nie opsetlik nie. Dis mos maar ’n heel onskuldige gewoonte om sjokolade-paaseiers en -paashasies present te gee en hot cross buns te eet!”
Sy kyk hom reguit aan. “Marc, as ’n mens vrugbaarheidsbolletjies en sjokolade-eiers eet op die dag wanneer jy die dood van jou Verlosser herdenk, dan het jy ’n swak insig in wie Hy is en wat Hy vir jou gedoen het. Die grootste gedeelte van die kerk geniet die Paasdae saam met die wêreld as ’n lang naweek waartydens daar gejol en partytjies gehou word. Mense gaan kampeer en ontspan met familie en vriende sonder om te dink waaroor dit werklik gaan. Party gaan nog miskien Goeie Vrydag kerk toe, maar dan is dit oor en verby. Daar word nie weer gedink aan die Lam wat vir hulle geslag is nie.”
Marc kyk na die lamsvleis wat sy die hele tyd terwyl sy gepraat het, so sorgvuldig aan ’t voorberei was. “By ons in die kerk is daar wel op Paassondagoggend ’n diens waar die mense mekaar ‘Jesus het waarlik opgestaan’ toeroep. Hulle gebruik ook op Goeie Vrydag nagmaal.”
“Dit is wonderlik, Marc! Ek sê nie die kerk as geheel dwaal nie, maar ek sê ’n groot gedeelte is verblind.”
“Maar, ek moet sê die eiers en die hasies bly nie agterweë nie en die oorgrote meerderheid mense gaan vir die lang naweek weg. Dikwels die predikant ook.”
“Verstaan jy die implikasie van God se presiese tydsberekening, van die diepe betekenis van Yeshua as Pesach-lam?”
“Dit maak sin.”
Sy kyk hom weer berekenend aan voordat sy voortgaan. “Maar nou wil ek iets sê wat jou dalk nog meer gaan verwar. Maar dis nou maar hoe ek dit sien. Ek dink Hy het Saterdagaand ná sonsondergang opgestaan en nie Sondagoggend nie. Hy het gesê Hy sal die derde dag opstaan. Dit was tog basies die skemering van die volgende dag. Die vroeë oggend van die volgende Joodse dag. Die Bybel sê immers dit was nog donker. Dalk was dit al donker. Dit is dan ook die begin van die sewentiende Nissan, die Joodse Fees van Eerstelinge, Firstfruits, daardie jaar op ’n Sondag, en Yeshua was inderdaad eersteling uit die dood.”
“Maar hoekom het ek dan nooit van hierdie dinge gehoor nie?”
“Miskien om dieselfde rede waarom ek nooit gehoor het dat Yeshua die Messias is nie. Dit is dinge wat jy vir jouself vorentoe moet uitmaak. Moenie ander mense daarvoor probeer verantwoordelik hou nie. Gaan ondersoek self of dit so is of nie.”
“En die seder dan?”
Sy vee weer die stoomklam haarslierte uit haar oë, glimlag breed. “Nee, nou moet ek eers klaar kook anders het ons glad geen seder nie. Jy sal vanaand genoeg te sien en te hoor kry. Wil jy nie vir ons ’n koerant gaan koop hier by die supermark onder in die straat nie?”
“Met plesier.”
“Koop maar ’n Jerusalem Post, dan kan jy die Engels darem ook lees. Neem ’n sambreel, dit gaan nou-nou weer reën.”
Hy kom met die koerant terug en gaan in die woonkamer daarmee sit. Op bladsy drie skreeu die opskrif weer: Terrorist bombers blown up at roadblock.
“Wat is dit tog met die mense?” roep hy half radeloos uit, bang dat Rivkah ook daar iewers kan wees. “’n Mens blaas jou mos nie self op as jy nie heilig oortuig is jy doen die regte ding nie. Wat gaan in hul koppe aan?”
“Gaan kyk, voor my bed lê ’n eksemplaar van Sondag se London Times. Iewers op die middelblaaie is daar juis daaroor ’n artikel.”
Hy maak soos sy sê en kry die artikel maklik.
Inside the world of the Palestinian suicide bomber
At precisely 8 pm last Saturday a battered car flashed its headlights twice as I waited on a dark and dusty road in the Gaza Strip. My journey into the world of the Palestinian suicide bombers was beginning. After a ten-minute drive, I stepped out of the car to be greeted by a masked man I would come to know as the commander of a small cell of the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades, a group that has claimed responsibility for nine highly published suicide attacks this year in which forty three people have died.
I was to spend the next four days with this cell, seeking insights into the election and training of suicide bombers and also into their minds and motives.
Attacks by groups of such as the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades and military action by the Israelis have spiralled in recent weeks in the worst violence of the eighteen month Palestinian Intifada, or uprising.
While the West and Israel regard those who attack unarmed civilians as terrorists – the administration of President George W. Bush announced last week it would classify the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades as a terrorist organization – many in the Muslim world and particularly in the Palestinian territories claim they are martyrs fulfilling a religious obligation in the face of “oppression”.
The walls of thousands of bare, concrete homes in the Gaza Strip are covered in colourful graffiti dedicated to those who have died fighting Ariel Sharon, the Israeli prime minister, in a quest to “liberate” Jerusalem, the West Bank and Gaza for the Palestinians.
I was about to meet two men chosen to become al-Aqsa martyrs and to discover that they did not conform to the poverty-stricken young militants exploited for mindless acts of terrorism.
But first their commander, who introduced himself as Abu Fatah, firmly but politely asked me to put on a blindfold and lie down in the vehicle, in the well between the front and back seats. Security is imperative, he said.
After twenty minutes our Mercedes came to a halt and I was taken by the hand and led down a flight of steps. Removing my blindfold, I found myself in a room strewn with cushions and loosely covered sponge mattresses. Pictures of the al-Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem adorned the walls and heavy floral curtains blocked any glimpse of the outside.
I faced an initial grilling in which it was established that I was Lebanese, a Muslim and the author of a book about the militant group, Hezbollah. In the early hours of the morning a number of fighters began to join us. One by one they walked in from the darkness, all of them masked, dressed in military fatigues and armed with Kalashnikovs and hand grenades.
They sat on the cushions round a large oil lamp that cast shadows across the room. In the distance the sound of Israeli warplanes pierced the night, followed by machinegun fire and the thudding of homemade bombs. As I would soon realise, this was a nightly routine.
His face covered by a kefija, or headdress, to conceal his identity, Yunis spoke first about the paintings of Michelangelo, Da Vinci and Picasso, then abruptly changed the subject and described – with equal passion – his urge to become a martyr.
“We are educated strugglers,” he said. “We are not terrorists and the world should recognise that our acts are not intended to be pure, cold-blooded murder.”
“The Palestinian people had sought help from Arab countries, the United States and Europe in their attempt to establish an independent state,” he said, “but to little or no avail.”
“Finally, I searched for my God in the holy Koran and found it filled with verses and commands on how to end my oppression,” he added, eyes blazing. “I discovered late that victory is only granted by God and not by (Tony) Blair and Bush. My aim is to liberate my land and to transfer the triangle of fear to (the Israeli) environment.”
Delivered with emphatic gestures, this was his chilling justification for the mission he would soon undertake: “Israel attacked my honour, inflicted pain in our mothers and fathers and I have to inflict the same on them until Israeli mothers scream at their government and plead with the world to end the conflict. I will persist until they experience the same fear and pain our mothers daily feel.
“I cannot stand in front of a tank that would wipe me out within seconds, so I will use myself as a weapon. They called it terrorism, I say it is self-defence. When I embark on my mission I will be carrying out two obligations: one to my God and the other to defend myself and my country.”
Yunis lit a cigarette and declared that life was “precious”. He would rather be enjoying “normal days and nights, parties, family gatherings and seaside picnics,” he said. “We are