Free Vicious Circle by Robert Littell Page B

locking the car, he led the way to a portal in a whitewashed stucco wall. He pointed to
     the Arabic writing over the door. “This is the word
Shahid
, which Westerners translate as
martyr
but really means
witness
, meaning that the dead boy, whose name was Anwar, bore witness to God and the Prophet.”
    The driver rapped his knuckles on the door. A teenage boy wearing a sweatshirt with a Palestinian flag on the chest opened
     it. Roger spoke to him in Arabic. The boy, gesturing with the grace of a ballet dancer, motioned with his palm for the two
     visitors to enter.
    Sweeney stepped onto the concrete of the bare open courtyard filled with rows of white plastic chairs. Thirty or so men in
     polyester trousers and sandals sat silently around an open grate on which coffee was being brewed. A giant framed photograph
     of the late Anwar hung from one wall; it had been taken in a Gaza studio but made to look as if the boy was posing in front
     of the great Dome of the Rock Mosque in Jerusalem. There was Arabic writing on the wall under the photograph, which Roger,
     leaning toward Sweeney, translated. “It is what we call the
shahada
, the single most important verse from the sacred Qur’an, which an infidel recites when converting to Islam and a Muslim recites
     at the time of his death. ‘
Ash’hadu an la illahu ila Allah wa’ash’hadu anna Muhammadan rasulu Allah
.’ ‘
I bear witness that there is no God but Allah, I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah
.’”
    The boy in the sweatshirt, who turned out to be Anwar’s kid brother, made his way down the rows of mourners holding a tarnished
     brass tray filled with almond biscuits and small porcelain cups of brackish coffee. Roger handed a cup to Sweeney and took
     one himself. “It is polite to drink,” he whispered. “The coffee is bitter even though at the home of a martyr it is usually
     sweet. This is because the boy’s father is bitter at the death of his son at such a young age.”
    “I heard he threw garbage at the feet of a local Imam who came to pay his respects,” Sweeney said.
    “This may be true,” Roger said with artful vagueness.
    “Which one is the father?”
    “The older gentleman with patent leather shoes and his head bowed onto his chest.”
    “I’d like to ask him some questions.”
    Roger turned to the gaunt Palestinian sitting next to him and said something. The Palestinian got up and walked over to Anwar’s
     father. Bending, he mumbled something in his ear. The father lifted his eyes and studied Sweeney, then nodded his head once.
    “The father of Anwar accepts to reply to your questions,” Roger said.
    Sweeney looked across at the father. “Please accept my condolences on the death of your son.”
    Roger translated. The father, his features drawn, the lids of his eyes heavy with grief, nodded again.
    “Is the coffee you serve bitter because the bullet that killed your son was fired by a Palestinian?”
    When Roger hesitated, Sweeney said, in a tone that left him no room to maneuver, “Translate.”
    “Roger.” Sweeney’s driver turned back to the father and repeated the question in Arabic. Sweeney knew he had translated correctly
     when several of the men sitting around the room gasped.
    The dead boy’s father thought a moment before responding. Then, measuring his words and speaking with great dignity, he launched
     into a lengthy reply. Sweeney turned to Roger. “He tells,” the driver said, whispering a running translation as Sweeney scribbled
     notes on the back of the page containing the interview with Rabbi Apfulbaum, “that he would find no comfort if an Isra’ili
     bullet had killed his son. He tells that he himself is for the treaty of peace even if it leaves the Jews in possession of
     Arab lands. He tells that he bitterly regrets the death of his son, but understands the frustration that drove Anwar to join
     the armed struggle against the Jews.” The Palestinians around the courtyard rocked