Son Of Hamas Part 17

"Yes." I sat down. "This is not fair . . . but I understand."

"You, too," he said, quietly.

"Me, too, what? Prison? Forget it! I'm not going back. I don't care about cover. It's over for me. I'm through."

"My brother," he whispered, "do you think I want you to be arrested? It is up to you. If you want to stay out, you stay out. But this time is more dangerous than any other time. You have been at your father's side over the past year more than ever before. Everyone knows you are completely involved with Hamas. Many believe you are even part of its leaders.h.i.+p. . . . If we don't arrest you, you will be dead within a few weeks."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Good-Bye20052007.

"What's going on?" my father asked when he found me crying.

When I didn't say anything, he suggested we cook dinner together for my mother and sisters. My father and I had grown so close over the years, and he understood that sometimes I simply needed to work through things on my own.

But as I prepared the meal with him, knowing that these were the last hours we would have together for a long time, my heart broke. I decided not to let him go through the arrest alone.

After dinner, I called Loai.

"All right," I told him. "I will go back to prison."

It was September 25, 2005. I hiked to my favorite spot in the hills outside Ramallah where I often went to spend time praying and reading my Bible. I prayed more, wept more, and asked the Lord for his mercy on me and my family. When I got home, I sat down and waited. My father, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen, had already gone to bed. A little after midnight, the security forces arrived.

They took us to Ofer Prison, where we were herded into a big hall with hundreds of others who had been picked up in a citywide sweep. This time, they also arrested my brothers Oways and Mohammad. Loai told me secretly that they were suspects in a murder case. One of their schoolmates had kidnapped, tortured, and killed an Israeli settler, and the s.h.i.+n Bet had intercepted a call the killer made to Oways the day before. Mohammad would be released a few days later. Oways would serve four months in prison before being cleared of any involvement in the crime.

We sat on our knees in that hall for ten hours with our hands cuffed behind us. I thanked G.o.d silently when someone gave my father a chair, and I saw that he was being treated with respect.

I was sentenced to three months in administrative detention. My Christian friends sent me a Bible, and I served my sentence, studying Scripture and going through the motions. I was released on Christmas Day 2005. My father was not. As I write this, he is still in prison.

Parliamentary elections were coming up, and every Hamas leader wanted to run for office. They still disgusted me. They all walked around free, while the only man who was actually qualified to lead his people languished behind razor wire. After all that had led up to our arrests, it didn't take much to convince my father not to partic.i.p.ate in the elections. He got word to me, asking me to release his decision to Mohammad Daraghmeh, a political a.n.a.lyst with the a.s.sociated Press and a good friend.

The news report broke a couple of hours later, and my phone started ringing. The Hamas leaders had tried to contact my father in prison, but he refused to talk to them.

"What's going on?" they asked me. "This is a disaster! We will lose because if your father doesn't run it will appear that he has withdrawn his blessing from the whole election!"

"If he doesn't want to partic.i.p.ate," I told them, "you have to respect that."

Then came a call from Ismail Haniyeh, who headed the Hamas ticket and would soon become the new PA prime minister.

"Mosab, as a leader of the movement, I am asking you to schedule a press conference and announce that your father is still on the Hamas ticket. Tell them that the AP story was a mistake."

On top of everything else, now they wanted me to lie for them. Did they forget that Islam forbids lying, or did they think it was okay because politics has no religion?

"I can't do that," I told him. "I respect you, but I respect my father and my own integrity more." And I hung up.

Thirty minutes later, I received a death threat. "Call the news conference immediately," the caller said, "or we will kill you."

"Come and kill me then."

I hung up and called Loai. Within hours, the guy who made the threat was arrested.

I really didn't care about death threats. But when my father found out, he called Daraghmeh personally and told him he would partic.i.p.ate in the election. Then he told me to calm down and wait for his release. He would deal with Hamas, he a.s.sured me.

Naturally, my father could not campaign from prison. But he didn't need to. Hamas put his picture everywhere, tacitly encouraging everyone to vote the organization ticket. And on the eve of the election, Sheikh Ha.s.san Yousef was swept into parliament, carrying everyone else along like so many burrs in a lion's mane.

I sold my share of Electric Computer Systems to my partner because I had a feeling that a lot of things in my life would soon be coming to a close.

Who was I? What kind of future could I hope for if things kept on this way?

I was twenty-seven years old, and I couldn't even date. A Christian girl would be afraid of my reputation as the son of a top Hamas leader. A Muslim girl would have no use for an Arab Christian. And what Jewish girl would want to date the son of Ha.s.san Yousef? Even if someone would go out with me, what would we talk about? What was I free to share about my life? And what kind of life was it anyway? What had I sacrificed everything for? For Palestine? For Israel? For peace?

What did I have to show for being the s.h.i.+n Bet's superspook? Were my people better off? Had the bloodshed stopped? Was my father home with his family? Was Israel safer? Had I modeled a higher path for my brothers and sisters? I felt that I had sacrificed nearly a third of my life for nothing, a "chasing after the wind," as King Solomon describes it in Ecclesiastes 4:16.

I couldn't even share all I had learned while wearing my different hats-and hoods. Who would believe me?

I called Loai at his office. "I cannot work for you anymore."

"Why? What happened?"

"Nothing. I love you all. And I love intelligence work. I think I may even be addicted to the job. But we are not accomplis.h.i.+ng anything. We're fighting a war that can't be won with arrests, interrogations, and a.s.sa.s.sinations. Our enemies are ideas, and ideas don't care about incursions and curfews. We can't blow up an idea with a Merkava. You are not our problem, and we are not yours. We're all like rats trapped in a maze. I can't do it anymore. My time is over."

I knew this was a hard blow to the s.h.i.+n Bet. We were in the middle of a war.

"Okay," Loai said, "I will inform the agency leaders.h.i.+p and see what they say."

When we met again, he said, "Here is the offer from the leaders.h.i.+p. Israel has a big communications company. We will give you all the money you need to start one just like it in the Palestinian territories. It's a great opportunity and will make you secure for the rest of your life."

"You don't understand. My problem is not money. My problem is that I'm going nowhere."

"People here need you, Mosab."

"I'll find a different way to help them, but I'm not helping them like this. Even the agency can't see where it's going."

"So what do you want?"

"I want to leave the country."

He shared our conversation with his superiors. Back and forth we went, the leaders.h.i.+p insisting that I stay as I insisted that I had to leave.

"Okay," they said. "We'll let you go to Europe for several months, maybe a year, as long as you promise to come back."

"I am not going to Europe. I want to go to the United States. I have friends there. Maybe I'll come back in a year or two or five. I don't know. Right now, I only know that I need a break."

"The United States will be difficult. Here, you have money, position, and protection from everybody. You've developed a solid reputation, built a nice business, and live very comfortably. Do you know what your life will look like in the United States? You will be very small and have no influence."

I told them I didn't care if I had to wash dishes. And when I continued to insist, they planted their feet.

"No," they said. "No United States. Only Europe and only for a short time. Go and enjoy yourself. We'll keep paying your salary. Just go and have fun. Take your break. Then come back."

"Okay," I said finally, "I'm going home. I'm not doing anything for you anymore. I'm not going to leave the house because I don't want to accidentally discover a suicide bomber and have to report it. Don't bother calling me. I don't work for you anymore."

I went to my parents' house and turned off my cell phone. My beard grew long and thick. My mother was very worried about me, often coming into the room to check on me and ask if I was okay. Day after day, I read my Bible, listened to music, watched television, thought about the past ten years, and wrestled with depression.

At the end of three months, my mother told me that someone was asking for me on the phone. I told her I didn't want to talk to anyone. But she said the caller told her that it was urgent, that he was an old friend and knew my father.

I went downstairs and picked up the receiver. It was someone from the s.h.i.+n Bet.

"We want to see you," the caller said. "It is very important. We have good news for you."

I went to the meeting. My not working had created a no-win situation for them. They could see I was determined to quit.

"Okay, we'll let you go to the United States, but only for a few months, and you have to promise to come back."

"I don't know why you keep insisting on something you know you're not going to get," I told them calmly but firmly.

Finally, they said, "Okay, we'll let you go with two conditions. First, you have to hire a lawyer and pet.i.tion us through the court to allow you to leave the country for medical reasons. Otherwise, you will get burned. Second, you come back."

The s.h.i.+n Bet never allowed Hamas members to cross the borders unless they needed medical treatment that was unavailable in the Palestinian territories. I actually did have a problem with my jaw that didn't allow me to close my teeth together, and I couldn't get the surgery I needed in the West Bank. It had never really bothered me much, but I figured it was as good an excuse as any, so I hired a lawyer to send a medical report to the court, requesting a permit for me to travel to the United States for the operation.

The whole purpose of this exercise was to provide a clear paper trail in the courts and show I was wrestling with a hostile bureaucracy in an attempt to leave Israel. If the s.h.i.+n Bet let me go without a struggle, it would imply favoritism and people might start to wonder what I had given them in exchange. So we had to make it appear that they were making it tough on me and fighting me every step of the way.

But the lawyer I selected proved to be an obstacle. He apparently didn't think I had much of a chance, so he demanded his money in advance-which I paid him-and then he sat back and did nothing. The s.h.i.+n Bet had no paperwork to generate because they received nothing from my attorney. Week after week, I called him and asked how my case was progressing. The only thing he had to do was process the paperwork, but he kept stalling and lying. There was a problem, he said. There were complications. Again and again, he said he needed more money, and again and again I paid him.

This went on for six months. Finally on New Year's Day 2007, I got the phone call.

"You're approved to leave," the lawyer declared, as though he had just solved world hunger.

"Can you meet just one more time with one of the Hamas leaders in Jalazone refugee camp?" Loai asked. "You're the only person-"

"I'm leaving the country in five hours."

"Okay," he said in surrender. "Be safe and keep in touch with us. Call once you cross the border to make sure that everything is all right."

I called some people I knew in California and told them I was coming. Of course, they had no idea I was the son of a top Hamas leader and a spy for the s.h.i.+n Bet. But they were very excited. I packed a few clothes in a small suitcase and went downstairs to tell my mother. She was already in bed.

I knelt by her side and explained that I would be leaving in a few hours, crossing the border into Jordan and flying to the United States. Even then, I could not explain why.

Her eyes said it all. Your father is in prison. You are like a father to your brothers and sisters. What will you do in America? Your father is in prison. You are like a father to your brothers and sisters. What will you do in America? I knew she didn't want to see me go, but at the same time, she wanted me to be at peace. She said she hoped I would be able to make a life for myself there after being in so much danger at home. She had no idea just how much danger I had seen. I knew she didn't want to see me go, but at the same time, she wanted me to be at peace. She said she hoped I would be able to make a life for myself there after being in so much danger at home. She had no idea just how much danger I had seen.

"Let me kiss you good-bye," she said. "Wake me in the morning before you go."

She blessed me, and I told her I would be leaving very early and she didn't need to get up to see me off. But she was my mother. She waited up with me all night in our living room, along with my brothers and sisters and my friend Jamal.

While I was putting all my belongings together before my flight, I was about to pack my Bible-the one with all my notes, the one I had studied for years, even in prison-but then I sensed a prompting to give it to Jamal.

"I don't have a more expensive gift to give you before I leave," I told him. "Here is my Bible. Read it and follow it." I was sure he would honor my wishes and probably would read it whenever he thought of me. I made sure I had enough cash to last me for a while, left the house, and went to the Allenby Bridge that connects Israel with Jordan.

Getting through the Israeli checkpoint was no problem. I paid the thirty-five-dollar exit tax and entered the huge immigration terminal with its metal detectors, X-ray machines, and the infamous Room 13 where suspects were interrogated. But these devices, along with strip searches, were mostly for those coming into into Israel from the Jordanian side-not for those leaving. Israel from the Jordanian side-not for those leaving.

The terminal was a beehive of people in shorts and f.a.n.n.y packs, yarmulkes and Arab headdresses, veils and ball caps, some wearing backpacks and others pus.h.i.+ng hand trolleys stacked with luggage. Finally, I boarded one of the big JETT buses-the only public transportation permitted on the concrete truss bridge.

Okay, I thought, I thought, it's almost over. it's almost over.

But I was still a little paranoid. The s.h.i.+n Bet simply did not let people like me leave the country. It was unheard of. Even Loai had been amazed that I'd gotten permission.

When I reached the Jordanian side, I presented my pa.s.sport. I was concerned because while three years remained on my US visa, my pa.s.sport was due to expire in fewer than thirty days.

Please, I prayed, I prayed, just let me into Jordan for one day. That's all I need. just let me into Jordan for one day. That's all I need.

But all my worrying was for nothing. There was no problem at all. I grabbed a taxi into Amman and bought a ticket on Air France. I checked into a hotel for a few hours, then went to Queen Alia International Airport and boarded my flight to California via Paris.

As I sat on the plane, I thought about what I had just left behind, both good and bad-my family and friends as well as the endless bloodshed, waste, and futility.

It took a while to get used to the idea of being really free-free to be myself, free of clandestine meetings and Israeli prisons, free from always looking over my shoulder.

It was weird. And wonderful.

Walking down the sidewalk one day in California, I spotted a familiar face coming toward me. It was the face of Maher Odeh, the mastermind behind so many suicide bombings-the guy I had seen back in 2000 being visited by Arafat's armed thugs. I later exposed them as the founding cell of the ghostly Al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades.

I wasn't completely sure it was Odeh at first. People look different out of context. I hoped I was wrong. Hamas has never dared reach into the United States to conduct a martyrdom operation. It would be bad for the United States if he was here. It would be bad for me too.

Our eyes met and held for a fraction of a second. I was pretty sure I saw a spark of recognition there before he continued down the street.

Epilogue.

In July 2008, I sat in a restaurant having dinner with my good friend Avi Issacharoff, a journalist with Haaretz Haaretz newspaper in Israel. I told him my story of becoming a Christian because I wanted the news to come from Israel, not from the West. It appeared in his newspaper under the headline "Prodigal Son." newspaper in Israel. I told him my story of becoming a Christian because I wanted the news to come from Israel, not from the West. It appeared in his newspaper under the headline "Prodigal Son."