonderful to be outdoors, with the sun on me. I work with Ismael, and there are a few women working with us. At first we couldn't believe it: Women! Driving tractors!
    "I said to one of them: you're not afraid to be working with me, so far from everyone else? She said 'No, you're not like an Iraqi.' " Abed laughs mirthfully.
    We've been chatting in Bassem's room for some time now. Young folks come and go, hanging out with the popular newcomer. One new immigrant says he read Bassem's story in this newspaper while the former was still in South Africa and the latter still in prison; he can't believe both ended up in the same place.
    The door opens and closes continually. A cat saunters in and curls up. Despite the gentle drizzle, Bassem suggests we stroll around the grounds, so he can show off his new home. Let's go for a drive, someone says, and we pile into my car and off we go. Where to? Doesn't matter. Bassem and Abed are happy to go anywhere, just not back.
    We head for the sea and watch the waves with pure contentment. Bassem wants to know what's beyond the horizon, and I point in the direction of America, France, Egypt.
    We drive up the coast a bit to Nahariya, and stop for a sumptuous dinner al ha'esh [on the grill]. Abed, I notice, is unable to make choices from the menu; without bringing attention to it, Bassem quickly orders for both of them.
    We are still talking about the past, but with strangers at other tables close by, the Iraqis surreptitiously switch to code-words, and now we're talking about their six years "in the university."
    Bassem got a great education there, he says. From the day he arrived "in the university" he took up studying again, but not law or medicine, as he had planned back home; his new curriculum was Judaism, Israel and the Hebrew language.
    Now he's learning Spanish from some kibbutz volunteers. "And in return," Bassem says, grinning, "I'm teaching them Hebrew."