14

The caves of the quarries were what was left after the work of the stonecutters and rock crushers in order to clear the place and build houses and mosques. However, the presence of the revolutionaries in the area and the chase of the horse riders forced the stonecutters to abandon their work, leaving behind tunnels, unfinished diggings, and crushed stone that looked from afar like snow and the overflow of foam in a waterfall. The quarries, the caves, and the tunnels became a convenient location for the revolutionaries to hide whenever they were pursued. They used them, at times, as stables for the mules transporting their equipment, and a safe place to manufacture explosives.

When I entered the cave, I felt like Alice in Wonderland, but the wonders in this cave were dark cavities and holes that looked like the mouths of mythical beasts. There was also the biting smell of dampness and mule dung.

My uncle and my grandmother were sitting in front of one of the cavities and, not far from them, I sat with Rabie watching the road to Zawata and Kiryat Aharon and the remaining hubbub in the square as people were trying to get away. My uncle was depressed, and my grandmother was trying to reassure and comfort him, although she did not know what was happening.

My grandmother and I watched the movement of the revolutionaries in the villages and the mountains, like tourists. All we saw of the revolution was a group of well-behaved guerilla fighters, who believed in the struggle for God’s sake, and in the protection of people’s rights—we knew nothing about spies and collaborators, and the prevailing confusion among the revolutionaries. We knew nothing of al-Zaybaq and Abu Satour and Abu Jildeh, and the suspicious activities of some of the mayors. We only heard about all that from people’s gossip and the rumors they spread. As for the details of their activities, their backgrounds, and what happened behind the scene, we were clueless. How could we have known about it? We were not in touch with reality; we were living on the sidelines.

My grandmother was an illiterate housewife and I was only a child. All I had seen of the revolution was my uncle the mujahid, the boy Rabie, and Abu Tir with his binoculars and the bird’s nest. We did, however, see their nervous mood, constantly shifting between the caves on top of the mountains. But, at least for me, it was akin to a romantic poem or a heroic story of chivalry, while the caves, the forests, and the mountaintops were merely beautiful paintings that added to the revolution and the revolutionaries: a charming, enchanting touch that amazed children like me, whose only vision of reality was superficial. As for the heart of the matter, the seed and the bitter core, it was impossible to grasp, certainly for a child but even for adults. The proof was that many followed the dream, only to find out later that the liberation needed more than a gun, a box of explosives, and Godfearing people.

My grandmother was probably sensing what would happen to us. She used to wake up and tell us what she had seen and what she had dreamt. She would say with deep conviction that what she saw was real and was written, and it was not beautiful. It was uglier than any nightmare we had experienced or could imagine.

My uncle was leaning against a rock while my grandmother sat beside him and held his hand, listening to him talk while looking toward the eastern horizon. “They hanged Abu Tir,” he said. “He is gone; he is a martyr. As for me, Mother, if I become a martyr or if they hang me, do not cry for me. Do not be sad. If they beat us and we disperse, tell people that we tried, but fate was stronger than us. The whole world is against us, even our families and our loved ones.”

She tapped his hand, as if reprimanding him. “Even the relatives? Who among your relatives? We all swear by your life. You are the candle and the light.”

He replied as if he had not heard her: “But if it happens, remember Rabie—he is like an orphan.”

“Rabie is as dear to me as Nidal.” He remained silent, so she said with some firmness, “Why are you so pessimistic, my son? Hold your head up high.”

She heard him cry, saying, “Abu Tir.”

Then my grandmother started crying and I saw Rabie crying, and I, too, cried. I remembered Abu Tir standing on top of the rock and holding the binoculars, then passing them on to me to see the nest of the birds. I remembered what he had said about my uncle. I remembered his kindness and affection for the boy Rabie. All of a sudden, I felt I was about to lose my uncle after I had gotten used to him and grown to love him. Although I saw him only every month, or every two months, and sometimes less than that, I felt that he was generous, goodhearted, and liked people. More importantly, I felt that he was strong and tenacious, but suddenly I saw my uncle cry like everybody else, and Rabie, as well, cried like everybody else.

After a moment of silence, my grandmother resumed talking about general matters, and my uncle calmed down, and I pretended to forget. I asked Rabie, feeling sad but curious, “Are you an orphan, then?”

I saw him wipe the traces of tears from his face, pretending to act older and stronger. Then he said in a cutting tone, “I am like you.”

I was speechless with surprise, so he pressed on, as if he was vindicated, “Your father married a Jewish woman and forgot your mother, and my father turned against your uncle and followed al-Zaybaq. We are in the same situation.”

It was as if someone had hit me on the head. I decided to defy him. I wiped my tears and said, defiant and proud, “My father is my uncle. My father is Sheikh al-Qahtan.”

He turned to me as if he was surprised by my reaction. He remained silent, but a few minutes later he asked, as he touched my dress carefully, “Where did you get this dress?”

I said, somewhat rudely, “What’s wrong with the dress?”

He whispered, “Your old dress was much nicer and suited you better.”

I felt like shouting as loudly as I could and telling the whole world: this boy finally sees me! This boy is growing up! This boy has feelings!