The Brave New World of Narrative
By Avishay Beidani
After
reading Our World:The bothersome, annoying truth by Caroline Glick, I looked around in wonder. Surely
Ms. Glick must be right, I thought. Truth is meaningless, facts no more than a
basis for interpretation. The story — the narrative — is all.
Break your shackles, people! I thought. Free your minds! All
hail the great and mighty narrative, and to hell with the truth! Truth is dead! The year is 1!
In this spirit, I sat down and pondered what sort of
horrific atrocity propaganda I could dream up about the Palestinians. It didn’t
have to be true. Actually, it shouldn’t be true: truth would only get in the
way of the narrative.
The mental light bulb clicked on. There was my story, fully
formed — a piece that would upset even the thickest-skinned readers and make
them believe how awful the Palestinians were.
Imagine a deserted stretch of road in the occupied Gaza
Strip. Three Palestinian freedom fighters armed with machine guns lie in ambush
for the evil Israeli occupier — any occupier will do. Headlights flare in the
distance, and the sound of a motor grows louder as a car approaches. As one,
the freedom fighters open fire and keep on firing, pouring all of their righteous
wrath, with their bullets, upon the Israeli car.
The car stops. The freedom fighters approach it slowly,
watching for any sign of life — a sign that they failed in their sacred duty.
The driver and passengers are mortally wounded but still breathing. With grim,
steady purpose, the fighters make sure no one in the car will ever breathe
again.
Well, I thought, this would certainly fit the narrative. I’d
barely gotten the first paragraph down when a friend of mine looked over my
shoulder and said, “This isn’t fiction, you idiot! It really happened! Don’t
you remember the story of Tali Hatuel and her daughters?”
Well, that was an hour wasted.
Back to the drawing board. This time, I’d think up a story
that happened further north, in broad daylight. It wouldn’t be a grownup
driving a car, either. I’d make it even worse — a kid on a bike. That would
really be a great atrocity story, right? Just perfect for the narrative.
So there’s this kid — let’s say he’s eight years old —
outside riding his bike somewhere in Samaria — oh, excuse me, I mean the West
Bank. Two Palestinian freedom fighters see him, grab him off his bike and drag
him into a cave. They pick up a stone almost as big as the kid’s head — and
that’s one less evil Israeli occupier in the world.
I called my friend over. “How about this?”
He read it, then gave a grim nod. “Well, at least you’ve
done your research,” he said.
“What research?” I asked him, stunned. “I made this up! It’s
fiction!”
“No, it isn’t,” he told me. “Do a search for Rami Chaba and
see what you get.”
It couldn’t be. But there it was.
All right, I thought. I’d try again, and this time I’d make
it as horrific as anyone could imagine. So dark and cruel that no search engine
on earth would have anything like it since Genghis Khan.
It’s Friday night in an occupying settlement. In one of the
houses the Shabbat candles are burning low. Dinner is over and the family has
gone to bed. Two young freedom fighters step inside, knives at the ready, and
do what freedom fighters do when they get lucky enough to enter the lair of an
evil Israeli occupier. How’s that for narrative?
Or another scenario, also on a Friday night in another
settlement. Noise comes from one of the houses; a party is in progress. The
young heroes wait in the dark outside; they’ve had a busy week scouting the
area, looking for opportunities.
The party winds down. The guests begin making their way back
home. Our heroes wait, tense and alert, waiting for action, dreaming of glory.
Time passes. They peek at their watches. They’ve waited long
enough; the inhabitants of the house must surely be asleep by now. They move
silently toward the house, open the door and slip inside.
With a brief glance they take in the layout of the home.
Their eyes meet: you go to this room, I’ll go to that. The first bedroom is
dark and quiet, the only sound the even breathing of the boy sleeping inside. A
few quick downward strokes, and silence.
Now the next room: another little boy. Quickly, before he
wakes up and screams... and now he will never make another sound again.
What’s that? The parents are stirring. Hurry, before they
wake up. What — you’re nervous? Oh, come off it. They’re middle-aged and
asleep, and we’re young, strong and awake. And we’ve got the butcher knives.
Well, that’s over. We’re in the clear. But wait — what’s
that? A baby? No problem. You go take care of her... and we’re done. Time to
head home for our heroes’ welcome. Glory, here we come!
That’s the story I’ve thought up. Quite a narrative, I
think: as wild and atrocious as can be. It should get me... let me see... the
Nobel Peace Prize at least.
Now to show it to my friend, the one who thinks I can’t
write fiction to save my life. This should wipe that smug smile off his face.
Another morning surviving Tel Aviv traffic and the local
blood sport, the hunt for a parking space. Out into the parking lot and
straight toward my friend’s office building. I make the elevator by the skin of
my teeth — and it starts going down. Damn. I’ll just imagine the look on my
friend’s face when he sees what I’ve thought up. It’s got to work this time.
He’ll never believe it.
I finally make it to his office. “Well?” he asks me.
“Here,” I say, handing him my laptop.
He puts the laptop on his desk and starts reading. After a
moment, his eyes meet mine with the mixture of amazement and exasperation I’ve
come to know and dread.
“Don’t you ever read the news?” he asks me quietly.
My mouth goes dry. “What are you talking about?” I ask him.
He turns the laptop back toward me. A browser window is open
to a search engine. “Type in ‘Itamar massacre,’” he says.
I do. Our eyes meet again. A beep from his cellphone breaks
the silence. He glances at it, then back at me.
“I have a meeting now,” he says. “Sorry I can’t show you
out.”
I pack up my laptop and head toward the door, reflecting
that it’s not a cliché: truth really is stranger than fiction.
