HAMSA

by Nina Schneider

On Ben Yehuda Street, you can get anything you want:  a meal, jewelry, fine wine, pastry, a lover, a fabulous haircut.  Six days a week, except for Shabbat, I work in my shop, Salon Yosi, next to the Cafe Rimon.  I like to watch people walk by, each with a story to tell, as I perform my magic with scissors and a brush.  Everyone in Israel knows this pedestrian mall in the heart of downtown Jerusalem—a few blocks outside the Old City walls--with upscale rents for shopkeepers like me.  Think Boston’s stylish Newbury Street, without the traffic, and add the random terror attack.  We live in the moment, I constantly reassure my nervous parents in Boston.  “Yeah, Ma, me and the girls, we never take the bus.”

My customer, Rivka, is showing me a photo from a woman’s magazine called Isha.  Rivka is 40 years old and not svelte, but she wants to look like some hot Israeli fashion model named Shalom.  "Well, at least the same hair color, Yosi," she pleads.

"Your thoughts, my hands," I joke, leafing through the color chart to choose a warm auburn shade.  Back in the States, I played varsity baseball in high school, and I am used to performing for women.  Physically, that is.  We won't talk about my academic record.  I glance out the window as old Rabbi Greenbaum in his black hat and gray beard hurries by, eyes cast downwards, carrying a cup of coffee and Danish.  His unmarried daughter visits here religiously; you'll pardon the pun. But after she marries, she'll cover her hair like a good frummie, and maybe she’ll bring us her new wigs to wash and set. There’s always more customers, thank God.

I don’t dare call my shop unisex, like back in the States.  Here, we’ve got a mehitza, a partition down the middle, just like in the synagogue: men on one side, women on the other.  But as the “high priest,” I can go anywhere in my temple.  In orthodox Jewish synagogues, a mehitza prevents men from being distracted by women’s beauty during prayer.  At Salon Yosi, an oriental screen allows men to maintain the fantasy of beauty, while not being distracted by its reality: foils, rollers, relaxers or dark roots.  Hair, I’ve learned, is culturally connected to modesty in the Middle East.  The hijab is a Muslim headcovering.  The rise of Islamic extremism has resulted in more Palestinian women being harassed into wearing it.  To be fair,  fundamentalist Jewish women also cover their hair, but they prefer expensive wigs that look better than what’s underneath.  Go figure.  Most of my clients are secular, like me.  Our family likes to spend Shabbat at the beach, worshipping the sun god of the ancient Egyptians.

My wife, Aynat, calls me a yenta with biceps.  She's a no nonsense sabra, a native born Israeli who does my books and dresses with European flair.  It was her idea to direct attention away from my receding hairline with a stylish ponytail. Now a few of my guy clients want to try the look.  I love it here, more than Boston.  It’s good – even in the summer, when I sweat a lot – as long as things stay quiet.

Poets have praised Jerusalem as the City of Gold  because of the golden domes atop religious sites, as well as the color of the ancient stone buildings in the sunlight.  There’s a popular Hebrew song called “Jerusalem of Gold.”   I play Yerushalayim Shel Zahav when I get in a bad mood, usually after I have to deal with a difficult customer.  Today, in between gossip and the latest hairstyle, customers have been mouthing off about politics...mostly pro and con the peace process.

"You can't trust those goddam Arabs,” Rivka announces to the entire shop, after reading the front-page news in Ha’aretz.

Silence.  I can see through an opening in the screen, where a female assistant is washing out dye from Layla’s hair.  Layla, a leftist Israeli Arab, is a professor of Arabic at the university.  I feel my neck muscles tense as she rises up in her black cape like Frankenstein in drag.  Black droplets trickle down her temples.  The white towel around her neck is turning a bruised shade of purple.  "Enough!  I've already lost one brother in the Intifada.  Blown up in the shuk with all the fruits and vegetables by a terrorist bomb meant for someone like you.  Get rid of us, and all your fuckin' Jewish problems will be solved, right?"

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that, Layla," Rivka replies, biting her lower lip like President Clinton on TV.

 "How the hell DID you mean it?"

"This isn’t the United Nations, okay?”  I plead, trying to cool things down.  Ibrahim, the young Palestinian guy who sweeps the floor, lowers his eyes as my female assistant gently returns Layla’s head to the sink.

Over the last year, I 've become edgy about the mish mash of people and opinions in my shop.  Now I keep sharp scissors in a locked drawer, away from any angry clients.  I told my wife Aynat,  "Things are going too good."  The next day, she hung a fist-sized brass hamsa over the mirror near my chair.  Hamsa is Arabic for five fingers; an ancient amulet for good luck, the hamsa image appears today all over the Middle East.  Between you and me, I think it looks like some bodiless hand giving me the finger, but it’s supposed to ward off the evil eye.  My Israeli clients laugh at me and joke, "A hamsa is no good to protect you -- the Arabs have more of them than we do, like children.”

"We cover all the bases," I say, not caring if they understand my baseball lingo.  I also keep a silver four-leaf clover charm on my key chain, which starts me thinking about my old friend Shawn from Boston, a Red Sox fanatic.  He died right after our high school prom in a car crash –on his way to the Cape with his girlfriend.

"Weren't you in the Army, Yosi," Rivka asks.

"Yup. Private Joseph Meyer, Israel Defense Forces."

"What did you do in the IDF?" Layla calls out.

Realizing I was expected to perform, I reach for a half empty can of Diet Pepsi and take a long sip.  "I first visited Israel on a teen tour that my parents forced me into.  We all knew I wasn't college material.  The year before I was heavy into cars and black leather jackets... got hauled into juvenile court once for taking a stolen car on a joyride.  My parents were terrified I’d end up dead like my friend Shawn.  I guess I was what you called  ‘a greaser.’”

"Like in the movie?" Rivka asks.

"Not exactly," I laugh.    I do a lame imitation of John Travolta singing "Summer Lovin."

"Cut hair, not albums," Layla heckles, and we all laugh.

"Where were you in the Army?" Layla asks, walking over to the mirrored wall with a new dry towel around her head and sitting next to Rivka.

"Infantry.  No big deal, not the Golani or anything high-powered.  The best part was that they trained me to be a medic.  I was amazed that in a country full of brilliant doctors, they'd trust me with a hangnail.  Mostly, I 'd be sent out on patrols in the West Bank, looking for terrorists."

"That's how I met Yosef," Ibrahim calls out from behind the mehitza.

"Yeah, we'll get to that," I say, not wanting to lose the spotlight.  Before I continue, I suck in my gut and look sideways in the mirror.  “Not bad for a guy in his forties.  Back then, I was just another American Jewish kid sent here to  find himself.  I also had physical presence.  At six foot two and 220 pounds, I appealed to the military commander as a prime recruit.”

“Every guy here thinks he’s a prime recruit,” Rifka snorts.

"Anyways, one day on patrol, my unit entered a small village.  Our commanding officer had orders to barge into people's homes, really huts, and take the men out for questioning.  I had noticed a very old man sitting on a rug, and went over to help him get up.  The old man nodded thanks.  His skin looked like a distressed leather couch in a Ralph Lauren commercial.  When we finished questioning the family  and allowed them back in their homes, the old man – in broken Hebrew-- invited us inside for coffee.  Nobody but me wanted to stay, so I agreed to catch up.”

Ibrahim interrupts, "It was a courtesy.  He didn’t expect you to stay.”

"I didn't know that.  Anyways, this old guy lived in a two-room hut with his son, daughter-in-law and three grandchildren.  I sipped the bitter coffee, thanked them and left.  I felt bad about intruding.  After I got out of the Army and graduated from hairdresser school, I started working in a salon in Jerusalem so I could be near my girlfriend.   Years later, I’m sipping filter coffee at a café down the block when I notice a thin, dark haired young man, probably Palestinian, staring at me.  I was getting really uncomfortable when he stood up and walked over.  Do you remember me? he asked, super politely.”

"No," I said warily.

"You were a soldier who came to my village.  You were the only one in your patrol to accept my grandfather’s invitation for coffee."

"Oh, yeah.  Now I remember.” I said.  “How are ya?”

He told me he was looking for work, any work, so I offered Ibrahim a job in my new shop…no big deal, ya know.  He’s a good man.”

Ibrahim, while sweeping under Yosi’s chair, grins an acknowledgement.

I like Ibrahim.  His name means Abraham in Arabic, since both Jews and Muslims have a common ancestor, Abraham the Patriarch.   He’s reliable and a hard worker, like me.  His family back home depends on his wages; it takes him hours to get here through all the checkpoints, but he rarely complains, at least not to me.

It’s afternoon already.  Like most Israelis, I’m a news junkie and turn on my Panasonic boom box with the AM/FM stereo and dual tape player.  "Jerusalem has been considered sacred for over 3,000 years and during this time Jews, Christians and Muslims have demonstrated their love for a God who is everywhere by killing one another to obtain exclusive possession of this or that holy site."  I change the channel.

"Here in Jerusalem, the holy places of Judaism, Christianity and Islam shimmer in the sun.  Archeologists from all over the world find this city irresistible.  The multiple layers of rubble tell many stories: wars, fires, types of cooking utensils, jewelry, and occasionally, some insight into our religious past.  There is  an uproar whenever human bones are found, since ultra-orthodox Jews protest the disturbing of ancient burial grounds."

I switch to the tape player and my old standby, "Jerusalem of Gold," then I spray  Rivka's new auburn wedge of a hairdo and walk back to the cash register to take her check.  I notice that she has stuffed some tip money in the mug by my workstation.

Meanwhile, Ibrahim and Layla appear to be having a private conversation.  Rivka and I cannot restrain ourselves from eavesdropping.  We hear Ibrahim's deep voice.  "I am nineteen years old now.  But sometimes I feel as old as my grandfather.  I wonder if I will survive as long as he did.  I know he supports the idea of a Palestinian state, and we can't go on killing each other forever.  After spending so much time with Yosef, though, I sometimes think I will live to see peace.

"Really?  You’re a dreamer,” Layla says.

“Yosef, he is like an older brother to me.  I look  forward to going to my job!  Imagine.  My father just laughs at me.  ‘Don’t get attached to the big American-Israeli,’ he warned.  ‘The terrorists won’t give up…now Arafat has more trouble controlling the younger ones…and those settlements aren’t going away…’”

I decide it’s time to cut short, you’ll pardon the pun, their conversation.  "I missed lunch," I say, and hand Ibrahim five shekels to buy a falafel sandwich at the stand across the street.  Yesterday I sent him over to Pizza Hut, which is kosher.  As I’m about to give Rivka her receipt, a huge blast seems to flood the shop from outside in the street.  In disbelief, I look at the boom box, but it is obviously not the problem.  Before I can put down the receipt, another boom follows; then another.  My combat instincts rise to the surface.  I am trapped in the middle of a high volume, slow motion action movie.  The store window shatters, and glass shards land all over the floor.  I notice the fractured mirror in the waiting area.  Sunlit prisms floating in the air cast bizarre patterns on the walls.  Now  I hear screaming, and  sirens.

Rivka, who is closest to the door, seems frozen in position, bleeding from her lower arm, where a shard of glass has landed.  She pulls it out in shock.  With a spare towel, I quickly tie a tourniquet above the wound to  stop the bleeding.  My medic training in the Army takes over.  Layla is nearest  the phone.

"Call the police," I yell.

After making sure my other customers aren’t hurt, I look for Ibrahim.  He is heading out the back door, but turns around long enough to press two hands together, as if in prayer, and bow slightly towards me.  He eyes, so dark and large, look terrified.  "Get out of here, and keep the money," I shout.  I know he’ll be arrested if he stays.

I fly out  the front door to help  injured people bleeding on the sidewalk of an outdoor cafe.  It is chaos.  I see an ambulance and volunteer my services.  Working with my new team, I begin to  bandage hideous wounds on innocent victims who are  still breathing.  Many aren’t.  I’m a medic again, doing what I need to help people survive.  Later, I learn the suicide bomber's body is a half block down the street, in front of a popular kosher Chinese restaurant.  The second body is found in an alley around the corner.  The radio in the ambulance declares that the terror group Hamas has taken  credit.  It occurs to me, in the middle of all this craziness,  that if you transpose the two last letters, hamsa becomes Hamas.  "They want to stop the peace.  But they won't," whispers a young man lying in the ambulance, his leg missing from the knee down.  I have already administered a painkiller and expect he’ll  survive.

Before I boarded the ambulance, I had asked my assistant to tape cardboard over  the broken shop window and to lock the door; I’d  forgotten to empty the cash register.  Two hours later, I return.  Police are everywhere, and I know my store is safe from looters.  I’m ordered not to reopen for at least 48 hours.  When I call home, Aynat and the girls are frantic.

"Imagine, an attack in the middle of Ben Yehuda!"   I realize my parents in Boston are probably worried sick, so I call them.  "I’m all right," I tell them.  "The shop is slightly damaged.  Ben Yehuda is closed off.  Don’t cry, Ma."

The Chablanim are outside inspecting for more bombs that might be hidden in an abandoned backpack or suspicious looking suitcase.  Special teams of religious volunteers are still collecting body parts for proper burial.  Two police investigators come in and ask questions about today’s triple suicide bombings.  Who are my employees?  “It’s just my assistant here and me,” I say.  I learn that four Israelis were killed, among them two 14-year-old schoolgirls.  My daughters are their age.  I empty the cash register and close up as best I can. The hamsa still hangs, intact, over my broken mirror.

At home, I am shaky.  My family keeps listening to the news, even during dinner.  They all notice my lack of appetite.  I worry about Ibrahim, who will probably be stopped at a checkpoint for questioning.  If he gets back to his village without being arrested, I imagine his father will order him not to return for a long time.  Ibrahim will tell about the bomb, the conversation with Layla.  And he will ask why, just like my daughters are asking, in between bites of grilled lamb kebobs and cous cous.

The radio report says that one of the terrorists, disguised as a woman, placed himself opposite Café Atara on the mall, with the two others 20 meters away, in front of the hookah store.  The disguised terrorist blew himself up first, and about half a minute later, the other two exploded.  The Chairman of the Palestinian Authority, Yasser Arafat, condemned the attack…the visit of U.S. secretary of state Madeleine Albright may be postponed …Prime Minister Netanyahu calls for peace with security…the Oslo Accord is in jeopardy…there are over 165,000 Arab residents of Jerusalem, who move about the city freely…it was September the fourth, 1997.

All I want for Hanukkah is some peace and quiet.  My business is hair.  You’d think I’m apolitical, but nobody here has that luxury.  Ben Yehuda Street was named after a European scholar who almost single-handedly modernized the ancient Hebrew language, who created a dictionary of new words, like “kibbutz,” but who  never anticipated other modern words, like  “suicide bomber” or Intifada.

It’s been almost a week, but Ben Yehuda Street is still a crime scene in my mind; all the bodies are gone, the wounded recovering in hospitals, and the plate glass windows replaced on the storefronts.  Ibrahim hasn’t returned yet, but he will.  Business as usual.  Yes, that’s the way it is here.  I walk over to a vendor for a cup of filter coffee. In a few days, Ben Yehuda Street will again be filled with people, watching more closely, as they hurry for lunch past guarded entrances and barricades.

Nina Schneider teaches writing and literature at Bentley University in Waltham, MA.  Her short fiction has appeared in Quick Fiction and Pindeldyboz on line.  She was named a finalist in the Moment Magazine short fiction contest (2004) and was a winner in the 2005 Short Story Contest sponsored by The Center for Arts in Natick and Morse Institute Library. She lives in the Boston area and is a member of Grub Street, Inc. writers' organization.