“The speakers! But God is wonderful and those speakers are so powerful they carried me to the mosque on the power of their voice alone.”

Thus went the talk in the village for the rest of the day. Among the old it took longer to address the actual subject of the speakers, but among the young it was the first thing to cross their lips.

“Can you believe the damn call to prayer this morning?”

“God damn Karim Sulayman and his impressive money. May God curse the speakers made in America and dropped by conspiracy in the village of Nawara.”

Nor were the women of Nawara silent, though their cursing was sprinkled with a greater degree of pride for the generosity of Karim Sulayman.

“The voice of this mosque is stronger than the voice of the Knesset itself.”

“The morning was a time of peace, now it is a time of American technology. May God forgive my harsh words.”

That night silence fell on Nawara earlier than usual and by nine o’clock I was sound asleep.

The next morning, the sun was timidly making its way toward the horizon, perhaps fearful of another blast like the one it had received the previous day.

“ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR!”

Suddenly the mosque’s call was followed by machine-gun fire.

I don’t know why, but I got up, dressed, grabbed my flashlight, and then went out to see what was happening.

What we saw at the base of the minaret was enough to light the gray skies of our souls for many weeks to come. By the time I had arrived, there were many people already there. In the center of the group was a trio of settlers holding machine guns and barking at everyone in a mix of Hebrew, Arabic, and English.

No, I wasn’t. Perhaps because it was so early, or perhaps because I suspected they would not fire on the mosque, I was not scared. In fact, no one seemed scared. No one said anything as the three men went on shouting and waving their machine guns in the air.

“It must stop!” shouted the largest of the settlers in heavily accented Arabic. At first I didn’t know what he was talking about, but then I realized, along with everyone else, that the mosque’s message calling the faithful was too loud for the occupants of the settlement over the hill on the south side of the village.

The mukhtar, who is usually very nice, is famous for his need for sleep. He stood in front of this small group of bearded men dressed in blue jeans, with skullcaps pinned to their hair. He said nothing. Not a word. He just stared at them.

No, I don’t think he did it out of any principle. I think he was still half asleep and he couldn’t think of anything to say.