PART I
WARNING SIGNS
2006â2007
WARNING SIGNS
April 7, 2006
To: Editor, Haaretz magazine
Re: Sayed Kashuaâs column
Your correspondent, my husband, is a chronic liar, gossip, and cheat who unfortunately makes a living by distorting the truth and creating a highly unreliable picture of reality. I am astounded that a newspaper that is considered respectable, like Haaretz, goes ahead and publishes my husbandâs abusive articles without bothering to check the accuracy of the material. How can you not have a system, even minimal, that checks whether the columns of your esteemed correspondent might be libelous and constitute grounds for a whole slew of lawsuits?
The law firm Iâve contacted assures me that 90 percent of my husbandâs columns that were published in your paper contain grounds for lawsuits whose favorable outcomes are not in doubt. Until now I have avoided filing such suits, as I am not greedy like my husband, your correspondent, who has proved beyond a doubt that he will balk at nothing to make a living. Knowing my husbandâs character as well as I do, I am not surprised at his behavior. However, I am amazed that your paperâs many worthy editors are unaware of the gravity of the situation.
As a condition for terminating legal procedures, I demand that your distinguished newspaper publish a crystal clear apology in a place thatâs at least as respectable as the one you provide for your immoral correspondent. The paperâs readers need to be aware beyond any doubt that the picture my husband paints of his family life is a crude lie and has no basis in reality.
Almost every week, my husband impertinently, and with your backing, creates a monstrous picture in which I usually play the lead. This abuse has to end, and because there is no way to communicate with the nutcase who has hospitalized himself in my home, I am asking you, who bear exclusive responsibility, to put a stop to this vile smear campaign.
As his readers realize, my husband suffers from a serious addiction problemâby which I do not necessarily mean alcohol and other substances, but an addiction to lies and fabrications that have become an inseparable part of his daily life.
He reached new peaks in his last column, when he described me as an irritable, grumpy woman who wishes him dead and says things like âMay worms eat his lungs.â Of course, I never spoke any such words. Itâs all the product of the hallucinations and perversions of his feverish mind. Not to mention the other aspersions he casts on meâbut this is not the place to repeat them, in order not to offend the publicâs sensibilities.
Itâs altogether baffling that my husband uses swear words as a regular tool in his writing. The only conclusion is that your editors donât bat an eyelash at the unbroken string of obscenities.
His descriptions of me cause me no end of grief and trouble. I find myself being forced to provide answers and explanations to my circle of acquaintances, at work, in the neighborhood, and within the family. I am bombarded day and night with questions about groundless accusations that are published in your serious newspaper. As long as I alone was the target of his barbs, I bit my lip and decided to restrain myself in order to keep up an appearance of domestic harmony. Lately, though, my husband has been undermining his childrenâs routine as well: his daughter and firstborn child is also having to come up with answers and explanations to the parents of the other children in her kindergarten. Last Purim, tears welled up in my eyes when one of the mothers wanted to knowâbased on material published in your paperâwhether my mother, whom your correspondent calls âmy mother-in-law,â is really a witch whose only goal in life is to get me away from my husband.
I donât understand why family matters, irrespective of whether they are reliable, have to be published in newspapers, still less in a newspaper like Haaretz. By the way, I want to take this opportunity to inform you that I am joining the list of those who are canceling their subscription to your paper, and I call on everyone with common sense to follow my example and that of many others who do not allow this defective product into their home.
I am not one of those people who like to go public with family disputes, but in this case, and in the light of past experience, I am well aware that this is the only way to stop the malicious smear campaign. It is my fervent hope that you will follow the path of previous newspapers that received formal warnings and acceded to my request to fire my husband instantly.
The reading public needs to know that my husbandâand I am speaking here as a professional with many years of work experience in a psychiatric hospitalâis afflicted with any number of personality disorders. In jargon, his condition is officially described as a borderline personality who suffers from a number of behavioral disorders, of which the most serious, perhaps, are paranoid personality disorder, induced delusional disorder, and severe narcissistic damage. The reading public needs to know that my husband suffers from recurrent attacks of delusionsâgraded as level 4 on a scale of 5âwhich are becoming increasingly grimmer as he grows older.
Hereâs one small example out of many, just to illustrate what I mean. Recently, my husband has convinced himself that he is an Ashkenazi of Polish descent whose parentsâboth of whom are in fact still alive and living in the village of Tiraâare Holocaust survivors who came to this country on an illegal immigrant ship in 1945. Esteemed editors and readers, my husband, your correspondent, has been wandering the streets of Beit Safafa, the Palestinian neighborhood of Jerusalem where we live, telling passersby that heâs the only Ashkenazi in the neighborhood. He gives his address, when requested, as âBeit Safafa Heights.â
I very much regret having been dragged into this series of verbal abuses in the pages of the newspaper. It is unnatural, but in view of the deteriorating situation I am left with no choice. I ask the readersâ pardon.
HIGH TECH
June 1, 2006
âSo, what are you going to do today?â my wife asked when I woke up.
âWhat do you mean?â I replied, not getting her drift. âGo to work, as usual.â
âDonât tell me you forgot.â
âWhat?â
âI donât believe it. For the past week Iâve been telling you that thereâs a holiday in the kindergarten today. You never listen. Do you know how many times I told you?â
âWhat holiday is that?â
âI donât know, the schoolâs announcement says Aliyah Day.â
Theyâre overdoing it in school, I thought. Bilingual, all right, âala rasi, my choice, respect all the religions, the two languages, the two narratives of the two peoples. I respect all that, despite the endless holidays in the school. But Aliyah Day, rabak, for heavenâs sake?
âWho celebrates Aliyah Day?â I shouted. âWhat kind of cynicism is it to celebrate Jewish immigration?â
âDaddy,â my daughter cut in, âthe kindergarten teacher said itâs the day when Jesus went up to heaven.â
âAh, yes?â I calmed down. âWell, we have to respect that.â
Fine. Itâs been a while since I spent quality time with my daughter, and Ascension Day can be a terrific opportunity for bridge building. âWeâll have a fun day,â I said to my daughter. âWeâll celebrate the ascension right.â
So I could have the car, we all left together: first we dropped off the baby at his crĂšche, which thank God is not bi-anything and follows the Muslim calendar for holidays, and then we took Mom to work.
âAre you hungry?â I asked my daughter when we were alone in the car, and drove to the restaurant in the Botanical Garden on the Hebrew Universityâs campus. âYou see?â I explained to my daughter, brimming with pride at the education I was giving her as we attacked a salad and cheeses. âThis garden is filled with flowers, trees, and plants from the whole world.â
âI want to walk around in the garden. Can we, Daddy?â
âUh,â I said. The thought of a hike wasnât especially appealing. âIsnât what you can see from here enough? Look, there are ducks in the pond.â
âNo, Daddy, letâs walk a little.â
âAll right, finish eating.â
After five minutes of walking, I was cursing myself for the dumb idea of eating in the Botanical Garden. âAnd whatâs this, Daddy?â my daughter asked, stopping next to every explanatory sign.
âArenât you tired?â I asked her.
âNo, this is really fun. Look at this, Daddy, so pretty and yellow. What does it say?â
âMaybe weâll go to the mall? Iâll buy you ice cream.â
âYummy, ice cream.â
I drove to the mall. Thereâs actually something I have to buy, maybe at long last Iâll change the fluorescent lamp in the bathroom. It hasnât been working for a year, and I moved the reading light there.
âDaddy,â my daughter said as we waited in the line of cars that were queued for the security check, âcan I speak Arabic now?â
âWhat do you mean?ââI turned around to herââOf course. You can speak Arabic whenever you want and wherever you want. What are you talking about, anyway?â
The security guard looked through the window and I smiled at him. âWhatâs happening? Everything all right?â he asked, so he could check my accent. Before I could say, âGood, thanksââtwo words without the telltale letters âpâ and ârââmy daughter chimed in with âAlhamdulillahââeverythingâs fine.
âID card, please,â the security guard said.
âYou hear, sweetie,â I explained to my daughter as we entered a do-it-yourself store, âitâs fine to speak Arabic everywhere, anytime you want, but not at the entrance to a mall, okay, sweetie?â
I bought a fluorescent lamp, a wastebasket for my office, and a shoe rack. âWeâll surprise Mommy,â I said to my daughter, who was thrilled by the shoe rack. She knows as well as I that Mom has wanted a shoe rack since she was born. I received a large carton. The salesman said that assembling it was not a problem. You donât need any equipment, he added, except a Phillips screwdriver. I hope I have one on my penknife, I thought, because thatâs the only tool I have in the house.
Excuse my French, but kus shel haâima of the do-it-yourself store and the same to that salesmanâs mother. Theyâre sons of bitches and so is their shoe rack. Who needs a shoe rack, anyway? A million years we got along without it, so what for? Iâll show my wife what for. Two hours Iâve been fighting my Swiss Army knife and their crappy screws, totally baffled by the instructions page, itâs all coming out ass-backward, Iâm sweating like a mule, and my fingers are blistered. âVery simple assembly,â âalek, you believe it. My back has seized up and Iâm broiling with irritation.
I try to remember that my daughter is next to me and not swear too much. And they have the nerve to take money for it. Iâll sue them, the shits. And this Ascension Day, too, where did they dredge that up?
Okay, I have to relax, start from the beginning. Thereâs still three hours to go before I pick up my wife from work. Inhale deeply, one step at a time. I spread a newspaper on the floor and on it put the different-size screws, the nails, and the pieces of plastic, according to the instructions, according to the numbers.
Perspiration drips from my nose straight onto the forehead of Olmert addressing congress. I actually saw him on TVâit was on all the news channels, live, emotionalâextending a hand to peace, and all the Americans giving him a standing ovation. So what if at the same time he killed four Arabs in Ramallah? But what do I care about Olmert now? Shoe rack; three hours.
Thatâs the good thing about the Jews, thatâs what I like about themâpromises. Theyâre good talkers. âHalf an hour to assemble it, of course itâs not ...