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History lesson
By Sayed Kashua
Tags: Israel news

"Dad," said my young son Saturday morning as he opened the door and came into my study.

"What is it, honey? I'm in the middle of something," I tried to get rid of him.

"Dad, you and Mom are making me a birthday party, right?"
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"Right. But remember I asked you to try to speak only Arabic when you talk to me? Okay, honey?"

"Okay," he said in Hebrew. "I can invite whoever I want, right?"

"Right."

"So I was thinking that I don't want to invite any of the Arab kids in my class."

Good God - my little son called them Arabs, in an Ashkenazi accent.

"What?" I tore my eyes from the screen and looked at the 4-year-old Arab-hater standing in front of me. "Just what do you think you are, idiot? You're an Arab kid," I rebuked him, and it made him laugh as if I'd just come out with some really funny joke.

"What are you laughing at?" I scolded, and his expression changed. "I'm an Arab, you're an Arab, your mother is an Arab and your sister is an Arab." He started crying and ran to his mother, crying: "Mommy, Mommy" and wiping his eyes as if his grandmother were born in Kfar Shmaryahu.

I got this kid's number a long time ago - I saw the way he chuckled when he heard me or his mother speaking Hebrew with an accent. Last week he sat the two of us down and tried to teach us how to pronounce a guttural resh and when to use the different Hebrew vowels. "You talk like Arabs," said the Baruch Marzel of the Kashua household.

"What do you want from the kid?" My wife put the blame on me. "You stick him in a white neighborhood, send him to a mixed school, the whole day he's watching the Hop channel because we don't have the Al Jazeera kids' channel. What do you expect?"

"But hating Arabs?" I was shocked. "Think about it - his sister followed the exact same track - why doesn't she hate Arabs?" I said, glancing over at my daughter who nodded her head in agreement and said: "Right - I think that if we reach understandings with them, it'll be possible to live with them in peace." "Whaaat?!?" I thundered, and both kids ran to their mother for protection, giving me a cold stare as if they were confronting a mustachioed Arab. I clutched my head and shook it violently. What have I done to myself? It's all my fault. With my own two hands I've destroyed my family. I just wanted my children to have a little greenery around, to have a library and a swimming pool within walking distance, a community center around the corner, and what do I get in return? At best, a couple of leftists who are prepared to make painful concessions. But it's not too late, I tried to reassure myself - I can still fix everything, and I'm going to start right this minute. "Everybody get dressed, let's go!" I announced that Saturday. "We're going on an outing."

"Hooray!" shouted my little Zionist and he began to sing: "Who wants to go for a trip in the Land of Israel?"

"Where are we going?" my wife asked on the way to the car. "To Ein Karem," I answered. "I need to teach them a little true narrative," I said, immediately shaking my head. "Did I say narrative? I meant - teach them a little history, a few facts to balance out the poison they've been soaking up."

Naturally, I'm against all the nationalist poison that children are given to imbibe with their milk, but my children left me no choice. It was obvious that they would be frequently exposed to the Israeli myths, so in order to mitigate the damage somewhat, I was obliged to tell them the truth as I understand it. I was obliged to be firm and to deviate a little from my beliefs. So what if I actually scorn any kind of nationalism? Dear Lord! My children are Arab-haters! I walked with the children along the streets of Ein Karem. I pointed out the houses and told the children the history of Palestine. I told them about imperialism, about Basel and the Zionist Congress, about innocent Arab peasants. I twice went over the fact that most of the Palestinians didn't even know who Hitler was. I told them that he was cruel and horrible and even if he posed for pictures with an Arab or two this was no proof whatsoever that he was an Arab. I continued from World War II straight to the British Mandate, I went back to Balfour, I jumped to '48, occupation, expulsion and refugees.

They gave me the impression that they were hanging on every word, taking it all in, understanding the truth, identifying. I told them about their grandfather who was killed in the war and they shed a tear and felt sorry for their grandmother who lost her husband and her land.

"You see, children?" I declared at a climactic point in my lecture, striking the pose of a tour guide next to the well in the center of the village. "Here is where the village mosque stood. As you can see, the cupola is still here, as is the minaret of the muezzin. And up there you can see the church."

"Daddy!" my little boy cried.

"Yes, honey?" I answered tenderly, knowing that I'd just told them several painful truths about their Palestinian identity. "If you have a question, this is the time."

"I do," he said, pointing up the street. "They sell ice cream up there, right?"

My face burned with rage, prompting my wife to step in and shield the child with her body so I couldn't reach him. "Tell me, have you lost your mind?" she whispered to me, turning around to smile at her son and reassure him.

"But you heard him!" I said to her. "I tell him about the Nakba and all he can think of is that he wants ice cream. They don't have even the tiniest drop of sensitivity to the suffering of the Palestinian people."

"Just calm down," said my wife. "Actually, they are starting to understand."

"You think so?" I asked, feeling assuaged that my efforts to formulate my children's narrative were bearing fruit.

"Yes, honey," I said to the boy after I paused to take a deep breath. "They have ice cream there, and it's supposed to be one of the best ice cream places in town. But first I'm going to tell you about the massacre at Deir Yassin, and afterward I'll buy you whatever you want."
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