As readers know, this week The New Yorker ran a short story by a former Israeli soldier, Shani Boianjiu, in which Palestinian demonstrators at a checkpoint begged Israeli soldiers to shoot them so as to get into the newspapers and manipulate world opinion to pity them– when they are actually leading OK lives. The story erases the many Palestinians killed and maimed during nonviolent protests of a military occupation and misrepresents a famous incident in which an Israeli attack destroyed seven members of a Palestinian family. Boianjiu’s soldier protagonist says that Palestinian ordnance killed the family– and lest there’s any doubt who we’re talking about, the New Yorker used the real name of the child who survived that attack, Huda.
(Adam Horowitz deconstructed Boianjiu’s fiction here. Annie Robbins did it here.)
We’ve been reading periodicals for a long time. Neither of us can remember such an exaltation of the idea of blaming-the-victim in such a prestigious publication.
But maybe Shani Boianjiu has carved out a new literary genre?
We’re announcing a New Yorker fiction parody contest, “Put your spin on history.” Here are the rules:
–Entries must be no longer than 4 paragraphs
–Entries must be works of imagination, but they must deal with a recognizable historic struggle.
–All entries must include a character who is a soldier or officer of the law.
–Submit your entries in the comment section below for all to see and judge or to editors@mondoweiss.net. Entries must be received by next Friday, June 29.
We will announce a winner and runnerups by the Fourth of July. Winner will receive a copy of a wonderful exploration of Palestinian history, Footnotes In Gaza, by Joe Sacco.
Oh, and here is a sample entry aimed at spurring your imaginations:
It was a hot day in Amsterdam. The mist hung over the canals like a swollen wound. Rhees sat at his desk in the Central Police Station and felt the sweat trickling down from his scalp to his collar in a rhythm. He was a sergeant, but a reluctant one. He didn’t care for order particularly, he didn’t like guns. He would rather be on a bicycle than a motorcycle. But wartime pressed everyone into unaccustomed roles.
Adding to his misery was the airless room. All the oxygen was being consumed by a highly-agitated Dutch family on a bench. They had been brought in that day to be transferred to prisons on the mainland for housing code infractions. They weren’t even a family. Some were Jews, some weren’t.
It was Rhees’s lot to have to take away some of their possessions. The process unleashed fresh fits and appeals to Rhees to hide the children. Hide them? These people had such bizarre ideas about what would befall them in custody. The worst case was a little girl with big dark sunken eyes, hugging three books. She was elfin, couldn’t be over five feet tall. Evidently the books were journals. Rhees had to get to his knees to pry the books from her hands. Her wild intelligent eyes were filled with the deepest darkest thoughts, and he had comforted her by name. “There there Anne, you will get these back before long, but you cannot bring them where you are going…”
The prize is a comic. Could the entry also be a comic?
Really too much, your example—too good. If I could write fiction, even as parody, I would try. (Something about a fiction writing course in high school English, which I switched out of, convinced me otherwise.)
Gone were the sour playground days of his youth when jolly apes would snicker and make fun of him and his name. “No one kicks Alan Dershowitz around anymore” Mr. Dershowitz said out loud with a great deal of satisfaction. Mr. Dershowitz smiled as he reflected on how far he had travelled, how high he had climbed: a Harvard chair, a made-for-hollywood profile on the legal defense team of a black football star, and invitations to the White House.
The White House visits were the best of it, and Mr. Dershowitz prided himself in always remembering why he was there. He was there to remind the President, Mr. President whatever-your-name-is, that it is Mr. Alan Dershowitz who speaks for the Jewish people. As long as he made this point crystal clear he could say, “mission acomplished”, and rest easy on the eve of his visit. Mr. Dershowitz was intent on making this point clear this afternoon when he travelled to the White House to meet with President Bush. He brought a signed copy of his book, The Case For Israel, with the intension of personally presenting it to the President.
“How’s it hangin’, Dershy?'”said President Bush, slapping Mr. Dershowitz on the back. It was out of character for Mr.Dershowitz to feel nervous, even in the presence of the Commander in Chief, but when the time came Mr. Dershowitz’s hands trembled a little. His book felt heavy and Mr. Dershowitz understood this to mean that it wasn’t just a book. It was Yaweh’s design for the President’s ME foreign policy. It was written for powerful lawmakers who need to be reminded constantly of the exalted role that the Chosen People play in in our own universe and beyond. Mr. Dershowitz presented his book with both hands. His eyes were moist. “Thanks, Dershy!, that’ll be a great prop for election season!” said the President, slapping him on the back. The President never touched The Case For Israel. A White House staffer snatched the book out of Mr. Dershowitz hands, and briskly left the Oval office with The Case For Israel teetering on a tall stack of note cards and pizza boxes. “Now let’s talk business, Dershy.” said the President. “Do you have a check for me and can you deliver Pennsylvania?”
I’m at something of a loss. All the choices that come to mind are either too arcane or too grim to be funny.
It’s pretty hard to top the original, really.