"I think I hit him," I shout to Ali and we both run back into the mosque, trying to find our way through the thick smoke and the sound of booms all around. Everything went according to plan. A few older men greet us as soon as we re-enter the mosque and lead us to the recovery room that's been prepared ahead of time. Once in there we remove the kaffiyehs from our faces and are immediately handed a carefully selected fresh onion so we can inhale its vapors. The smell of onion is the most effective thing for relieving stinging eyes irritated by tear gas. "I think I hit a policeman," I say to Ali, wearing a triumphal grin.

"You did," he confirms. "You hit him." He presses the onion against his nostrils again. We're both sitting in one corner of the recovery room and trying to catch our breath. The sounds of gunfire continue to reverberate and more young men are brought into the room and administered first aid with an onion. Others needed an oxygen mask as well.

"May God bless you, heroes," Ali and I praise all the injured demonstrators. But just as we get up off the carpet and inform the guy in charge that we were ready for another round of rock-throwing, the clamor dies down. "Stay here," commands the sheikh in charge. "Apparently the leadership has reached a compromise. It looks like today's battle has ended, God-willing with victory. Stay here for now. I'll keep you posted. Well done."

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Disappointed, but like disciplined soldiers, we go back to sit down in the same corner of the room, where the pace of activity has slowed considerably. The noises from outside have also faded and a tense quiet prevails, even though the mosque is packed with people. I am just perusing the Surat al-Tawba in the Koran when Ali apologizes and interrupts me. I stop reading and with a small prayer I close the book and kiss it.

"Yes, go on," I say to Ali, who looks anxious, his forehead perspiring a little. "Talk to me, Ali. You're getting me worried, my brother. What is it?"

"I'm a little confused, and if I didn't know you since we arrived to study together at the Al-Sharia School at age 12 - I'm a little embarrassed, forgive me."

"Ali, tell me, what is it? Don't be embarrassed. Hey, it's just me."

Ali pulls out of his back pocket a crumpled piece of newspaper, trying to ensure that no one around us notices it, and says, "You write for Haaretz, right?"

"That's right, for over two years now."

"But how is it possible," he says, smoothing out the newspaper clipping and handing it to me, "How is it possible that you wrote such an article? Is it a diversionary tactic?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, taking the clipping. "This is in English."

"Yes, I recently discovered that there's also an edition translated into English. In Hebrew I'm like you - I don't read it or speak it."

I saw red when I began reading the article that bore my name as its author. "Allahu Akbar," I shouted when I reached the part about the alcohol. "Those Zionists, those devilish sons of devils. They tricked me, they slandered my name."

"So you didn't write it?"

"Ali, how can you even think that I would scribble such words of heresy? How?"

"I had a feeling there was some mistake here," Ali says. "Though, don't get me wrong, I actually enjoy reading you every week."

"They told me it was a religious newspaper," I stood up and phoned that editor with whom I have a telephone relationship. "As-Salam Alaykum," I shout.

"Ahlan, what's up? Everything okay?"

"Alhamdulillah," I replied impatiently, immediately switching into English, as I always do when talking to this editor. "What is this stuff you published this week? What is all this nonsense? I just read it in English and I'm stunned, I'm just flabbergasted by the lack of respect ..."

"Well, you know, I happened to look at the English edition and it's quite similar to the Hebrew."

"How could it be that I wrote my opinion about the Mugrabi Gate and about the offense to the values of Islam, and then what do I find? For God's sake."

"Well, maybe the source of the problem is with the translator from Arabic to Hebrew."

"Who is this translator - What's his name and where does he live?" I demand assertively.

I write down the information and turn to leave. "You coming?" I ask Ali.

"Where to?"

"Florentin, in Tel Aviv. You know where that is?"

I ring the bell for a long time and bang on the door until I finally hear a voice say, "Just a minute" - in Hebrew, yet.

"Remember," Ali says to me, "Follow the ways of gentleness."

The door opens and a guy in his 20s with a flabby paunch is standing there in his underwear, barely able to keep his eyes open even though it's late in the afternoon. "Yes?" he says. "Can I help you?"

I introduce myself and this elicits from him an "Ahhh, it's you, please come in." If it weren't for Ali, who held me back, I would have pounced on the guy and beat him up right then and there, but I manage to restrain myself. We enter a filthy room furnished with torn sofas. A crate in the middle of the room that serves as a desk is topped with numerous beer bottles, empty cigarette packets and a tobacco-like mixture that contains some green leaves. The translator pulls on some sweatpants, but remains shirtless. Then he sits down across from us, immediately begins emptying the tobacco from a cigarette and asks, "Anyone have some papers, maybe?"

"Aren't you ashamed?" I scold him, trying to keep my tone of voice under control. "Who do you think you are anyway?"

"What's the problem, dude? Why so tense?"

"You're distorting his words," Ali says to the swaying fellow who sits opposite us and nearly chokes before he finally releases a long curl of smoke from his nostrils.

"Distorting, ha! You come complaining to me? I made you a star."

"A star of fakery, of lies, of betraying that which is most precious."

"Listen," says the fellow, taking a long drag, "you don't argue with success. Didn't they just give you a raise? So what if I'm not exact?" he asks, holding his cigarette in two fingers and offering it to Ali.

"Not exact? You make it all up. Not one word of what I wrote this week appeared in the article."

"Hey, what do you want? I only know a little Arabic - sahtain, kif al-hal, mabruk, masbaha ..."

"Ahla masbaha," says Ali, blowing out smoke.

"So your name isn't really Ahmed Awda like you told the editor?"

The fellow shakes his head. A young woman in a nightgown, her hair unkempt and her eyes practically closed, comes into the living room, goes right over to Ali, takes the cigarette from him and asks, "Who are these guys?" And the young man tells her.

"Meet Sayed Kashua."

"Wallah, it's you," says the girl, holding out an emaciated hand. "I love how you write."