stomach and adds, you’ve put on weight, Horowitz.
Don’t worry, that was to be expected, he says hurriedly, so we’ll lodge an appeal, apply for an interim injunction to delay the demolition, would you like some coffee? And Suleiman says, no, I must be moving, I have no time. Despite his immaculate attire, his striped shirt and light linen trousers, despite his shaved cheeks and the pen gleaming in his breast pocket, he exudes involuntarily the smell of the clan, the pungent smell of fire and dust. Another appeal? How many are we allowed? he complains bitterly, it’s about time a solution was found, and Avner sighs, believe me I’m doing everything I can, how did you manage to get here?
I came here for medical tests, and I’m running late, maybe I’ll come back afterwards, he says and already he’s going, lithe and athletic, and Avner sits at his desk exhausted, staring at the files that surround him, files full of documents, documents full of words, so many words on this impasse that’s a matter of life and death for them, so many words about structures illegally demolished and rebuilt without licences, when building with licences is impossible, files crammed with documents about wretched utility buildings erected in the desert, ramshackle prefabs, appeals upon appeals, this frightened country of his fighting every symbol of permanence, attributing menacing significance to every toilet seat, is it possible to make war on fear without creating fear? Is defence possible without attack? If there was an opportunity it’s been lost, but more and more it seems to him there never was.
These crammed files give him an overview of the deceptive geography of this land, a double, triple geography, Hebron both far and near, Gaza both far and near, files in place of people of flesh and blood, since most of his clients are barred from access to his office, and with a sigh he rubs his neck, which is still painful, how many appeals? For long years he has fought against the stronger parties: the state, the army, security services, he has fought over territory and compensation, over flocks of sheep and mud huts, over hovels and toilet seats, because that’s where the dignity of mankind is found in the line of fire: the dignity of sixteen-year-old Khaled, who worked for a stonemasonry contractor until a crane dropped a tombstone on his back, and since then he’s been paralysed, and because he was working there illegally the contractor refuses to have anything to do with him, and the family dare not complain because in the meantime he’s employing his younger brother, and who’s going to fight to get him some compensation; and who will care about Halla, due to be deported to Jordan in contravention of the basic right of the individual to marriage and family, and about the three children who were playing with an unexploded mortar shell and were fatally injured, and who will defend the interests of Suleiman’s oppressed community, the free spirits of the desert, the Bedouin who were once proud nomads and are now shovelling shit on the urban fringes? Few are prepared to represent the powerless, and the most brilliant brains put themselves at the disposal of the most powerful; how tempting it could be to represent the government, the banks, the wealthy of the land, but when you put on the gown and perform in the Supreme Court, you feel strong in the very act of speaking up for the poor and the downtrodden against mighty forces and even getting the better of them from time to time, and you’re no longer powerless, even though in recent years your successes have been fewer, and he remembers the disappointment on Suleiman’s face; is it he who has grown weaker, or is the state getting stronger, meaning that it’s weakened and for this reason is defending itself all the more vigorously, and he shifts his gaze from the files to the tree that is flourishing confidently as if winter will never return. Anati, I need your help, it’s
Don’t worry, that was to be expected, he says hurriedly, so we’ll lodge an appeal, apply for an interim injunction to delay the demolition, would you like some coffee? And Suleiman says, no, I must be moving, I have no time. Despite his immaculate attire, his striped shirt and light linen trousers, despite his shaved cheeks and the pen gleaming in his breast pocket, he exudes involuntarily the smell of the clan, the pungent smell of fire and dust. Another appeal? How many are we allowed? he complains bitterly, it’s about time a solution was found, and Avner sighs, believe me I’m doing everything I can, how did you manage to get here?
I came here for medical tests, and I’m running late, maybe I’ll come back afterwards, he says and already he’s going, lithe and athletic, and Avner sits at his desk exhausted, staring at the files that surround him, files full of documents, documents full of words, so many words on this impasse that’s a matter of life and death for them, so many words about structures illegally demolished and rebuilt without licences, when building with licences is impossible, files crammed with documents about wretched utility buildings erected in the desert, ramshackle prefabs, appeals upon appeals, this frightened country of his fighting every symbol of permanence, attributing menacing significance to every toilet seat, is it possible to make war on fear without creating fear? Is defence possible without attack? If there was an opportunity it’s been lost, but more and more it seems to him there never was.
These crammed files give him an overview of the deceptive geography of this land, a double, triple geography, Hebron both far and near, Gaza both far and near, files in place of people of flesh and blood, since most of his clients are barred from access to his office, and with a sigh he rubs his neck, which is still painful, how many appeals? For long years he has fought against the stronger parties: the state, the army, security services, he has fought over territory and compensation, over flocks of sheep and mud huts, over hovels and toilet seats, because that’s where the dignity of mankind is found in the line of fire: the dignity of sixteen-year-old Khaled, who worked for a stonemasonry contractor until a crane dropped a tombstone on his back, and since then he’s been paralysed, and because he was working there illegally the contractor refuses to have anything to do with him, and the family dare not complain because in the meantime he’s employing his younger brother, and who’s going to fight to get him some compensation; and who will care about Halla, due to be deported to Jordan in contravention of the basic right of the individual to marriage and family, and about the three children who were playing with an unexploded mortar shell and were fatally injured, and who will defend the interests of Suleiman’s oppressed community, the free spirits of the desert, the Bedouin who were once proud nomads and are now shovelling shit on the urban fringes? Few are prepared to represent the powerless, and the most brilliant brains put themselves at the disposal of the most powerful; how tempting it could be to represent the government, the banks, the wealthy of the land, but when you put on the gown and perform in the Supreme Court, you feel strong in the very act of speaking up for the poor and the downtrodden against mighty forces and even getting the better of them from time to time, and you’re no longer powerless, even though in recent years your successes have been fewer, and he remembers the disappointment on Suleiman’s face; is it he who has grown weaker, or is the state getting stronger, meaning that it’s weakened and for this reason is defending itself all the more vigorously, and he shifts his gaze from the files to the tree that is flourishing confidently as if winter will never return. Anati, I need your help, it’s
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