Be'er Sheva Burning

cmp.2009.01.07
ed.2009.01.13.02 (Public Draft)

No, a two room apartment does not mean a two bedroom apartment. What it really means is an itty-bitty living room—dining room—kitchen—bathroom crammed right up next to a small bedroom that has no door. It means incredibly hot autumn days and freezing cold nights. It means paper towels taped over a hole in the front window to keep the nighttime chill at bay; those windows barely had enough insulation to keep the rabid kittens from crawling in at night.

It couldn't have been midnight as I laid on my bed, watching my laptop screen light up half of the city of Be’er Sheva, somewhere in the Negev desert in Israel. It would shut itself off eventually, but of course that magic moment of blissful darkness wouldn’t happen until I was half frustrated out of my mind.

The shutters covering my bedroom window were tightly shut for fear of things that go bump in the night. But don’t get me wrong; even with the random rodent-wanna-be-cat launched at my apartment, I would still opt for open windows. But alas, my upstairs neighbors were somehow inspired to throw their post-rotted delectables out of their windows into a three foot chasm between a concrete fence and the wall of my wonderful accommodations. So, between the aroma of rotting hygiene products, the previously contained contents of a several very active garbage cans, and the occasional kitten carcass thrown my way, I decided to keep that particular window closed.

I should have known not to answer the door. But, when someone is hammering on your door, and half yelling in Hebrew and Arabic, something might just be amiss enough to investigate.

No one was there when I opened the door. After examining a carving knife just thrown out of the window above me, I proceeded to the other bottom floor apartment to see how much of reality I had lost touch of. I tossed the knife at what I think was a cat and started trying to decipher the colorful threats being tossed between downstairs and upstairs neighbors.

Only God really knows what would happen if the Jewish and Palestinian conflict ended; I can see everyone killing themselves, and it would probably involve teeth. The downstairs neighbors were Jewish, (though the “religious Jews” resented them). They were Hebrew at any rate, secular college kids, and living together even though they weren’t married. The Arabs upstairs redefined domestic abuse for me in ways I never knew were possible. I could never tell who was getting the worse end of it. I mean, she could really holler, but was a horrible aim when she threw knives. He was the strong silent type. So, to say this situation was a little explosive would be totally insufficient.

The house was on fire. I don’t have a clue what it was, grease, liquid cat carcass, sewage, I didn’t really care. Just the same old, same old—except it was oozing down the other side of the house onto outdoor lighting. Arabs above me, Jews all around me. All I could really decipher in the chaos of Hebrew and Arabic was that I shouldn’t have been using the water hose to put out an electrical fire.

That’s when I noticed it. Someone had stolen the really nice, long garden hose that I had just bought and put this cracked and crumbling tube of malevolent irony in its place. I sprayed everything, especially the thorn bush.

Back in front of my door, I exhaled as much burnt apartment smoke that I could. I took a moment to breathe in the cool midnight air, glad that the bushes and trees were mostly unscathed. Inside again, I slammed my door and went back to bed; and this time, my room was quietly dark.