are, still licking our wounds. We need to create panicâthereâs no other way. We have to hit them in their daily activity, just as they do to us.â
After a few weeks, Fatima became the leader of the group, and lengthy discussions of possible targets and technical matters began in earnest. She was certain that a military attack was the only appropriate response to the cycle of violence that was drenching their land with blood. She knew that the military supremacy of the Israeli army would doom any uprising or attack on it to failure, so in the end she chose a civilian target, the Zion movie theater in West Jerusalem, an establishment frequented almost exclusively by members of the Israeli armed forces, particularly in the evening. This decision set off another animated debate, and once again Fatima offered an unequivocal response.
âLook, boys, think of it this way: when the Israeli bombs fall on our heads, they strike civilians and soldiers indiscriminately, and the tanks in the refugee camps almost always run over our children.â
It took more than a month for the bomb to arrive from Lebanon.
On October 8, 1967, Fatima, carrying a purse full of explosives, entered the Zion theater, mingling with the prostitutes who frequented it, and left after a quarter of an hour, so as not to arouse suspicion. At their last meeting she had told her comrades, âI know weâre going to be asking ourselves for the rest of our lives whether or not this was a just thing to do. But the Israelis must understand that until the day weâre free in our own country, they wonât be free in theirs.â The bomb didnât go off.
Â
Fatima didnât flee to Jordan. One week after the failed attack, she and the rest of her group were detained as a result of testimony given by the cashier at the movie theater. The five young men refused to name Fatima as their leader, and she, too, rejected every accusation until the police finally arrested her entire family. Then she was compelled to confess in order to obtain her familyâs release. Her trial concluded with her being sentenced to imprisonment for two life terms plus eleven years for refusing to stand in court. She was the first Palestinian woman to be arrested for political reasons.
Â
She was also the only Arab prisoner and the only political prisoner in a jail full of women. Prostitutes, murderers, thieves, and regular criminalsâthey assiduously avoided her at every turn. Fatima read a great deal, as she always had, realizing that even if a book couldnât change the world, at least it had the power to make prison walls disappear. Some nights she would read Samih al-Qasim in the moonlight:
From the window of my small cell
I can see trees smiling at me,
Roofs filled with my people,
Windows weeping and praying for me.
From the window of my small cell
I can see your large cell.
In her nocturnal moments of anguish, she sought refuge in memories of her childhood, when wishful dreams and fond illusions could still lull her to sleep.
2
T he bus proceeds slowly, immersed in the blinding light of noon. Itâs filled with kids in various school uniforms and workers wearing stained overalls and worn-out shoes. Fatima is on her feet, holding on to one of the supports. Other people get on the bus at the next stop, and now itâs really crowded. Thereâs a noticeable odor, pungent and nauseating.
The girl sitting in front of her has fallen asleep; her mouth is half-open, and sheâs clutching a handbag to her chest. The bus brakes suddenly, making the passengers lurch forward and then back. The girlâs bag opens and a book falls out. Fatima stoops to pick it up; itâs a volume of art history. She gazes at one of the illustrations. It shows a beautiful woman, completely nude, standing on a large seashell. Her skin is milky, her head tilts toward one shoulder, and a winged figure exhales a wind that gently tousles her long
After a few weeks, Fatima became the leader of the group, and lengthy discussions of possible targets and technical matters began in earnest. She was certain that a military attack was the only appropriate response to the cycle of violence that was drenching their land with blood. She knew that the military supremacy of the Israeli army would doom any uprising or attack on it to failure, so in the end she chose a civilian target, the Zion movie theater in West Jerusalem, an establishment frequented almost exclusively by members of the Israeli armed forces, particularly in the evening. This decision set off another animated debate, and once again Fatima offered an unequivocal response.
âLook, boys, think of it this way: when the Israeli bombs fall on our heads, they strike civilians and soldiers indiscriminately, and the tanks in the refugee camps almost always run over our children.â
It took more than a month for the bomb to arrive from Lebanon.
On October 8, 1967, Fatima, carrying a purse full of explosives, entered the Zion theater, mingling with the prostitutes who frequented it, and left after a quarter of an hour, so as not to arouse suspicion. At their last meeting she had told her comrades, âI know weâre going to be asking ourselves for the rest of our lives whether or not this was a just thing to do. But the Israelis must understand that until the day weâre free in our own country, they wonât be free in theirs.â The bomb didnât go off.
Â
Fatima didnât flee to Jordan. One week after the failed attack, she and the rest of her group were detained as a result of testimony given by the cashier at the movie theater. The five young men refused to name Fatima as their leader, and she, too, rejected every accusation until the police finally arrested her entire family. Then she was compelled to confess in order to obtain her familyâs release. Her trial concluded with her being sentenced to imprisonment for two life terms plus eleven years for refusing to stand in court. She was the first Palestinian woman to be arrested for political reasons.
Â
She was also the only Arab prisoner and the only political prisoner in a jail full of women. Prostitutes, murderers, thieves, and regular criminalsâthey assiduously avoided her at every turn. Fatima read a great deal, as she always had, realizing that even if a book couldnât change the world, at least it had the power to make prison walls disappear. Some nights she would read Samih al-Qasim in the moonlight:
From the window of my small cell
I can see trees smiling at me,
Roofs filled with my people,
Windows weeping and praying for me.
From the window of my small cell
I can see your large cell.
In her nocturnal moments of anguish, she sought refuge in memories of her childhood, when wishful dreams and fond illusions could still lull her to sleep.
2
T he bus proceeds slowly, immersed in the blinding light of noon. Itâs filled with kids in various school uniforms and workers wearing stained overalls and worn-out shoes. Fatima is on her feet, holding on to one of the supports. Other people get on the bus at the next stop, and now itâs really crowded. Thereâs a noticeable odor, pungent and nauseating.
The girl sitting in front of her has fallen asleep; her mouth is half-open, and sheâs clutching a handbag to her chest. The bus brakes suddenly, making the passengers lurch forward and then back. The girlâs bag opens and a book falls out. Fatima stoops to pick it up; itâs a volume of art history. She gazes at one of the illustrations. It shows a beautiful woman, completely nude, standing on a large seashell. Her skin is milky, her head tilts toward one shoulder, and a winged figure exhales a wind that gently tousles her long
Similar Books
