Return to Jerusalem
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other. They were promenading arm in arm on the beach, or
with arms around each other's waists, giggling and carrying
on like teen-age sweethearts. In this they were by no means
alone. The beach was filled with amorous though less demonstrative men, both young and old, the young often with the
old, sitting close together, or back to back, or stretched out
full length on the sand.
"Take my picture," the English-speaking Arab asked.
"Make me look like a soldier." He whipped out his pistol and,
aiming it toward Tel Aviv, assumed a fierce look.
"Hold that pose," I said. "You look like Allah's messenger."
This gave me an opening for photographing everyone on
the beach—mementos of an all-male beach party. After I had
taken a dozen photographs, one of the group introduced himself to me as a member of the Gaza City Council. We chatted
for a few moments and I asked:
"How does the war look?"
"See that water?" He pointed with his narghileh. "One
month from now it will be black as far as the horizon with the
nude bodies of floating Jews."
"Insh'allah, Wallah."
Just then Moustafa emerged from a clump of bushes to
the left—from a dark-shaded nook into which I had noticed
Sammy and Ismail disappear. The two did not reappear until
almost an hour later, arm in arm. The mystery deepened when
two more members of the party vanished in the same direction—and didn't return. As the afternoon wore on, one by
one the trucks and cars, the lovers old and young, left the
beach. "Let's go look for them," Moustafa said. We all rose.
I deliberately fell in with the effeminate Arab whose photograph I'd taken.
"Our Bible says that Samson used to come to Gaza for his
pleasure. Arc the two friends for whom we are looking at a
place where one may find public women for one's pleasure?"
I inquired teasingly.
The Arab wheeled around, shocked, momentarily speechless.