Existentialist in the zionist Jail !!

By Sami THE BEDUOIN

One day I was standing by the window gazing vacantly and smoking at the lunch break at work when a colleague came and stood by me without me noticing her. I was looking out blankly and she was probably looking at my look, or the way I looked. Then suddenly, she asked me in a decisive and assuring tone: “Are you existentialist, Sami?” I was shocked and startled by that direct and unexpected question, and I remembered the interrogation "parties" they had on me in jail.

What? Existentialist? What’s that? And I was really astonished not only from the question but from the questioning person whom I never thought she knew (and I was right) anything of Sartre or Fanon.

What? Existentialist? Why the hell I am always taken to be an –ist?

“You are communist, and we know that,” roared the interrogator suddenly (actually not one but three interrogators to complete the “party”) which is part of their job to surprise you with new dimensions that you have never heard of!!!

Frantz Fanon, MD

“What? Existentialist?” and I, realizing that she is not an interrogator, burst in a sudden hysteric laugh. “Why do you think that I am ‘existentialist?” I got the courage to ask in a defensive way as if facing a mean interrogator in a decisive moment of a session.

“No, but really just asking. I mean the way you think, the way you talk, they way you contemplate dreamingly,” she explained apologetically.

“Is all that existentialism in me?” I asked in a sarcastic but polite way. “I don’t know but just asking!!”..Why the hell you ask?" I thought feeling the blood dripping on my side cheek. 

“I am the one to ask here, son of a bitch!” shouted the interrogator while his two mates were watching angrily, as if echoing his tone. One of them seemed to be taking his initial training on me. He is such a little “academician,” probably studying my case as a “strong headed” person, or probably having a seminar of “crises management”…. I looked at him, at them actually, and took my final decision ("I am not going to talk, even after death.")

Existentialist!!! Communist!!! Atheist!!! Tribalist!! Why the hell you ask, you little ignorant lady. Does it matter for you if I am existentialist or f_ _k-ist?

So, I am existential-IST, sweet lady!!!!

“What does it mean to be existentialist, dear?” I asked her in a defensive retaliation for her unexpected, perplexing and torturing question.

“I don’t know exactly, but it means to believe that you exist,” she responded.

The hell, I do exist. I am still not driven crazy, I thought to myself. I do feel the blood dripping down the side of my face. Silence! Silence… silence is my only weapon in this battle. Patience!! Who in Satan's sake can be patient while a  “academician” is conducting his experiment on him, on his very body, very mind, on his ability to hold a sustainable coordination between his mind and body???!!! Can an existentialist do this?

“Get up, you dirty athe-IST!” And he was looking at me in a clear irritation. 

You mustn’t be irritated, dear interrogator. Irritation is the first step for failing, I thought to myself, and kept motionless and silent, and didn’t get up. He got up swiftly looking at his mates, he urging them to help him, and they all jumped to attention. 

Is it time for a new party, I thought to myself, still trying to hold silent and coherent.I loath this word coherent.

“I don’t know, but I am sure you can give me a full and coherent explanation,” said the lady, cunningly smiling while still looking that perplexing look of… of… don’t know but so sweet and submissive.

Oh sweet lady!! Why in heaven you come to irritate me? Why should I give a coherent explanation to everybody, including the Israeli interrogators?!!!

“Take his clothes off!” the chief interrogator ordered his mates. They jumped on me, but I kept completely silent, motionless. The academician angrily punched my head then retreated as if stung by a snake. 

“Oh, shit!! His dirty blood, this asshole!!” he spat. 

And he was “smeared” with my blood.

Oh!! So clean and soft academician, It’s awful to have blood-smeared hands.
 But it’s my dear blood.

The hell, I have to start writing!!!

And still the crazy question is anguishly waiting for a quenching answer…. Why the hell am I taken to be –ist all the time…. Why can't I just be a simple Bedouin who is dreaming to live a normal life in this very HOLY, PROMISED LAND of THE CHOSEN PEOPLE?

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