The Suffering of Being Kafka | Page 7

driver mirthfully slaps his bulging thighs and the woman
chuckles throatily, lips peeled to reveal pink-tainted teeth. "Come over
here, I'll sign it."
In one untrammelled motion, he removes a hirsute hand from the
oversized steering wheel, takes hold of my jotter, and opens it. Off goes
his second hand. He scribbles laboriously, tongue perched on fleshy
lips, ending with a flourishing signature.
People are murmuring throughout the bus. My answer is equivocal. It
could imply armed robbery - or fraud - or counterfeit. I may be violent.
The innocent looking are the really dangerous. I may even be an Arab,
impossible to tell them apart nowadays.
A web of mutters spins from crimson lips to hairy ears, from
crumb-strewn mouths to avid auricles. I return to my seat, retracing my
erstwhile progress, facing the hydra. With the pad in my back pocket, I
am calmer. Que serra, serra.
At the edge of my awareness a shrill, self-righteous female voice:
"Get out now, or I am calling the police."
I open my eyes, trying to pinpoint the mayhem. Somewhat behind me,
the altercation draws closer, a portly woman pushing aside
strap-holding passengers. She is preceded by a far younger female
scrambling, expression hunted, to flee the bully.
She passes me by, her coarse contours defaced by agony, wheezing
through luscious lips, one hand supporting heavy bust, the other
clutching a sheaf of papers densely written in calligraphic Arabic.
"Driver" - the mob exclaims - "There is an Arab on board!"
"Go down! I am not sharing a bus with a terrorist!" - a woman screams
and then another: "Maybe she is dangerous? Did you frisk her when she

boarded?"
The driver negotiates the dense circulation, manoeuvring among a fleet
of barely visible compacts. The noise distracts him. Without braking,
he turns around and enquires: "What is it? What's the matter?"
"There's an Arab woman here" - one volunteers to edify him - "She is
aboard the bus and may have explosives strapped around her waist."
"Get her off this vehicle, she may be lethal!" - another advises.
"I am not forcing anybody down who has paid the ticket!" - snaps the
driver and reverts to the hazy windshield.
A stunned silence. They thought the driver was one of them, he doesn't
appear to be a peacenik. Someone latches on to the frontal paned
partition and expostulates. "It's not reasonable, your decision. Today,
you never know. Even their women are into killing, I saw it with my
own eyes in Lebanon. They explode themselves like nothing, not a
problem..."
The woman who spotted the ostensible terrorist now badgers the driver:
"Give me your details. I am going to have a chat with your supervisors.
You can forget about this cosy job of yours!"
The Arab stands mute, vigilantly monitoring the commotion. A
passenger tilts and hisses in her ear: "Child murderer." She recoils from
the gathering nightmare and bellows, addressing the jam-packed bus:
"I am a nurse. I tend to the sick and frail all day long, both ours and
yours. Every day there's a flood of casualties. Our injured. Our corpses.
Your injured. Your corpses. Children, women, shreds, all full of
blood..." - She pauses - "Why do you treat me this way?"
Her Hebrew is rocky but sufficient to provoke a heated debate with
supporters and detractors.
"What do you want with this woman? She is just an innocent commuter!
Look at yourselves! You should be ashamed!"
Others are genuinely scared. I can see it on their faces, the
white-knuckled way they cling to the metal railings opposite their seats,
the evasive looks, the stooping shoulders, eyes buried in the filthy
flooring.
She may well be a terrorist, who knows?
It is too late to smother this burgeoning conflagration. My neighbour
exchanges heavy-accented verbal blows with someone behind us.
Women accuse each other of hypocrisy and barbarism.

The driver, pretending to ignore us, head slanted, listens in and steals
appreciative glances at his voluptuous fawner. To garner his further
admiration, she plunges into the dispute, a brimstone diva with words
of fire.
Some passengers begin to push the Arab and shove her with innocuous
gestures of their sweaty palms. They endeavour to avoid her startled
gaze. She tries again:
"What kind of people are you? I am a medical nurse, I am telling you.
So what if I am Arab, is it automatic proof that I am a terrorist?"
My neighbour suddenly addresses me:
"You've got nothing to say?"
"To my mind, if she were a terrorist, she would have blown us all to
kingdom come by now."
I let the impact of this sane reminder settle.
"This bus is bursting. The driver skipped a few stations on the way" - I
remind them - "She is smack amidst us. She