Chapter 4

“Wa feen! Koulchi Bekheer?” As should be expected, the neighborhood teenagers are hanging out, backs pressed lazily either against the grocer’s see-through glass wall or the side panels of a couple of parked cars, at the exact location where they usually greet me. I stop, knowing that otherwise they’ll start calling me arrogant, which I can be every now and then –but who ever liked hearing the truth when a lie is much sweeter to the ear?

We talk about the weather, the beach, and as it is usually the case, about how lucky I am to be able to come and go as I please, while the bored youth demographic they represent, has no better choice than staying in this very same place, everyday, endlessly and relentlessly killing time, with different hobbies and topics to discuss while lustfully watching parading women in the midst of a flowing river of pedestrians, a river along whose all-to-familiar banks, they, at a much younger age, played ball, effortlessly turning the dullness of their street into a football field. Alas, those days are long gone. Time and poverty have stripped them of all creativity and imagination, before leaving them stranded and hopelessly broken, at this very street corner, stagnant and lethargic, where all they can do was sit and watch. Eventually, they start smoking and drinking. They hide inside building hallways to escape and forget how far dreams are from reality. They drown it all, in intoxicated forgetfulness, thanks to hashish and cheap alcohol –one way or another they find a way to get out of here.

We talk a bit more about the beach, and somehow, laughter, for a moment, brings us closer. Then, I say, ‘Yallah,’ and leave them in their spot of preference, recalling that I too used to sit there, as a child waiting for Daniel to come down. At the time, Daniel, my best friend lived right across the street on the second floor of the corner building facing the grocer’s. I’d scream his name until he’d appear behind a window, or, at the balcony. I hear that he’s is married and works at Tel Aviv Airport.

I still remember our first encounter. I was at home as ususal, and, my world was either held within the covers of old books, or, by the frame of a window view overlooking a portion of my street. I was sitting on the ledge of our apartment’s living room window, watching him play outside, and somehow, and to my great pleasure, discovering that there was another boy with whom I could speak in French, I ended up striking a conversation.

From then on, he’d come and play with me inside my prison but soon he’d gain my mom’s trust and be allowed to introduce me to his world –the street. So for many years, I saw him as my savior, the hero who managed to get me out of my cell, past my mother’s rules and fears. Naturally, I eagerly followed his steps, in the grandest of adventures, allowing him to become a mentor. Later, our paths would take us different directions; Daniel was claimed by the street, while I couldn’t resist the ocean.

Sometime I catch myself looking, furtively, at his apartment windows. It’s been years, now. The bastard never said “Goodbye.” One day here, the next gone. I knew that he was hoping for that opportunity. It was after all his only hope out of poverty, utter boredom, and leaning on the tree, at the corner, day after day, waiting for his turn and chance. He may have been a Jew, but there was nothing for him here, except of course, a tree to support him and his all his unspoken frustrations. The Jewish community was too rich to accept him and Palestine would always stand between him and Moroccans. His mother was too old to control him. While his father, a truck driver, always absent and living with a second wife, somewhere, had passed away years ago.

We were friends despite the Torah and my non-Jewishness. We were friends despite all the little things we didn’t have in common: schools, holidays and customs. My Abrahamic brother had switched to tech school, taken cycling as a hobby, worked as a truck mechanic for a few months. I, on the other hand, just spent my days studying and paddling my way to a wave. Nights, on the other hand were different: They brought us back together, to celebrate our friendship and emancipate ourselves from despair. Nights were for movie theaters, night clubs, and girls.