The Palestinian Jew – Amir Sommer

Amir Sommer is an award-winning writer, the love child of a Palestinian man and an Israeli woman. The mix of religions and nationalities in his family is considered taboo in both Israel and Palestine. He has been published globally—from Los Angeles to London, Germany, Sweden, Israel and the Arab world. He currently divides his time between Berlin and California while working on his debut novel.

 

 

I was Adam Zomer’s worst friend. Our friendship, if you could call it that, was basically a pseudointellectual version of Cheech & Chong. A lot of weed, alcohol, books, records, and unnecessary drama that let me cling to my youth.

I don’t remember the first time I met this freak, although I know in which era of my life. Back in those days, I dated an A-lister Israeli-Jewish actress. Which is absurd; after so many years as an actor myself, the biggest achievement in my career was this romantic relationship, and not what’s in my IMDb’s meager filmography. The media went crazy; ASSIMILATION—they wrote—Arab actor dating a Jewish star. Back then I felt a ring of pressure closing on my throat, but she was cool as a cucumber, didn’t give a damn about what all the racists said. The problem was that her biological clock was ticking; meanwhile I never understood why I should bring a child to this fucked-up world. And why would I want a mixed child?! It would look like Adam: half ugly, half uglier. The first memory of Adam that sticks out is, of course, not a good one. He once posted a picture of us out partying in Tel Aviv. We looked totally strung out. I told him not to, because it was when the paparazzi were all over me everywhere I went, right after my break-up. But that asswipe Adam shared it anyway, just to get more followers.

What’s more, this guy could never pay. Poor sucker poet. I had to treat him every time we met. With the amount I paid for coffee and cigarettes, you could rent a one-room apartment in Gaza for three years. All I had to do to expose him was to ask what his parents did for work. Guess what: they’re both doctors. Ya Allah! 

Okay, fine, I was kind of a shithead too. One time Adam called to tell me there was a rare vinyl record he’d been trying to get hold of for years, and he’d just seen it in the window of a new record shop next to the Carmel Market. As soon as he finished a few errands he was going to go back and buy it. Right then and there, I got on my bike and pedaled over. And even though it cost me five hundred shekels, I bought the vinyl, just so I could call Adam and tell him to drop everything and meet me at the café. Then I pulled out the record right in front of him and enjoyed his bummed-out eyes squirting at me like ketchup bottles.

I used to terrorize him emotionally too, telling him he should quit writing ’cause he wasn’t all that great, or that if he wanted to be my friend he had to at least stop writing hyper-realistically because it was an invasion of my privacy. I only said that for laughs. Maybe I was a little jealous, because I realized I’d made a mistake becoming a movie actor. Being a Palestinian actor in Israel doesn’t bring in a lot of work or money. Or food for the soul. The best I could get was playing a terrorist once a year. I should have been a scribbler. A poet, or maybe an author. Acting is dumb—you’re trapped inside someone else’s creation. But now there’s no point in me publishing a book, no matter how sharp it might be, ’cause I’d just be another actor trying to prove how much depth he has. Or worse, the spurned lover trying to leverage his infamy. Total cringe.

Even in the smaller moments of life, I drove him crazy. Once I told him I was jonesin’ for some weed and made him skip work to smoke up with me. On the way over, he got a WhatsApp message saying he was fired, and he arrived freaking out about money. But I had him so deep in my pocket, he distractedly rolled me a fat joint with the last bud he had left, still mumbling his sorrows. I grabbed it from him while he was droning on, lit up and puffed away.

“Listen,” I put on my guidance counselor tone, interrupting his monologue, “as your friend …“

He stood there with his puppy-dog eyes, waiting for my advice, and for the drag that would chill him out. But I finished off the joint right in front of his face. I swear, I sucked the whole thing down in a second without leaving him anything. And that was it. I didn’t even finish what I was saying. There was no advice to give. Adam was in shock. I know it sounds bad, but I was just doing him a favor; the kid could never handle this weed.

There were loads of times like that. Like, say, when I found out he’d started going out with this girl, so I DM’d her something flirty on Instagram. His heart cracked, poor kid. She was way out of his league anyway—better I broke his heart than she did. But hey, I took him out for a beer to make it up to him. 

The waitress asked if I was his big brother, like waitresses always did, and we lied like always and said yes. From that moment, the next two hours were like a montage. We ordered a few rounds of beers, whiskey, tequila with lemon, then had a coffee break. I left to buy cigarettes in some 7-Eleven, and came back for another round of beer. We talked about funny memories, good movies, and every now and then, he whined about the girl I DM’d. So I laughed at him, and he accepted it like he always did, resigned to his pathetic destiny. Then he quoted Sartre: “hell is—other people!” And I directly answered: “Nah, hell is having to listen to your problems all day, every night. Get over your puppy love, you extra AF.” His sad face returned, holding back tears in his eyes, right in front of me. I apologized with a smile. All in all, he was like a younger brother to me, and younger brothers always have to obey their older brothers.

Just before dawn, I offered him a free ticket to Berlin and a place to sleep. He was excited, until I laid down an ultimatum: he could only have it if he’d agree to smuggle a few thousand dollars with him to keep it away from the Zionists. I told him I was trying to give him some time away, let him explore the world, expand his time, maybe meet a girl more on his level. Bottom line though, I tried to take advantage of him being drunk and hot for a hipster holiday. He’s lucky he sobered up the next day; I almost feel bad I tried to get him messed up in it.

Anyway, I dunno exactly what made Adam fade away from my life for a while. Maybe it was the girl I DM’d, maybe the devil’s bargain I offered with the German trip. Maybe he was writing a book. I’m sure it wasn’t anything too serious. Just one of those instances where folks lose track of why they stopped hanging out with someone they haven’t seen in a while. Hell, sometimes I even forget to check in with myself.

Cut to a few years later; we actually ran into each other in Berlin. It was in Neukölln, which everyone knows is crawling with Muslims, mostly war refugees from Arab states. Even for me, a Palestinian, it felt dangerous around there. I screamed his full name in the middle of the street. He wore the expression of a rabbit sensing the gaze of an unseen hunter, frozen in the vulnerability of the moment. Gradually, it transformed into the joyful delight of a child at a surprise birthday party. We hugged warmly, and I stuck a cigarette in his mouth, peppering him with questions before he had a chance to react. 

Time cured his fears. We talked a while in the spot we met in the middle of the street. He had this peaceful Rick Rubin tone, and I got bored. For some reason I had this weird urge to see my old friend walk into an ambush. So I pointed at him and yelled, in Arabic, “Fuck the Jews!” Soon, a gang of refugees were heading our way to beat the crap out of him, and we had to sprint toward Sonnenallee just ahead of them. By the time we got out of the borough, Adam was out of breath. “Bashir, why would you cuss out the Jews?” he gasped, like that was the worst thing I’d done. But again, I got a kick out of being an asshole.

We continued to hang out for the rest of his vacation in Berlin, doin’ the same things we did in Tel Aviv, just with cheaper prices and winter clothing. Both of us had flight tickets back to the Middle East. However, when we left Berlin, we forgot our friendship there, as if it were some souvenir abandoned in the airport lounge.

After that, when Adam got older, I felt like I’d been left pretty much on my own. He was my youngest friend, by twenty years. Everyone my age already had a wife and kids. It was just me, left behind, still spinning records and trying to dodge the paparazzi in my head. I missed the little douchebag. We used to walk around Tel Aviv like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Other times, late at night, we’d bike on the empty roadways, through the city stretching out like a wide shot in front of us. Adam used to stick close behind ’cause if he got too far ahead, I’d pull a quick turn, making him  turn around and hustle to catch up. After hours of mindless cruising, we’d split up, each to different streets, parting only with a lazy mumble and a glance. It reminded me of when Abu-Jihad from the Fatah was killed by Israeli commandos, and Yasser Arafat said the two of them were “one spirit in two bodies.” That’s what me and Adam were, except that our bodies fought each other even though we shared the same spirit.

Over time, Adam started acting weird and had a full-on identity crisis. One day he was an Israeli Zionist, the next day a Palestinian nationalist, and the day after that he was living out some apolitical fantasy. Then he stopped smoking and DJing, got his hair cut—basically became everything we used to diss. I kept hanging out in the same cafés, sitting at the same wobbly tables, lying to the same waitresses, but without Adam.

Years went by with me treading water, but with a changing cast of secondary characters filling in for Adam. Every so often I’d get into an argument about the conflict. Sometimes with guys from my village—not exactly the sharpest tools in the shed—and sometimes with Jewish acquaintances that looked at me as if reality was finally synching up with all their paranoias. The arguments always got emotional. My Palestinian friends would say Tel Aviv had ruined me and I’d gone Jewish, and the Jews insisted I didn’t have my facts straight and I was defending terrorists. And so over the years, I adopted a New Agey type of position, which I cribbed from Adam. I would come out with pro-Palestinian statements and add a touch of yoga-teacher lingo, like “the occupation is inside us,” or “the occupation is the Other.” And then everyone at the table would take a deep breath and we’d all calm down. Total shanti.

When that didn’t work, I’d say, “Okay, you don’t believe we can ever live in peace? Then you’re forcing me to do this.” I’d stand up dramatically and they’d get really worried. That’s when I’d throw out my question: “If I told you there’s such a thing as a Palestinian Jew, and he’s going to blow your mind, would you believe we could reach a hudna? I mean a real, permanent truce?”

Of course, the Palestinians would immediately say, “No waaaay! That’s bullshit,” totally dissing me. The Jews would get smartass and say things like, “Yeah, you mean a sabra? Like the Jews who lived here before the state was founded? Of course they used to exist.” But I’d insist, “No, no, an actual Palestinian Jew. Like a legit one, from now.”

So I’d take a collection. Everyone had to pay up a little;  I’d give them some bullshit about how it was for gas and to donate to the poor Palestinian Jew who couldn’t afford food. And then we’d pile into the Mitsubishi and drive out to the boonies. I’d stop the car outside a little shack that would look abandoned if there wasn’t a light coming out its only window. Quickly, without thinking too much, I’d put a milk crate by the fence so the guys could take turns standing on it to catch a peek. And while they did that, I’d give my running commentary: “There he is, the Palestinian Jew …”

Then, very slowly, like they were looking through coin-fed panoramic binoculars at a tourist site, I’d direct their attention: “On your right you can see the Palestinian flag, and on the left wall you can spot a Star of David. And there he is, the Palestinian Jew, sitting on a rocking chair, reading a book.”

They’d make these astonished sounds: Woah! No way! I don’t believe this! It’s for real … And sometimes: What a weirdo!

Adam would invariably be reading the My Struggle series by Knausgård, which he endlessly struggled to finish, always wearing the same grungy flannel shirt, hiding behind his unshorn sheep beard. In a different context he’d look like a woodsy-type guy, but a weak and tired one—an unemployed, ex-junky woodcutter. He’d be listening to music with wired headphones, completely unaware of us creepin’ behind the fence.

Then I’d ask the guys to fork over some more cash, because I’d won the bet. After I counted the bills, we’d pile into the car and they’d ask me questions the whole way back to Tel Aviv. So I’d explain that his name was Adam Zomer, and that they could only find his books in second-hand stores because he no longer published in Hebrew out of some dumbass anti-occupation principle, or maybe because he was scared to bring shame on his family in such a tiny country. Unclear. Either way, his father was a Palestinian citizen of Israel and his mother was Jewish. And Adam had pulled off some kind of amalgamation and picked his mother’s religion and his father’s nationality.

But then one night, when I was out drinking with some friends, I gave my usual line about how coexistence could really happen, and we made a bet over whether there was such a thing as a Palestinian Jew. So I started the car up and we drove to the shack. “Get your cash ready,” I told the guys, cocksure. We peered over the fence and saw the word “Demolition,” a fresh sign, bold red letters in Hebrew. As I started hyperventilating, holding my head, the guys behind me started laughing and asking for the money. I wanted to say that losing the bet was what made me sad, because if Adam were still here, it would annoy him. But the truth is I didn’t know what hit me at that moment. I pushed a cigarette into my mouth, stuffing all the emotions into some black hole inside me. The laughter faded out. We retreated, lost in thought, and I looked back at the site in the slowest possible zoom-out.