A Bit of Fiction

My dear friend Roi Sagir from Nahariya, Israel wrote this short story for an Israeli publication some two years ago, and now it’s been translated into English. I had no idea he was such a talent with the pen, but it hardly surprises me…

(warning: contains risqué material)


I, Fahed

by Roi Sagir

I’m a Jew, but I look like an Arab. Even in Israel there are places in which I look like an Arab. I have a black beard, black eyes and black hair. I don't wear a black suit, I don't wear a black skullcap or a black hat, so I cannot be considered to be a member of the "Shas" party ultra-orthodox Jewry. On the bus to Ramat Hasharon there are a number of women who see me and their makeup peels off their wrinkles from fear. I enjoy traveling to Ramat Hasharon, although I have nothing to do there. In Germany too, just like Ramat Hasharon, I'm an Arab.

This morning I took the underground train toward central Munich. Eva was also traveling on the train. She's German, with handsome features, light hair and expensive shoes. Some 900,000 people travel on Munich's underground train on a regular workday, waiting in 92 stations. The underground was built ahead of the 1972 Olympics. Eva sat in the train and read a book. She was on her way to work. She's a graphic editor in a feminist culture magazine. She has tenure and well-formed opinions.

I sat next to her. The train had already stopped in two stations. People boarded and disembarked, boarded and disembarked, with extinguished looks in their eyes and correct conduct. A regular silence, similar to the silence of yesterday and the day before yesterday. I peeked at Eva's book. The words Die Zweite Intifada were written on the top of the page.

Black Bird

I asked Eva whether the book she was reading was interesting. She examined me with her green eyes and said it was. I continued to pester her and asked for the author's name. She showed me the cover and it turned out to be a biography of Arafat. "Arafat," I said, "mmmm." She ignored my remarks, checked the author's name and said it. I asked her what she thought of Arafat. She answered that she didn't agree with everything in the book, and stretched with self-importance.

I smiled at her and scratched my black beard. I asked her what she thought about the conflict. She said that the Palestinians are miserable, that they are victims. I presented myself as Fahed, and asked whether we could meet up again sometime. She thought about it a bit. Before she got off the train we decided to meet in the evening.

I waited for her at a café on Ludwigstrasse. When she showed up, I took a chair and offered her a seat. Then I ordered us drinks. She chose a colorful drink in a large glass with a stem and shiny sticks sticking out of the orange liquid. She offered me the pineapple. I refused. She moved uncomfortably in her chair, looked around and bit her lips. Three men were sitting on the bar and most of the tables were empty, except of two. After looking at the tables in the café, she told me about her work and presented her opinions, of which she was very proud. The magazine she was working for covered exhibitions, installations and published progressive and radical editorials – so she said. Mainly, she added with her back straight and a raised finger, the works of women in developing regions.

She asked whether I objected to female circumcision. I answered that it was barbaric. And what do I think about veils? I told her that they, the women, choose themselves to wear veils. She cleared her throat.

"And family pressure!" she said decisively.

I was silent. Her green eyes stared at mine and she demanded a response with sealed lips.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my trousers and escaped her stare. Maybe she doesn't want to be the little woman tonight, I thought. I tried to guess what Fahed would have done when the manlystand encountered such resistance.

I squeezed my feet and said angrily, "family, what do you understand about the Arab family?" She flinched. "Maybe I don't understand," she said and added an apologetic giggle. "Maybe you should tell me a little about it, Fahed."

My cock quickly became hard. I sipped my beer slowly, enjoying the warmness in my lower body.

"I have five siblings," I started telling her on my great family at home. Then I was telling her on myself. "It's sometimes hard in Germany, but I'll be finished with my studies soon and I'll go back, no problem. It's better at home, but also here in Germany, it's nice here. Don’t be offended."

"No, no, I'm not offended, it's alright," she laughed. "You're cute."

I stretched my shoulders back and look around toughly. I then slightly scrunched my mouth with self importance and said, "You know, here in Germany people have a lot of money, but they don't know how to give respect. I mean, not everyone, but a lot of people. Look, people here don't look out for each other, every person is on his own. For us, the entire family is behind you, whatever you do."

Eva softened up and answered quietly, "The culture is slightly different here, Fahed, in Germany the law protects you. But I don't want to talk to you about these things now." And then she put her hand on the center of the table and asked, "Do you feel comfortable with me, Fahed?"

Continue reading I, Fahed.