rabbi’s question. Crazy Jews, he scoffed. Talking, always talking. Simple. It meant the mountain wasn’t truly theirs.
Professor Minkus said, “This reminds me of the famous story of King Solomon.” He nodded at Mustafa, “Maybe you know it? Two mothers come to King Solomon, each claiming that the live baby is theirs and theirs alone. King Solomon says, ‘Let’s split the baby in half, a piece for each of you,’ and the true mother calls out, ‘Let her have the child.’ Her love transcends her claim to the child. Let the child live even if will it go to another, to her enemy. The false mother says, ‘Let neither side have it. Split it in two like you said.’ Her pleasure is in death and in depriving the other one. Both histories—Jewish and Muslim—are getting destroyed here, and the Islamic authority doesn’t care.”
“Excuse me, Professor Minkus. It’s not that the Waqf administrators don’t care. They care very much,” Rabbi Isaac said sharply. “Who, after all, wants to have archeological evidence of another religion on their very same site of worship? A religion that preceded theirs by at least two thousand years? Judaism has a way of arousing insecurities, you know.”
The professor gazed down at the pomegranate. “So you say it’s deliberate vandalism?” He stroked his forehead, lost in thought. “Then you must take this precious fruit to the police commission in the Russian Compound. I’ll write a note and give you a proper container for it.” He took out pen and paper and scribbled something. “Maybe we can get them to stop or at least to monitor the digging. Here.” He handed the paper to the rabbi, then stopped, smote his forehead. “Ah. How can I let such an important relic out of my sight? No, Isaac. It can’t leave my office. Anyway, it needs testing.”
“Excuse me, Professor.” Isaac stood right next to the pomegranate. “I have to remind you, it’s not yours to decide.”
The two men took each other’s measure. The professor said, “Still, it was Mustafa who—” He put an arm on the custodian’s shoulder (his good one), but Mustafa was far away, thinking about his mother who always had a reason not to see him.
“The true mother never lets the child go,” Mustafa blurted, “even if the child should die! The true mother”—his eyes darted around the room—“it’s the other one! The one who says ‘mine or no one else’s.’ ” He raised his fist. “A Muslim doesn’t fear death, not his own or his child’s.” A verse from the Koran sprang from his lips, the one his mother’s cousin was always quoting: “ ‘Long for death, if ye are truthful. But they—the Jews—will never long for it. And thou should find them greediest of mankind for life and greedier than idolators.’ ” He nodded with satisfaction, that he could recall the verse so well. Now, no one could say he was stupid.
The rabbi looked at him with a face both sad and amazed. The professor was shaking his head. “It’s a different culture, a completely different way of viewing the world. The more they long for death, the more it attests to their belief in the world to come.”
Mustafa smiled and swiveled again in the chair. The professor, though not religious, understood.
“You should read your own Koran!” the rabbi called out. “God told Abraham to take his son off the altar. To live for him, and not to die for him! He doesn’t want your blood!”
Mustafa shuddered the rabbi’s words away. “I’m just a janitor, but even I feel in my heart that to die for Allah is a great thing.” Just then he looked down at his dingy no color work clothes, the color of dust. “But did yousay you’re going to the police? Then don’t mention my name,” he entreated, now anxious to leave. He reached and held the professor’s lower arm. “They, the Waqf, will be angry at me for telling the police about the shovels. They would send me off the mountain. I don’t want to lose my
Professor Minkus said, “This reminds me of the famous story of King Solomon.” He nodded at Mustafa, “Maybe you know it? Two mothers come to King Solomon, each claiming that the live baby is theirs and theirs alone. King Solomon says, ‘Let’s split the baby in half, a piece for each of you,’ and the true mother calls out, ‘Let her have the child.’ Her love transcends her claim to the child. Let the child live even if will it go to another, to her enemy. The false mother says, ‘Let neither side have it. Split it in two like you said.’ Her pleasure is in death and in depriving the other one. Both histories—Jewish and Muslim—are getting destroyed here, and the Islamic authority doesn’t care.”
“Excuse me, Professor Minkus. It’s not that the Waqf administrators don’t care. They care very much,” Rabbi Isaac said sharply. “Who, after all, wants to have archeological evidence of another religion on their very same site of worship? A religion that preceded theirs by at least two thousand years? Judaism has a way of arousing insecurities, you know.”
The professor gazed down at the pomegranate. “So you say it’s deliberate vandalism?” He stroked his forehead, lost in thought. “Then you must take this precious fruit to the police commission in the Russian Compound. I’ll write a note and give you a proper container for it.” He took out pen and paper and scribbled something. “Maybe we can get them to stop or at least to monitor the digging. Here.” He handed the paper to the rabbi, then stopped, smote his forehead. “Ah. How can I let such an important relic out of my sight? No, Isaac. It can’t leave my office. Anyway, it needs testing.”
“Excuse me, Professor.” Isaac stood right next to the pomegranate. “I have to remind you, it’s not yours to decide.”
The two men took each other’s measure. The professor said, “Still, it was Mustafa who—” He put an arm on the custodian’s shoulder (his good one), but Mustafa was far away, thinking about his mother who always had a reason not to see him.
“The true mother never lets the child go,” Mustafa blurted, “even if the child should die! The true mother”—his eyes darted around the room—“it’s the other one! The one who says ‘mine or no one else’s.’ ” He raised his fist. “A Muslim doesn’t fear death, not his own or his child’s.” A verse from the Koran sprang from his lips, the one his mother’s cousin was always quoting: “ ‘Long for death, if ye are truthful. But they—the Jews—will never long for it. And thou should find them greediest of mankind for life and greedier than idolators.’ ” He nodded with satisfaction, that he could recall the verse so well. Now, no one could say he was stupid.
The rabbi looked at him with a face both sad and amazed. The professor was shaking his head. “It’s a different culture, a completely different way of viewing the world. The more they long for death, the more it attests to their belief in the world to come.”
Mustafa smiled and swiveled again in the chair. The professor, though not religious, understood.
“You should read your own Koran!” the rabbi called out. “God told Abraham to take his son off the altar. To live for him, and not to die for him! He doesn’t want your blood!”
Mustafa shuddered the rabbi’s words away. “I’m just a janitor, but even I feel in my heart that to die for Allah is a great thing.” Just then he looked down at his dingy no color work clothes, the color of dust. “But did yousay you’re going to the police? Then don’t mention my name,” he entreated, now anxious to leave. He reached and held the professor’s lower arm. “They, the Waqf, will be angry at me for telling the police about the shovels. They would send me off the mountain. I don’t want to lose my
Similar Books
