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Nonfiction

Fighter

By Noemi Schneider
Translated from German by Julie Winter
Noemi Schneider travels in, and with, the Mideast conflict in this piece that straddles the line between fiction and nonfiction.

He doesn’t say that he had no choice. He says that his father was also a soldier. He says that if he had the choice today, he would perhaps choose differently. At that time he made his choice.

My two grandfathers were also soldiers and fought for the lunatic who had his grandparents gassed in a concentration camp. But he has never asked about my grandfathers.

He was stationed for five years in the occupied territories. Voluntarily. During the First Intifada. He tells this to everyone right away—everyone. But only those who were there know what that means.

He was an officer in an elite unit, and I don’t really want to know what that means.

He still knows all the names of the most wanted terrorists from that time: Mohammad Taha, Ahmed Yassin, Khaled Meshaal . . .

Elite unit, First Intifada, occupied territories, officer, that’s just great, says the Mideast Conflict. The Mideast Conflict really drives me crazy, but he’s always there, ever since I’ve known him.

The first thing he does in the morning is smoke a cigarette. He’s been doing that since the army. In the army you have to get out of bed in a hurry, but you need to allow enough time for a cigarette, he says.

He was in the refugee camp Dheisheh near Bethlehem for eight months, after that in Jenin, Hebron, Tulkarm, Kalandia. Everywhere, where it burned.

He was a fighter, and only fighters know what that means, he says. That’s why he gets along with them the best. With former fighters, like him.

I am not a fighter.

He gets along with former fighters who are Palestinian better than he does with me, he says. A fighter is a fighter. He even has former fighter friends from Palestine.

He saved a little girl’s life in Dheisheh. The girl fell out of a third-floor window. He was on patrol and heard screaming and saw the girl lying there. He picked her up, took her to the emergency clinic, and kept thinking the whole time that he hoped she wouldn’t die in his arms. She didn’t die. She had broken both legs. Soon afterward an officer wanted to find out from him where the girl’s family lived because such an incident is a good opportunity to recruit Palestinian collaborators. He didn’t think about that when he picked up the girl. He can no longer remember exactly where the house was. Everything happened so quickly, he says.

Twenty years later he’s no longer a soldier—he’s a journalist and as a journalist has returned to Dheisheh to look for the girl he saved and to find out if someone remembers what happened. No one remembers. The mother of the girl says she saved her daughter. He doesn’t want to take away the mother’s and the daughter’s memories. No one can take away his memories. He wrote an article about what he remembered.

He remembers everything:

The names of the terrorists and the camp in the small pine forest on the hill. The daily patrols and house searches. The photo albums and books that they arbitrarily took with them even though they didn’t know what was in them because they couldn’t speak Arabic. The children who threw stones and who were always faster than they were. The one of their own who was particularly violent—he accompanied two Palestinian prisoners to an interrogation and beat them so badly that an interrogation was no longer possible. The flags and slogans that were hanging from the houses over night and that had to be removed during the day. They determined who had done it, and whoever denied it was arrested or beaten. Every day. The half-naked boys whose T-shirts with the banned slogans had to be forcibly taken off them in the middle of the street. The empty shell cases, tear gas, burning trash, and the dead.

When he was in Dheisheh he tried to wash the memory of Dheisheh off himself every day. Just like in Jenin, Hebron, Tulkarm, Kalandia, and everywhere else they were.

Sunset, beer, cats, music, laughter.

We’re sitting in a café in Tel Aviv, smoking pot. The Mideast Conflict saunters by.

Tomorrow we’ll take a trip, he says.

Palm trees, burekas, coffee in paper cups, a traffic jam on the Ayalon, skyscrapers, heat.

The Mideast Conflict makes himself comfortable on the back seat and starts to doze.

He takes me to a Palestinian family that he had made a promise to. The father was murdered by a settler; the settler was convicted, but then he escaped. He wants to find the settler and bring him to justice. He promised the family that he would. He doesn’t yet know what will happen when he finds him.

He stops at an army base and asks the soldiers what they are doing. They are carrying out an exercise.

That one is playing a terrorist, he says, and points to a soldier who is hiding behind a large boulder. The Mideast Conflict yawns.

Dead dogs are lying on the street.

We stop shortly before the village, near an intersection, at an abandoned watchtower. He rolls a joint. I can’t smoke pot so early in the morning. The Mideast Conflict smokes with him.

The family, sitting on the floor in the living room, is still eating breakfast. They make tea and send us out to the terrace so they can tidy up. The muezzin calls. The mother has four daughters and two sons. Yasmine, Tala, Shehenaze, Samira, Mohammed, and Nassar. Yasmine and Mohammad are blind. We sit with them and drink tea. The Mideast Conflict takes his leave to go walk around the block a couple of times.

He goes to see one of the witnesses from that time whom he wants to persuade to testify again. I stay there, with the women.

The women think my skin is beautiful, no wrinkles. Am I married? No. Am I Jewish? No. Even if you were, it wouldn’t be so bad, says Yasmine.

They added two more floors onto the house. Tala says from the roof of the unfinished building you can see the intersection where my father was shot dead.

White laundry is drying on the roof.

He comes back. The witness doesn’t want to testify. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. We eat together with the family. The Mideast Conflict also wants some mulukhiyah. Then we leave, the sun is low in the sky.

The streets are clear. On Shabbat the settlers sit with their families in their white fortresses.

We stop again near the abandoned watchtower and the dead dogs. He rolls a joint, this time I join him. It’s getting dark, the hills are turning purple.

Watchtowers, barricades, restricted areas, barbed wire, olive trees, stones.

Suddenly, he brakes abruptly.

God is standing on the street in front of us. God wants kenafeh. So do we.

The best kenafeh is found in Nablus; everyone knows that.

The Mideast Conflict and God stay in the car. Why now all of a sudden, I ask. Just don’t feel like it, comes the answer.

It’s very busy in the little store. It’s Friday evening after prayers. We go in and everyone stares at us. He uses Hebrew. He says if they know who I am they won’t do anything to me. He says he’s not afraid.

I see a soldier who makes me afraid.

He says if we actually realized how much the occupation is costing us, we would stop. And then? They won’t forgive you so easily, I think. All those years, all the checkpoints, the watchtowers, the restricted areas, the walls, the olive trees, the stones, the barbed wire.

He’s never thought about forgiveness, he says.

We are detained at the checkpoint. God has an Arabic name and I have a German passport—that is suspicious. He gets really angry; it’s totally racist, just because God has an Arabic name. It could be forged, says the lady from the security company.

The Mideast Conflict goes to take a piss and I stand there silently. No one gives a damn that we are all completely stoned. Somehow he manages to spare us the interrogation circus. After fifteen minutes we continue on our way.

Shortly after he left the army he went alone for the first time to the occupied areas. To Bethlehem. To eat falafel. He was never allowed to eat falafel there when he was a soldier. The soldiers weren’t allowed to eat anything from there. It could be poisoned. He went there alone, but he took a weapon with him, so he could feel safe. He wore it so that everyone could see it and he ate falafel.

God has had enough and asks if we could let him out at the next intersection. God wants to go to Jerusalem. We continue on to Tel Aviv.

The Mideast Conflict wants to go get drunk. I scream at him and say he should look for someone else to go drinking with.

Five hours later I’m sitting behind him on a scooter, stoned, and am holding on to him firmly for the first time. I am terrified to be on a scooter stoned and drunk, even if it is three in the morning and the streets are empty.

He says he tried to kill himself.

Even though I’m not a fighter, there is something we have in common. We feel compelled to write about the things we cannot come to terms with.

 “לוחם Lochem” © Noemi Schneider. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Julie Winter. All rights reserved. 

English German (Original)

He doesn’t say that he had no choice. He says that his father was also a soldier. He says that if he had the choice today, he would perhaps choose differently. At that time he made his choice.

My two grandfathers were also soldiers and fought for the lunatic who had his grandparents gassed in a concentration camp. But he has never asked about my grandfathers.

He was stationed for five years in the occupied territories. Voluntarily. During the First Intifada. He tells this to everyone right away—everyone. But only those who were there know what that means.

He was an officer in an elite unit, and I don’t really want to know what that means.

He still knows all the names of the most wanted terrorists from that time: Mohammad Taha, Ahmed Yassin, Khaled Meshaal . . .

Elite unit, First Intifada, occupied territories, officer, that’s just great, says the Mideast Conflict. The Mideast Conflict really drives me crazy, but he’s always there, ever since I’ve known him.

The first thing he does in the morning is smoke a cigarette. He’s been doing that since the army. In the army you have to get out of bed in a hurry, but you need to allow enough time for a cigarette, he says.

He was in the refugee camp Dheisheh near Bethlehem for eight months, after that in Jenin, Hebron, Tulkarm, Kalandia. Everywhere, where it burned.

He was a fighter, and only fighters know what that means, he says. That’s why he gets along with them the best. With former fighters, like him.

I am not a fighter.

He gets along with former fighters who are Palestinian better than he does with me, he says. A fighter is a fighter. He even has former fighter friends from Palestine.

He saved a little girl’s life in Dheisheh. The girl fell out of a third-floor window. He was on patrol and heard screaming and saw the girl lying there. He picked her up, took her to the emergency clinic, and kept thinking the whole time that he hoped she wouldn’t die in his arms. She didn’t die. She had broken both legs. Soon afterward an officer wanted to find out from him where the girl’s family lived because such an incident is a good opportunity to recruit Palestinian collaborators. He didn’t think about that when he picked up the girl. He can no longer remember exactly where the house was. Everything happened so quickly, he says.

Twenty years later he’s no longer a soldier—he’s a journalist and as a journalist has returned to Dheisheh to look for the girl he saved and to find out if someone remembers what happened. No one remembers. The mother of the girl says she saved her daughter. He doesn’t want to take away the mother’s and the daughter’s memories. No one can take away his memories. He wrote an article about what he remembered.

He remembers everything:

The names of the terrorists and the camp in the small pine forest on the hill. The daily patrols and house searches. The photo albums and books that they arbitrarily took with them even though they didn’t know what was in them because they couldn’t speak Arabic. The children who threw stones and who were always faster than they were. The one of their own who was particularly violent—he accompanied two Palestinian prisoners to an interrogation and beat them so badly that an interrogation was no longer possible. The flags and slogans that were hanging from the houses over night and that had to be removed during the day. They determined who had done it, and whoever denied it was arrested or beaten. Every day. The half-naked boys whose T-shirts with the banned slogans had to be forcibly taken off them in the middle of the street. The empty shell cases, tear gas, burning trash, and the dead.

When he was in Dheisheh he tried to wash the memory of Dheisheh off himself every day. Just like in Jenin, Hebron, Tulkarm, Kalandia, and everywhere else they were.

Sunset, beer, cats, music, laughter.

We’re sitting in a café in Tel Aviv, smoking pot. The Mideast Conflict saunters by.

Tomorrow we’ll take a trip, he says.

Palm trees, burekas, coffee in paper cups, a traffic jam on the Ayalon, skyscrapers, heat.

The Mideast Conflict makes himself comfortable on the back seat and starts to doze.

He takes me to a Palestinian family that he had made a promise to. The father was murdered by a settler; the settler was convicted, but then he escaped. He wants to find the settler and bring him to justice. He promised the family that he would. He doesn’t yet know what will happen when he finds him.

He stops at an army base and asks the soldiers what they are doing. They are carrying out an exercise.

That one is playing a terrorist, he says, and points to a soldier who is hiding behind a large boulder. The Mideast Conflict yawns.

Dead dogs are lying on the street.

We stop shortly before the village, near an intersection, at an abandoned watchtower. He rolls a joint. I can’t smoke pot so early in the morning. The Mideast Conflict smokes with him.

The family, sitting on the floor in the living room, is still eating breakfast. They make tea and send us out to the terrace so they can tidy up. The muezzin calls. The mother has four daughters and two sons. Yasmine, Tala, Shehenaze, Samira, Mohammed, and Nassar. Yasmine and Mohammad are blind. We sit with them and drink tea. The Mideast Conflict takes his leave to go walk around the block a couple of times.

He goes to see one of the witnesses from that time whom he wants to persuade to testify again. I stay there, with the women.

The women think my skin is beautiful, no wrinkles. Am I married? No. Am I Jewish? No. Even if you were, it wouldn’t be so bad, says Yasmine.

They added two more floors onto the house. Tala says from the roof of the unfinished building you can see the intersection where my father was shot dead.

White laundry is drying on the roof.

He comes back. The witness doesn’t want to testify. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. We eat together with the family. The Mideast Conflict also wants some mulukhiyah. Then we leave, the sun is low in the sky.

The streets are clear. On Shabbat the settlers sit with their families in their white fortresses.

We stop again near the abandoned watchtower and the dead dogs. He rolls a joint, this time I join him. It’s getting dark, the hills are turning purple.

Watchtowers, barricades, restricted areas, barbed wire, olive trees, stones.

Suddenly, he brakes abruptly.

God is standing on the street in front of us. God wants kenafeh. So do we.

The best kenafeh is found in Nablus; everyone knows that.

The Mideast Conflict and God stay in the car. Why now all of a sudden, I ask. Just don’t feel like it, comes the answer.

It’s very busy in the little store. It’s Friday evening after prayers. We go in and everyone stares at us. He uses Hebrew. He says if they know who I am they won’t do anything to me. He says he’s not afraid.

I see a soldier who makes me afraid.

He says if we actually realized how much the occupation is costing us, we would stop. And then? They won’t forgive you so easily, I think. All those years, all the checkpoints, the watchtowers, the restricted areas, the walls, the olive trees, the stones, the barbed wire.

He’s never thought about forgiveness, he says.

We are detained at the checkpoint. God has an Arabic name and I have a German passport—that is suspicious. He gets really angry; it’s totally racist, just because God has an Arabic name. It could be forged, says the lady from the security company.

The Mideast Conflict goes to take a piss and I stand there silently. No one gives a damn that we are all completely stoned. Somehow he manages to spare us the interrogation circus. After fifteen minutes we continue on our way.

Shortly after he left the army he went alone for the first time to the occupied areas. To Bethlehem. To eat falafel. He was never allowed to eat falafel there when he was a soldier. The soldiers weren’t allowed to eat anything from there. It could be poisoned. He went there alone, but he took a weapon with him, so he could feel safe. He wore it so that everyone could see it and he ate falafel.

God has had enough and asks if we could let him out at the next intersection. God wants to go to Jerusalem. We continue on to Tel Aviv.

The Mideast Conflict wants to go get drunk. I scream at him and say he should look for someone else to go drinking with.

Five hours later I’m sitting behind him on a scooter, stoned, and am holding on to him firmly for the first time. I am terrified to be on a scooter stoned and drunk, even if it is three in the morning and the streets are empty.

He says he tried to kill himself.

Even though I’m not a fighter, there is something we have in common. We feel compelled to write about the things we cannot come to terms with.

 “לוחם Lochem” © Noemi Schneider. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Julie Winter. All rights reserved. 

לוחם Lochem

Er sagt nicht, dass er keine Wahl hatte. Er sagt, sein Vater war auch Soldat. Er sagt, wenn er heute die Wahl hätte, dann würde er vielleicht anders wählen. Damals hat er so gewählt.

Meine beiden Großväter waren auch Soldaten und haben für den Irren gekämpft, der seine Großeltern im KZ vergasen ließ. Aber er hat noch nie nach meinen Großvätern gefragt.

Fünf Jahre war er in den besetzten Gebieten stationiert. Freiwillig. Während der ersten Intifada. Das erzählt er sofort. Jedem. Aber was das heißt, wissen nur die, die dabei waren.

Er war Offizier in einer Elite-Einheit und was das heißt, will ich eigentlich gar nicht wissen.

Er weiß noch alle Namen der gesuchten Terroristen von damals Mohammad Taha, Ahmed Yassin, Khaled Maschall …

Elite-Einheit, erste Intifada, besetzte Gebiete, Offizier, Prost Mahlzeit, sagt der Nahostkonflikt. Der Nahostkonflikt geht mir tierisch auf den Zeiger, aber seit ich ihn kenne, ist er immer mit dabei.

Morgens raucht er als Erstes eine Zigarette. Seit der Armee macht er das. Da muss man schnell aufstehen, aber so viel Zeit muss sein, sagt er, für eine Zigarette.

Acht Monate war er im Flüchtlingslager Deheisheh bei Bethlehem danach in Jenin, Hebron, Tul Karm, Kalandia. Überall da, wo es gebrannt hat.

Er war ein Kämpfer und was das heißt, wissen nur Kämpfer, sagt er. Deshalb versteht er sich mit denen am besten. Mit ehemaligen Kämpfern, wie ihm.

Ich bin kein Kämpfer.

Er versteht sich auch mit den ehemaligen palästinensischen Kämpfern besser als mit mir, sagt er. Kämpfer ist Kämpfer. Er hat sogar ehemalige palästinensische Kämpfer-Freunde.

In Deheisheh hat er einem kleinen Mädchen das Leben gerettet. Das Mädchen ist aus einem Fenster im zweiten Stock gefallen. Er war auf Patrouille und hat Geschrei gehört und das Mädchen da liegen sehen. Er hat sie aufgehoben und in die Ambulanz gebracht und die ganze Zeit gedacht, hoffentlich stirbt sie nicht in meinen Armen. Sie ist nicht gestorben. Sie hat sich beide Beine gebrochen. Ein Offizier wollte kurz darauf von ihm wissen, wo die Familie des Mädchens wohnt, weil so ein Vorfall eine gute Gelegenheit ist, um palästinensische Kollaborateure anzuwerben. Daran hat er nicht gedacht, als er das Mädchen aufgehoben hat. Er kann sich nicht mehr genau erinnern, wo das Haus stand. Es ging alles so schnell, sagt er.

Zwanzig Jahre später ist er kein Soldat mehr, sondern Journalist und als solcher ist er nach Deheisheh zurückgekehrt, um das Mädchen zu suchen, das er gerettet hat, und um herauszufinden, ob sich noch jemand daran erinnert. Keiner will sich erinnern. Die Mutter des Mädchens sagt, sie hat ihre Tochter gerettet. Die Erinnerung will er der Mutter und der Tochter nicht nehmen. Weil ihm keiner seine Erinnerungen nehmen kann. Er hat einen Artikel geschrieben, über das, woran er sich erinnert.

Er erinnert sich an alles:

An die Namen der Terroristen und das Camp in dem kleinen Pinienwäldchen auf dem Hügel. An die täglichen Patrouillen und Hausdurchsuchungen. An die Fotoalben und die Bücher, die sie wahllos mitgenommen haben, obwohl sie nicht wussten, was drin stand, weil sie kein Arabisch konnten. An die Steine schmeißenden Kinder, die immer schneller waren als sie. An den besonders brutalen aus seiner Einheit, der zwei palästinensische Gefangene zu einer Befragung begleitet hat und so verprügelte, das eine Befragung nicht mehr möglich war. An die Fahnen und Parolen, die über Nacht an den Häusern hingen und tagsüber entfernt werden mussten. Von wem, bestimmten sie, und wer sich weigerte, wurde festgenommen oder geschlagen. Jeden Tag. An die halbstarken Jungs, denen sie mitten auf der Straße gewaltsam die T-Shirts mit den verbotenen Slogans drauf ausziehen mussten. An leergeschossene Patronenhülsen, Tränengas, brennenden Müll und die Toten.

Damals in Deheisheh hat er täglich versucht, die Erinnerung an Deheisheh abzuwaschen.

Genauso wie in Jenin, Hebron, Tul Karm, Kalandia und überall sonst, wo sie waren.

Sonnenuntergang, Bier, Katzen, Musik, Gelächter.

Wir sitzen in einem Café in Tel Aviv und kiffen. Der Nahostkonflikt schlendert vorbei.

Morgen machen wir einen Ausflug, sagt er.

Palmen, Burekas, Kaffee im Pappbecher, Stau auf dem Ayalon, Hochhäuser, Hitze.

Der Nahostkonflikt macht es sich auf dem Rücksitz bequem und beginnt vor sich hin zu dösen.

Er nimmt mich mit zu einer palästinensischen Familie, der er ein Versprechen gegeben hat. Der Vater wurde von einem Siedler ermordet, der Siedler wurde verurteilt, aber er ist dann doch entwischt. Er will den Siedler finden und zur Rechenschaft ziehen. Das hat er der Familie versprochen. Was passiert, wenn er ihn gefunden hat, weiß er noch nicht.

Bei einem Armee-Stützpunkt hält er an und fragt die Soldaten, was sie machen. Sie machen eine Übung.

Der spielt den Terroristen, sagt er und deutet auf einen Soldat, der sich hinter einem großen Stein versteckt. Der Nahostkonflikt gähnt.

Auf der Straße liegen tote Hunde.

Kurz vor dem Dorf halten wir an, in der Nähe einer Kreuzung, bei einem verlassenen Wachturm. Er baut einen Joint. Ich kann nicht kiffen, nicht so früh am morgen. Der Nahostkonflikt kifft mit.

Die Familie sitzt noch beim Frühstück auf dem Boden im Wohnzimmer. Sie kochen Tee und schicken uns auf die Terrasse, um in der Zwischenzeit aufzuräumen. Der Muezzin ruft. Die Mutter hat vier Töchter und zwei Söhne. Yasmine, Tala, Shehenaze, Samira, Mohammad und Nassar. Yasmine und Mohammad sind blind. Wir sitzen da und trinken Tee. Der Nahostkonflikt verabschiedet sich, um ein paar Runden um den Block zu drehen.

Er fährt zu einem Augenzeugen von damals, den er dazu bewegen will, nochmal auszusagen. Ich bleibe da, bei den Frauen.

Die Frauen finden meine Haut schön, so faltenlos. Ob ich verheiratet bin? Nein. Ob ich Jüdin bin? Nein. Wenn du es wärst, wäre es auch nicht so schlimm, sagt Yasmine.

Sie haben zwei Stockwerke auf das Haus gebaut. Tala sagt, vom Dach des Rohbaus aus kann man die Kreuzung sehen, auf der ihr Vater erschossen wurde.

Auf dem Dach trocknet weiße Wäsche.

Er kommt zurück. Der Augenzeuge von damals will nicht aussagen. Nicht heute. Vielleicht morgen. Wir essen gemeinsam mit der Familie. Der Nahostkonflikt will auch Melochia. Dann fahren wir los, die Sonne steht tief.

Die Straßen sind frei. Am Shabbat sitzen die Siedler mit ihren Familien in ihren weißen Festungen.

Wir halten wieder an, bei dem verlassenen Wachturm und den toten Hunden. Er baut einen Joint, diesmal kiffe ich mit. Es dämmert. Die Hügel verfärben sich lila.

Wachtürme, Barrikaden, Sperrgebiet, Stacheldraht, Olivenbäume, Steine.

Plötzlich bremst er abrupt ab.

Vor uns auf der Straße steht Gott. Gott will Knafeh. Wir auch.

Die beste Knafeh gibt es in Nablus, das weiß jeder.

Der Nahostkonflikt und Gott bleiben im Auto. Wieso jetzt auf einmal, frage ich. Kein Bock, lautet die Antwort.

In dem kleinen Laden herrscht Hochbetrieb. Es ist Freitagabend nach dem Gebet. Wir gehen rein und alle gucken uns an. Er spricht hebräisch. Er sagt, wenn sie wissen, wer ich bin, dann tun sie mir nichts. Er sagt, er hat keine Angst.

Ich sehe einen Soldaten, der mir Angst macht.

Er sagt, wenn wir endlich kapieren, wie viel uns die Besatzung kostet, werden wir damit aufhören. Und dann? Sie werden euch nicht einfach so vergeben, denke ich. All die Jahre, die Checkpoints, die Wachtürme, die Sperrgebiete, die Mauern, die Olivenbäume, die Steine, den Stacheldraht.

Er hat noch nie über Vergebung nachgedacht, sagt er.

Am Checkpoint werden wir aufgehalten. Gott hat einen arabischen Namen und ich einen deutschen Pass, das ist verdächtig. Er regt sich furchtbar auf, das sei total rassistisch, bloß weil Gott einen arabischen Namen hat. Der kann auch gefälscht sein, sagt die Tante von der Sicherheitsfirma.

Der Nahostkonflikt geht pissen und ich stehe stumm da. Dass wir alle total bekifft sind, interessiert übrigens keine Sau. Irgendwie schafft er es, dass uns die Befragerei erspart bleibt. Nach fünfzehn Minuten fahren wir weiter.

Kurz nach der Armee ist er zum ersten Mal allein in die besetzen Gebiete gefahren. Nach Bethlehem. Um Falafel zu essen. Als Soldat durfte er dort nie Falafel essen. Die Soldaten dürften überhaupt nichts von dort essen. Weil sie vergiftet werden könnten. Er ist allein hingefahren, aber er hat eine Waffe mitgenommen, um sicher zu gehen. Er hat sie so getragen, dass jeder sie sehen konnte und Falafel gegessen.

Gott hat genug von dem Thema und fragt, ob wir ihn an der nächsten Kreuzung rauslassen können. Gott will nach Jerusalem. Wir fahren weiter nach Tel Aviv.

Der Nahostkonflikt will saufen. Ich schreie ihn an und sage, er soll sich jemand anderen zum saufen suchen.

Fünf Stunden später sitze ich bekifft hinter ihm auf dem Roller und halte mich zum ersten Mal an ihm fest. Weil ich totale Panik habe, bekifft und betrunken Roller zu fahren, auch wenn es drei Uhr morgens ist und die Straßen frei.

Er sagt, er hat versucht sich das Leben zu nehmen.

Obwohl ich kein Kämpfer bin, gibt es etwas, das wir gemein haben. Wir müssen über das schreiben, womit wir nicht klar kommen.

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