Weeks passed and the news of the sewage project spread, amid opposition and disapproval. People went to the municipality, to the mayors, to the governor, and the notables to complain, but the mayors said “Amen” and the notables washed their hands of it, leaving everything in God’s hands. They left the meetings and the deals and went east, seeking open spaces and the oil fields. It’s true that oil fields have a smell that can cause headaches, but they’re bearable headaches compared to the ones they faced in Wadi al-Rihan and its municipality. The headache caused by the oil fields is at least beneficial and doesn’t impact the environment and the nostrils the way sewage does. It doesn’t stink like sewage, which attracts rats and wasps. Then there was the lassitude that spread in the region like a summer cloud and fell over people’s heads, sparing no one from the bites of mosquitoes, bugs, and fleas.
My uncle like many others rushed to complain about the impact of the sewage factory when kamal told him that he was no longer involved in the project, and that it was now Said and Abu Salem’s sons’ responsibility. Abu Salem had returned to Wadi al-Rihan a few weeks ago, despite the threats. His return had given Kamal some hope and could have convinced him to run the project, but he had been quickly disillusioned by Abu Salem’s poor management and the pressure exerted by his sons. They convinced their father that Said would cost them less to run the project, that Said would be better than his pretentious brother, a philosopher who thought he understood the work he was doing. They told him that he was a German, an immigrant who had lived most of his life abroad, far from their world, and that he’d better get rid of him for his peace of mind.
The project failed, and the stench filled the air and people’s nostrils, reaching the inhabitants of the neighboring villages and the wheat fields. The area was covered with rats, frogs, blue flies, and snakes. A sense of desolation and disgust spread among the people, who fell silent, discouraged after their numerous complaints and sit-ins in the halls of the municipality and in front of the police stations and the security forces. A journalist who wrote that there were cases of plague was arrested on the pretext that he was spreading rumors and causing unrest. People learned of the matter and said that what the journalist had written was true, citing the names of the numerous plague victims. Then they went back to whispering, complaining, and pleading with the notables and the relatives, including Abu Jaber, the closest to them and the first witness to the project.
I rode in the station wagon with my uncle to visit the sewage station. It was my uncle’s first visit to a sewage station, but I had seen some in the United States and in Europe, and they were truly wonderful, with public parks, fertilizer factories, and water purification centers. But this one was ugly and disgusting, a real catastrophe.
I stood with my uncle on top of the hill looking from a distance, saddened and grieving. The cinchona trees and the beautiful oleander flowers projected an air of refinement, reminding us of Kamal’s taste and delicate touch. He had done a lot to transform the sewage project into a garden like those in Frankfurt and Berlin. He had planted shrubs and white poplars, cinchona trees, oleander, mallow, and petunias. After he left the project, the wild weeds grew tall between the trees and the mallow flowers wilted from neglect. Most of the delicate petunias died, leaving nothing in their place but long stems with thorns and wild flowers. The wind blew from the west, carrying droplets of sewage and bacteria raised higher by huge fans turning over the surface of the ponds. As for the ponds, what a mess! What a crime! Something one never could have dreamed of even in their worst nightmares, they were filled with a liquid similar to molasses, but as hard as cement and as black as mud.
My uncle sighed deeply at the sight and had an asthma attack, while I jumped a few meters into the air when I saw a large rat as big as a wild rabbit looking at me defiantly from among the weeds and the petunias. We quickly got into the car and drove away to escape the bug bites and a flock of wasps. My uncle said breathlessly, “What a catastrophe! What a sewage station! I wish it had collapsed before it was completed.”
The people were divided into two and even three groups, one saying that the project had become a curse, a detested environmental catastrophe. The second group said that the project was a great achievement because it protected the environment, purified it, and provided it with water and manure. The third group was torn between the two sides seeing the project as a huge blessing when considered from the angle of knowledge and history. This group was represented by Mazen Hamdan Guevara whose knowledge of the street, of the milieu, and the action, his life in Beirut, in Tunis, in Moscow, and finally here in Wadi al-Rihan had given him an edge. He knew himself, the others, the past, and the future. He was convinced that it was impossible to do any better in a Third World country and providing cheap labor. He believed that the political, economic, and social conditions had led to an imbalance in jobs, in the ranks of the leaders, and in the results; in other words, he knew that the situation was not healthy.
Mazen wondered how we were expected to produce a civilized project in a poor environment, one lacking the basics for development and change. We were in Wadi al-Rihan and not in Frankfurt or Berlin. Here we copy them, we imitate them, and the dilemma lay in the concept of imitation. The imitator is not an innovator, no matter how much he tries, he cannot reproduce the original. He isn’t gifted and he suffers from complexes. The imitator’s hand, his mind, his character, and his feeling that he is responsible for himself or for others according to obscure universal measures that he doesn’t comprehend, constitute a handicap in his life. Take Said, for example—was he qualified to run the project? Abu Salem said that with God’s will Said was qualified because his sons told him so. They disliked Kamal who didn’t say yes and amen to Abu Salem and the rest of the shareholders who were, naturally, Abu Salem’s sons.
Mazen’s father said, “I don’t understand, you used to say that the project without Kamal wouldn’t take, because he was the specialist and the origintator of the idea. You also used to say that the project couldn’t be run by a bull. Now you tell me that the project is working well and the odor isn’t too strong and doesn’t affect the people! I don’t understand you!”
Mazen remained silent and motionless, but Kamal sighed and said, disgusted, “Change the subject, please. We’re here to eat; shall we Nahleh?”
“Whatever you say,” replied Nahleh. She got up to help her stepmother in the kitchen. Violet and her mother left and only Futna stayed.
My uncle said, quite insistent, “Do you really not smell the odor or are you telling us stories?”
Mazen remembered the discussions he had engaged in, in the past about the organization and its composition, and wondered whether there could be an organization without order, and order without administration, and administration without qualifications and capability. The revolution started and people followed, the educated and the crooks, the successful and the failures. It led people to this stage. Before that it guided them and squeezed out the best of them. It created an unqualified and lazy generation that slept till noon and stayed up till the morning, meeting on planes and in airports. That generation was living in a dream that had lost its luster and its myth. It had returned to the same thing it had once opposed and has become a tribe that split into many tribes. The head of the tribe has become the center of power. When we sifted the tribes we were left with one head, one leader, while the rest became a herd, a herd of heads and heads in a herd. Can an organization be built with the heads of a herd? Can a company or a factory be established that way? In this case in particular, who is the head, Kamal, the engineer, or Salem, who provided the capital, or Said, the technician with a queue of heirs standing behind him?
Mazen said to his father categorically, “This project needs time. Give it time and it will succeed.”
My uncle turned to Kamal and asked him, “And you intend to leave?”
Kamal replied calmly, while continuing to eat, “I’m leaving and so is Hayk, and Violet will follow suit. Would you like to come with us?”
My uncle was silent and ate his food mechanically while looking at his two sons, the freedom fighter who had changed so much, and the genius he couldn’t keep. He was wondering about his farm and who would inherit it. He had pawned his house, his car, and Umm Jaber’s jewelry and had never sold a parcel. Here are his sons each in a different place. None of them was interested in the farm or aspired to own it. They didn’t even have plans to build a little cottage on it to spend their summer vacations there. He wondered who would inherit it! He said, bent over his plate, “This year the season is very good and the land was very giving. Tomorrow we’ll pick the mulberry before it rots on the branches.”
No one replied, and he raised his voice and said firmly, “On Friday we’ll all go to the farm and eat the mulberry from the tree.”
Kamal apologized, saying, “No father, I’m leaving on Friday morning.”
The food stuck in my uncle’s throat when he heard that. He said to Kamal, “On Friday? I thought that you were staying for two or three more months.”
Kamal didn’t reply and continued to eat as if unconcerned, but his heart was torn as he thought about life and how it doesn’t give a person all he wants. He found his fulfillment in the West and it gave to him generously, but what did he get from here? What did he give—an abominable project that will be remembered for generations to come. People will say that his son cheated them, they will tell his father that God gave him three sons, one like a bull, a stupid son, and a go-getter who limps.
My uncle said, “On Friday? You mean there’s no way you can postpone your departure date?”
Kamal said, tersely, “I received an interesting offer.”
Mazen snorted derisively revealing his sarcasm and his understanding of his brother’s true nature. He was convinced that someone who was trained in the West, shaped in the West, and married in the West, would never come back to his people.
Futna asked him in a hoarse voice, “Is it possible that you’ll leave before the festival and my delivery?”
He turned to her and looked at her belly. He smiled but didn’t comment. He pondered on women who think that their delivery is an important event and a great achievement, a victory for them and for us. He was leaving a more important project and a failed achievement, a terrible failure, a huge one.
Nahleh asked with veiled sarcasm, “When are you due?”
Futna touched her belly and said, proudly, “I’m entering my delivery month in a few days,” then she turned to Nahleh and told her, “Well, Nahleh, what gift will you give the baby and me?”
Nahleh replied, laughing sarcastically, as if reminding Futna of what she was trying to forget, “I offer you a sincere wish, from the bottom of my heart, for a safe delivery.”
“How generous you are!” said Futna.
Nahleh said wickedly, laughing, “Dear Futna, a woman your age and in your situation shouldn’t think of gifts. The best gift from God is for you to have a safe delivery and a healthy and normal child.”
Futna glared at her, controlling her anger. She was reminding her for the one thousand and tenth time that she was old and that her son might not be normal, that she might encounter difficulties. There wouldn’t be difficulties or surprises, both she and her son were safe and everything was fine. Her doctor in Hadassa had said that everything was normal and that there was nothing to worry about. She didn’t care what her mother, Nahleh, or the heirs thought—the baby was a boy, and the boy protects the inheritance.
Mazen asked his sister, “How many invitations do you need?” But Nahleh continued to eat as if the matter didn’t concern her. Futna said, “I need four or five invitations, for my mother and my brother and the Bey, of course, can I get them?”
He didn’t reply but continued to stare at Nahleh eating slowly and pensively; he asked her, “Well Nahleh, are Abu Salem’s sons coming?”
She replied sternly, “How would I know? Ask their father. It’s none of my business.”
Her father commented, trying to win her over, “What do you mean, it’s not your business? You’re better than they are and the crown jewel of the family.”
She twisted her lips and smiled at her father’s words, but only Kamal noticed her expression; their eyes met, yet in the dim light of the place he couldn’t tell if her smile was meant for him. It didn’t matter anyhow, everything was over and things were clear now, she was the child of this milieu, the outcome of Kuwait and Wadi al-Rihan, she lived in both places and nowhere else, she saw nothing of the rest of the world. Would she have remained silent had she been like him, in a similar situation, with a similar mind and similar experience and thinking? Would she have accepted this midget, this illiterate, backward man, with his heirs, a bunch of mafiosos? And then this Mazen, what a creature he wasn't any different, or if he were, the difference was insignificant.
Mazen asked her again, "How many invitations do you want, how many seats?”
Kamal smiled reflecting on his brother’s question, and how he was taking into consideration Abu Salem’s sons. He was concerned about their seats, not mine, not ours. I will be in Frankfurt, Jaber is in Dubai, and Jamal is in Morocco. You, count Abu Salem’s sons but you forget me and Jaber and Jamal, we have neither invitation cards nor seats, we aren’t part of the celebration, just photos on the shelf, as if we weren’t part of the family, just photos.
The father said, “You can’t leave before the festival. Attend the festival and then go.”
Mazen commented, sarcastically, “Do you want him to attend the festival and miss out on the offer? Is that possible? The offer is much more important than the festival.”
Kamal didn’t reply and smiled to him kindly. He knew that Mazen was jealous of him. One evening when he was drunk Mazen had opened up to him, saying, “You’re lucky, Kamal, that you didn’t squander your life. I squandered mine over nonsense and there’s nothing left in me but a breath of life. I used to swear at you and Jaber, calling you merchants and slaves. I used to call you opportunists, upstarts, and bourgeois. I used to tell myself that even Said was better than you because he stuck to the land, and I thought, naturally, that Guevara was the master of the world because he was the freedom fighter with the belt of death around his waist. I was the one whose life was in the balance for my homeland. Now there is no life left and no homeland, I lost the torch and I’m lost in a dark souq of stolen goods. There’s darkness from Mauritania to the Iranian borders, and from Cairo to Dhahran. I found out that all was useless, the belt of death, the candle that we carried, and the generations that melted away, the million and more martyrs, who was counting? Now that I’m wounded and exhausted and have come out of the feast empty-handed, I'm beginning to regret having squandered my life. I wish I’d done something meaningful in my life, something valuable, a small project, like you. I wanted to be larger than myself, bigger than the world and the limits of the wind, but I ended up like a paper kite tossed in the wind!”
My uncle said, “What’s wrong Kamal, why aren’t you eating? Nahleh, serve your brother.”
Nahleh looked at him in the darkness of the place and saw a tear in his eyes. She bit her lip and shivered, deeply moved. This man, this human being, this honest person had given her a lot, he had given her all he could. He had stood by her in difficult moments but she had moved away from him and ridiculed his honesty and his generosity. He had said words that hurt her but those were only words. He must know that a woman has no one but her husband, and though Abu Salem’s sons are a huge burden, it was the only solution. He was her husband and the husband’s children are always a source of trouble. She wondered whether Kamal’s tears were for her, for Said, or for the project.
Mazen asked Abu Salem, “Abu Salem, how many seats do you want me to keep for you?”
Abu Salem said, evasive, “As many as you’d like.”
My uncle said, annoyed, “What a meaningless answer. Tell him how many invitations you need—five, ten, how many?”
He looked at Nahleh sideways and said, “As many as Nahleh wants.”
She replied, indifferent, “It isn’t my business. I don’t interfere between you and your sons, I’ve learned my lesson.”
He looked at her and smiled cunningly, he said to himself: the sly girl hasn’t forgotten, her words have been as cutting as the edge of a knife. She had constantly repeated: Your sons, Abu Salem, did this and that, your sons imprisoned me and frightened me. They claimed the lands of Makhfiyeh, Sabastiya, Zwata, and Qalqilya, while you ran away from trouble and didn’t care what would happen to me. You ran away alone and left me to face them.
Mazen said, “The governor will be inaugurating the Center and will be accompanied by the scouts. The flags will fly high and the sound of music and songs will reach Jerusalem.”
Futna announced, “My mother will be coming to attend the festivities and will be staying a few days. She’ll be elated when she learns what’s happening.”
My uncle commented, sarcastic and indifferent, “What’s going to happen? Something good, I hope.”
She explained with childish enthusiasm, “I mean the presence of the governor, the scouts, and the flags. My mother likes national songs and such matters, she has memorized all the songs dedicated to Abd al-Nasser and one of Umm Kulthum’s songs whose title I’ve forgotten. My mother sings very beautiful national songs all the time.”
My uncle turned to her and asked, in a deep, sarcastic tone, “Your mother sings?”
He said those words and visualized her mother, a petite, thin woman with brittle bones and sinking cheeks, singing. He smiled and said, “With God’s blessings.”
Futna continued as enthusiastic as a child, “Don’t you believe me? Ask Violet and Umm Grace. My mother attended a nuns’ school, she plays the piano very well.”
My uncle repeated, “Very well?” and she confirmed, “Very well.”
He blew out the smoke from his cigarette and said, “Well Mazen, what’s the matter with you, why do you bring in outside talent when you have local talent?”
Everyone laughed, angering Futna. She said that her mother was quite a lady, a graduate of a nuns’ school. Her grandfather was the protector of the Haram al-Sharif and had the key to the Aqsa Mosque. She said that her mother knits and did crochet and she had been lately busy preparing the baby’s trousseau, all blue because it is certainly a boy.
Nahleh said with obvious envy, “It doesn’t matter, Futna, whether it’s a boy or a girl, what’s important is to have a safe delivery and a normal, healthy baby.”
Futna replied while smacking her lips, “When my mother comes to attend the festival you will see that all the wool she’s knitting is blue.”
Nahleh whispered, envious and mocking, “It’s all blue!”
Futna kept bragging, adding oil to the fire of Nahleh’s jealousy, “My mother is known, she comes from a notable family and I’m sure that the governor knows her.”
Nahleh approved, laughing sarcastically, “Of course, of course, he’ll recognize her.”
Futna said, addressing Mazen, “Surely, surely, when he shakes her hand he will recognize her and he’ll invite her to sit beside him, in the first row.”
Mazen smiled and so did Kamal, while Nahleh guffawed, but my uncle said seriously, “Why shouldn’t she sit in the first row? Who is better than her or us?”
Mazen laughed and Kamal smiled, and both agreed on the following: Sitt Amira would sit in the first row near the consuls and the journalists to engage them in polite conversation in English, while all the others would sit in the second row. They didn’t want the foreigners to say that the family took the front rows and gave them the back seats.
A few days before the festival things suddenly changed in the street. The inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan became very active. An air of rejoicing dominated the place, helping the inhabitants to forget their oppression and the nauseating odors. They got involved in the action and seemed in the highest of spirits for no specific reason, in other words, they were happy without reason. The streets were filled with journalists and foreigners, and television cameras, The loudspeakers energized the vendors and the shopkeepers, forcing them to abandon their benches and their water pipes to check what was happening. They were curious about the male and female journalists roaming around in the streets, wearing shorts, taking pictures of children holding photos of the citadel, surrounded by dancers, singers, and ads for companies. There were ads describing Pepsi Cola as the favorite drink of the festival. Benetton made the same claim for its clothes and warned against imitations. There were ads for Toyota, Mercedes, Kolinos, and Cutex, among many others.
The publicity, the ads, and the foreigners made the inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan feel the winds of change. They anticipated great benefits since, according to their thinking, the cameras, the publicity, the groups of tourists, and the journalists hadn’t come for nothing, there must be something worthwhile happening. This valuable thing is the citadel. How could people have forgotten throughout the centuries that they had a great citadel and valuable heritage on top of the hill, right before their eyes, but no one saw it. How could this great monument have been abandoned and forgotten when it was a piece of art and the pride of civilization and history?All the cameras, the journalists, the local newspapers, and the newsletters confirm that, so how could they have forgotten that here, in Wadi al-Rihan, there was a historical ruin like Petra and the pyramids? Why had no one ever exploited this lofty imposing structure? Do you know what this meant? It meant tourists hotels, restaurants amusement parks and money. Do you know what Petra’s income is from tourists and tourism? Do you know how many tourists visit the sphinx and the pyramids every year? Do you know the number of tourists who go to Granada Carthage and Jerash?
How could it have escaped our attention that we were sitting on an oil well, on money and a great source of revenue? Why had we wasted rime with insignificant and silly incidents and considered them to be quite dramatic? Why had we demonstrated in front of the project and the municipality, complaining about a few rats and odors that would soon dissipate? This is history while those were innovations, this is a heritage for life and those were everyday, passing trivialities. How could we have forgotten this and remembered that? Had we been guided by awareness and ruled by glory, had there been revival and sacrifice, eternity and nobility of birth, had we been far-sighted, we wouldn’t have paid attention to insignificant words and events.
The citadel is therefore a symbol of the world because we discovered the world and the world discovered us through an invincible heritage. This is what history, civilization, and culture are all about.
The young boys rode around on their bicycles, distributing fliers, programs, and pictures of the citadel. People were so excited and enthusiastic that they printed the picture of the citadel on tee shirts and purses. Others made stickers to put on cars, shop windows, and mirrors, expressing their love for and affiliation with the citadel. This is how Mazen with me behind him became the true heroes of the citadel revival. People greeted us everywhere we went. Being a foreigner and aloof by nature, I stayed in the background and watched Mazen run the show. He changed Wadi al-Rihan into an oasis of friendly relations and love, visited by total strangers and family members. Anyone walking in the street would see Arabian robes from the Gulf, hats from Europe, saris from Pakistan, and straw baskets and shell lamps from Vietnam. We sold merchandise from all over the world at the expense of our own products, which we’ve forsaken, having decided to import what we like. We soon discovered that we had truly hurt our products, as candy, toffee, and the ‘Honey of the West’ could not compete with the imported items. We ended up eating them but their taste didn’t satisfy us, though we praised them in the local press and said that they tasted as sweet as chocolate and as delicious as dates.
Mazen explained that it wasn’t our fault, rather it was history’s fault because history was younger than us and modernization required time, patience, and work. The populace didn’t know anymore whether we had a history on which to build or no history at all. They said that the citadel was a symbol of history, but then they asked how it was possible to modernize without history? My uncle wondered what to do with his strawberries, whether he had to export them or eat them? Said offered to take them to make a new kind of toffee for the festivities. This is why, on the day of the celebration, we ate a new toffee with a new cover showing the name of Wadi al-Rihan and the image of the citadel, and we thanked God.
The citadel was bathed in flags, lights, and boy scouts. It looked like a bride on her wedding day. Pedestrians pointed it out proudly, saying, “Tonight is the night for our citadel.” My uncle was concerned, however, and said, “Please God, do not reveal our weaknesses and let this end well.”
Mazen, on the other hand, declared anxiously that the weather report announced westerly winds, and asked for God’s protection. As for Futna, her mother, Nahleh, Abu Salem, and Umm Grace, they were overjoyed and ecstatic because Violet was scheduled to sing before the governor, the notables, and the consuls. She would thus prove to them that in Wadi al-Rihan, we could compete in whatever we wanted, with world summits and superstars.
Giving in to the pressure of the family and his own curiosity, Kamal postponed his trip to Frankurt till after the festivities. He didn’t want to abandon us on a great day of celebration, festivities, and the display of our gifts, but more important, he had heard the weather report and was concerned and curious about the outcome of events. He wondered what would happen if the westerly winds brought the odors, the mosquitoes, and the flies, and if the rats of the station came out, how the governor and the consuls would react. What would his brother Mazen, the man in charge, say about the arrangements and the success of the festivities?
The success of this celebration would mean continuous cultural activity at the citadel, visits from intellectuals, the arrival of tourists, modernity, and setting the foundations of change. Though the sewage project had failed to get rid of the garbage, purify the water, and improve the environment, Mazen might succeed in generating light from the citadel. Though it is true that culture cannot replace the needs of the street or children’s food, it is still considered the nourishment of the soul. No people could rise without culture and intellectual activities. It was, therefore, his duty to provide art and food for the soul of each member of this population, he owed it to them. In other words, culture was for everybody and this celebration was for everybody, and so was the citadel, it belonged to all and everybody had a right to it.
Mazen distributed thousands of invitations, fliers, and programs. Everyone in town and in the villages of the North was getting ready to attend this festivity, together with the children, friends, and relatives. They came in groups, they came by the busload, in trucks and taxis, early in the morning, and filled the streets of Wadi al-Rihan. My uncle went back home for lunch, breathing heavily from the heat, the noise, and the crowded streets and shops. He said to his wife, breathlessly, “Hordes of people are coming in huge numbers.”
She was happy and optimistic and said, “Mazen must be very happy.”
Contrary to people’s expectations and those of my uncle’s wife, Mazen was not happy or proud, because he had never thought that all those people would come, and such numbers meant overcrowding, suffocation, and chaos. He thought about the dancers, the microphones, the program, and electricity. As he had been busy making contacts with the consulates, the journalists, the unions, the associations, and foreigners, he hadn’t arranged to provide large-scale security for the festivities. He was wondering who would organize the people’s entrance to the theater, and who would guarantee the security of the officials and where they would be seated, especially since the invitations weren’t numbered. No matter how many additional seats they brought, there would never be enough for each guest to sit down or even to stand inside the theater or on the terrace. It occurred to him that the boy scouts accompanying the governor might help to keep order and maintain security. But the boy scouts had brought drums, trumpets, and whistles and insisted on doing what they had come to do: participate in the show and entertain the audience with a song dedicated to the citadel and its past glory. They paraded in the streets of our town the whole morning like soldiers. They played music that everybody liked, exciting the children of the city who followed them everywhere, carrying drums or tin boxes on which they played the tune they liked.
Despite our happiness with the joyous atmosphere of the festivities, the activities at the market, the balloons, the candy and the ice cream, the overcrowded shops and public places made us extremely anxious. We were concerned about people rushing to the gates of the citadel. It was barely five in the evening and hours before opening time, and the lines already stretched all the way to the hills of Nablus.
There were checkpoints on the Arab side and on the Israeli side, those of the Authority and those of its authority. On one side we heard “salam,” and on the other side “shalom.” The car drivers were concerned about traffic and wanted to drive through without delays. But the traffic wasn’t moving smoothly. It was blocked between the Arab and the Israeli checkpoints. One was concerned with security and another was preoccupied with ensuring security; in other words, we became the concern of the security, but there was no security for us. The situation created a traffic jam that extended all the way to Hawara, on the east side. We tried in vain to intervene to facilitate the traffic but we failed. The governor said that he had no control over it and the municipal director claimed that he was responsible for the sewers not the traffic. As for the mayors of the nearby villages, they arrived through VIP channels, passed without any problem and sat in the front rows—those reserved for the consuls and the journalists. We had to cajole and flatter them to get back some of the seats they occupied for the sponsoring countries and the priests.
We didn’t know where to seat the nuns until my uncle intervened. He gave up his seat to make room for them. Futna sat first in the front row claiming that she was keeping the seat for her mother who was arriving from Jerusalem, with the French and the Spanish consuls. But Mazen pursuaded her to give up the seat, upsetting her terribly. She considered the move almost an insult and withdrew with Nahleh and Umm Grace to the backstage area. There, they watched the dancers, the music players, the electrician, and the sound engineer preparing the stage and testing the microphones, saying hello, hello. At this exact moment Futna felt something sticky between her legs, but she didnt pay much attention to it and got carried away with the atmosphere of the festivities.
When the consuls, the journalists, and the notables arrived, the spectators were present in large numbers but the festivities were delayed due to sudden confusion, shouting, and fighting at the gates. One person was heard saying, “Allahu Akbar,” and another said, “Get out of my way,” while a third one yelled, “Shame on you, it isn’t acceptable to behave this way in public, in front of foreigners.”
Saadu was shouting loudly and pushing the crowd, followed by Said. He said, “Who deserves to be here, the foreigners or us?”
Said agreed with him, saying, “Of course, us.”
He pushed the people on his left and on his right causing them to fall, some were trampled under the feet.
A young boy was bleeding from the eye and shouting, “My eye, my eye,” but no one stopped to help him. The workers rushed to Mazen and told him that the boy had lost his eye and needed an ambulance. Lying at people’s feet and waiting for an ambulance that was taking its time to arrive, the boy lost consciousness. The ambulance wasn’t allowed to go through without being thoroughly searched, to make sure that no bombs or machine guns were hidden in the midst of glucose and syringes. No one knew whether the delay happened at the Arab or the Israeli checkpoint.
Mazen stood at the top of the stairs watching the pushing, the shoving, the fighting, saying to himself, “God almighty, what kind of people are they!” He saw Said pushing the crowds, preceded by Saadu who was making his way through the spectators and shouting, “Move, move!”
Mazen was concerned about this confusion and cried to his brother, “Hey, Said, fear God.”
But Said pushed a sweaty Saadu and told nun, “We’ve arrived, enter from here, go on, go on.”
When both arrived at the stage entrance they found no room to stand, so they jumped over people’s shoulders until they reached their seats. When Kamal saw them moving toward the consuls, he thanked God for the plane ticket that was in his pocket for the return trip to Germany. Mazen tried to block their way and whispered to them to stop and move away, but Said squeezed between the nuns and told his brother to leave him alone. His comportment shocked the nuns and made even me appeal to the Virgin Mary for her protection. Saadu moved through the rows and sat directly behind Sitt Amira and beside Abd al-Hadi Bey al-Shayib. He inadvertently hit her in the back with his elbow, making her turn and scold him angrily, saying, “Shame on you young man, respect people.”
Mazen’s eyes caught Kamal’s eyes from a distance from his location behind the curtain. Kamal smiled spontaneously, either from embarrassment or possibly to encourage Mazen, but his brother misunderstood his intention and interpreted the smile differently, seeing it as his way of gloating. He was sure that Kamal had seen Said and Saadu push their way through the crowds and sit behind the consuls, in the midst of the nuns and the notables. He was boiling inside as he saw Kamal standing near the ticket window, watching people as if they were part of an experiment in his lab. His anger against Saadu and Said was redirected toward Kamal’s perceived arrogance. Mazen wondered whether his brother felt himself above these creatures? They are our people, our family, our friends, and the inhabitants of this land. They are tired of martyrdom and funerals, they’ve come to have fun and forget their worries. The Germans are not our people, what do we get from them, even if they stand in line and are organized! What if their government is the best in the world and their country the most advanced, with the cleanest air! What if their streets are impeccably clean and their garbage divided into five categories in five different barrels! What if their sewage is as sweet as sugar, arc you one of them or one of us?
Mazen suddenly heard a familiar laugh and turned his head to find Futna with her round belly sitting on the drummer’s seat, beating the drum, while Nahleh was playing the organ and Umm Grace was laughing and clapping. He was mesmerized by the sight and marveled at Wadi al-Rihan and its transformation, amazed by its inhabitants, who had become like children in a wedding party. If he had had security forces and a large army he would have controlled the crowds, but he was alone, how could he impose order! This was the worst and biggest mistake of his life. Was it his luck or this eager milieu, people’s psychology, the lights, the fliers, the programs, and the boy scouts? There were the invitation cards as well, thousands of them. He wondered who had printed so many? Who had distributed them? And the ice cream stands and the sugar candy. Who had excited the inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan? Who had forgotten to include seat numbers on the invitation cards? How could a small mistake, a simple mistake affect everything? We had been concerned about the weather and had taken a million precautions but how could we have anticipated what was happening now?
Suddenly, he heard the boy scouts’ drums and the tune of the festival shaking the stage. The words went as follows:
I am from the Citadel, dear
Spread the good news and meet me here.
Doves fly and doves land,
Peace is at hand,
Dreams are coming true
In Wadi al-Rihan, for me and you.
O God, O God, O God,
And in one voice,
Our efforts applaud.
The song excited the spectators, who joined in, singing very loudly their voices reaching all the way to the closest police station. It reached the other checkpoint by wireless and ordered it to get ready. In their enthusiasm, they were not aware that the citadel had been isolated from the rest of the world and from Wadi al-Rihan, surrounded by security forces.
The wind blew in from the west and carried with it the odors we had feared, but the confusion outside, the crowds inside, and the spectators’ happiness with the boy scouts, the music and the stomping of the dabkeh dancers on the stage made it a lesser evil than we had expected. Most people attributed the odor to the crowds, and the summer sweat rather than to the sewage and the station’s malfunction. The show went on, the audience dancing and shouting without anyone inside the citadel noticing the military presence outside, the increased number of security forces, and the invasion of rats brought by the westerly winds.
We probably had exaggerated when we attributed the agitation of the insects and the rats inside and outside the citadel to the blowing of the wind and the sewage station, because in reality, they were an integral part of the environment. In this wild region the garbage rats were abundant, especially in the quarries, the villages, and the settlement of Kiryat Rahil. They might have been stirred up by the blowing winds, which might have drawn them out of their holes in search of spoils. So, as soon as it was Violet’s turn to sing, she ran out shouting, “A rat in the guitar, a rat in the guitar!”
The women backstage ran to help her but Futna stumbled, got caught in the electric wires and fell heavily on the floor, causing her water to break and her labor to begin.
Mazen was shocked by the sight and the sounds he was hearing, he wondered whether it was a celebration or a nightmare, an educational activity, or a silly carnival. He heard the workers calling for an ambulance, but no one approached the woman lying on the floor surrounded by a small pool of water. Nahleh was kneeling beside her, shouting, “This is no time for this kind of behavior, Sitt Futna!”
The ambulance was waiting behind the checkpoint where it was searched meticulously. But the siege was tightened because the voices coming from the citadel threatened trouble and great excitement that might lead to a confrontation with the police or the security forces or even between the people and the settlers of Tal al-Rihan.
Tal al-Rihan was not very far away, just a few kilometers. In the past, in the good old days, the days of freedom, the inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan used to go to that hill to celebrate the feast of the Nayruz, the Thursday of the dead, the Thursday of the eggs, and the feast of the Prophet Moses. People during those days still observed traditions and feast rituals, but now, after thirty years of occupation, the confiscation of the hill where the Kiryat Rahil settlement had been established was surrounded by a thick fence, a checkpoint, and guards; people have grown used to the situation. They look beyond the horizon so they can forget that foreigners live on top of this hill, foreigners with sideburns who carry arms and swear that the valley and the hill were originally Wadi Rahil and Solomon’s Hill. Just as they had taken Tal al-Rihan in the seventies, they had hoped to regain the rest of the plateau and the valley in the eighties.
Years went by however, and the inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan didn’t recover the hill nor did the settlers of Kiryat Rahil seize the wadi. Both groups, however, watch each other hoping to mark a point or win a goal. This explains the violence of the last years, the killings and the looting on both sides. But naturally, the inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan, less favored by circumstances, marked only a few thefts, a stolen car, some cement, old metal pieces, a sack of flour and hay. In return, and due to favorable circumstances, the inhabitants of Tal al-Rihan, whenever an opportunity arose, whether by day or by night, launched armed attacks on the Wadi, with machine guns and bombs, under the watchful eye of the security forces. On this day, the day of the citadel, because of the chaos and the enthusiasm of the people, the security measures were reinforced.
No one knows exactly why the festivities got out of hand and people rushed out and fought with the police, and the security forces, causing the most violent confrontation that had ever taken place between weapons and stones. Later on, when the press wrote about the event many stories were told, someone stated that the checkpoint had refused to let the ambulance through to transport Futna to Hadassa hospital. The driver and the medics became involved in a very heated discussion with the police, which ended in shouting and calls for help, making the public leave the theater to take part in the fight. Another version of the story reported that the rats became excited and started running among the public and between the chairs, chasing the spectators out. There, they saw what was happening with the medics, went to their rescue and took part in the fight. A third version was reported in the paper Akhbar al-yom, based on an eyewitness account. He said that someone saw men from the Tal al-Rihan settlement carrying lit torches and weapons. He shouted “Fire, fire,” to warn people. Some however, denied that version considering it an inflammatory exaggeration. The panic was the result of the misunderstanding caused by the phonetic similarity between far and nar in Arabic.
Whatever the cause and the motivation, it was clear that the festivities in Wadi al-Rihan were influenced by various intrinsic factors that predisposed the situation to an explosion. On the one hand, there was the confusion due to poor planning, a large number of tickets, the flyers, and the programs. There was also the growing enthusiasm of hearts discontented with martyrdom and sad stories, who had come to rejoice despite history. When they saw the dabkeh dancing group rumbling, and heard the boy scouts’ drum, they were overwhelmed with nostalgia. They sung for the homeland, the citadel, and finally for sacrifice and martyrdom. The mayhem was caused by a multitude of factors, a situation that went out of hand, the effect of a failed sewage project, the confrontation between the security forces and the medics, and Futna’s delivery behind the stage in front of the workers, the singers, and the dabkeh dancers. Most of the workers were patriotic young men who had spent bitter years in detention, quarries, and vicious chases in the valleys and the narrow alleys. They became emotional and shouted proudly, “Tar, revenge.” What was heard then was certainly either “fire,” or “revenge,” or “rat.” There wasn’t a big difference between the way they sounded in Arabic; as for their impact and their result that was a different matter.
When the festivities exploded Mazen found himself in an unenviable situation. He had failed to steer the celebration in the right direction and he was responsible for the situation turning upside down. He was responsible for a large number of consuls, journalists, and the governor. What could he do for all those people without security, a police force, or even guards? All he had at his disposal were a group of scouts, dabkeh dancers, and a band of singers. What could those people wearing ribbons, red berets, and gold-trimmed waistcoats do in the face of confrontations with stones, bullets, and bombs?
A shell hit the window and began emitting tear gas, forcing Mazen to jump to his feet and ask people to close the windows. But nobody moved, their despondency rendered them speechless and motionless. Some stood behind the windows watching what was happening in the streets below the citadel, between the people and the security forces. Others gathered around the governor, who was trying to contact the police and the security forces. They were busy with more important matters. They feared a collective movement of angry people rushing toward the settlers who were standing watch near the barricade and on top of the hill. This explained why the governor was incessantly shouting, “Hello police, hello security,” but no one from the outside answered him.
Mazen’s eyes caught the confused look of the governor. He was a man in his sixties who had spent his youth in camps and exile in other people’s countries. He had devoted his whole life to the revolution and had paid a high price, and later, retired. Then, unexpectedly he was told that he had a country, a people, a solution, a peace, and consuls. Placed in a position of responsibility, this bright man knew that he would be walking a tightrope, would never know a moment of peace and quiet. Here he was now, like Mazen and the cithers, surrounded inside the citadel, with consuls, journalists priests, nuns, and a woman who had given birth backstage and was in dire need of medical assistance. But where would he get an ambulance?
He discussed the matter with Mazen, trying to find a way out of the citadel, out of this trap. He was new to the area although it was his birthplace. Years of occupation and life in exile and an absence that had lasted decades had made him a visitor and a tourist among people who had lived for generations connected to their roots in the land. That’s why they didn’t feel that he was one of them, or in other words, they didn’t know whether he was one of them or one of “them.” One of us, one of them, or us and them, or you and us, and this meant speaking another language, taking a different action, and dealing with a different people and another exile, a new exile he had never heard of or experienced. You are in your country without being in it, you are with your people, but your people are outside and you are here, in this citadel. Inside and outside, there was a police and security force, an Authority, a system, and a government, and a dazed people, an unlucky people who had come to have some fun but for no apparent reason the fun had turned into a funeral in the blink of an eye. There might be multiple reasons, but what mattered now was finding a way out of this trap.
Mazen told the governor that the usual road was not passable because of checkpoints and confrontations. The longer road behind the citadel was not practicable or safe because it ran through Kiryat Rahil, in the middle of the settlement of Tal al-Rihan. He wondered whether the governor would be willing to be seen by the inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan and the journalists driving through an Israeli settlement. It was a major question, a loaded question for a government official. His choice would not be interpreted casually or as necessity of the moment. It was bound to be judged in the context of history, politics, and a semblance of a government and streets that the Authority does not control. They were roundabout roads imposed on people by force and impacting their livelihood. Those were lands they had inherited with deeds from the time of Moses and even Muhammad. And here there was this solution, this occupation that took whatever it wanted without accountability, as the people were told this was liberation, it was the way to peace, a way around the past to reach the future. They were told that the present was not theirs. That explained its name, eltifafiyyeh, wrapping around.
People wondered about the eltifafiyyeh concept. They understood it, however, and they even interpreted it this way: it was a noun derived from the verb laffa, and laffa did not mean to move in circles, but it meant to wrap something up and take it away, in other words, it meant to swallow something or sleep on it. This was, naturally, an exaggeration because the intermediary was not the person gulping, but was gulped himself. They drew their conclusion in those words, “Then, did he come to gulp, to wrap?” They wondered, shouted, threw stones and said, “Go away.”
The governor had a bright idea. He thought of asking people in power about their position in the matter. He would tell them, This is our position: we are responsible for unarmed guests, a woman who has just given birth, a citadel isolated from the rest of the world, surrounded by a confrontation between the people and the security forces. We are trapped, caught between bullets, stones, and gas bombs, what should we do?”
Mazen would say that we had a bus and a way around the citadel. The road went through Kiryat Rahil, which presented a problem. The governor would wonder if that meant boarding a bus that would drive through the settlement of Tal al-Rihan? But wasn’t Tal al-Rihan ours, after all, and what belongs to us does not belong to them; was there any doubt about it? If someone says, “There is doubt,” he would say, “Wrong!” If they approved, he would say, “You’re right, let’s board.” Where was Mazen?
Mazen’s father looked at his son in disbelief, and said, “Kiryat Rahil? Did you say Kiryat Rahil?”
Mazen replied quickly and determinedly, “We need to maneuver, maneuver, maneuver. Do you want us to die in this citadel?”
His father responded sullenly, “Is that it, you’ve lost patience? Let’s wait until things calm down and take the regular road like everybody else.”
Mazen pointed to the stage and asked, “Dad, what about Futna?”
The father turned back and said disgusted, “Take Futna and go, I’m not leaving.”
He then walked slowly toward the window, mumbling, “Kiryat Rahil! By God, Kiryat Rahil, is this what we’ve come to?”
Mazen was watching Amira busy with her daughter and her grandson. She was surrounded by the boy scouts who were eager to help. One was asking, “Aunt, what do you want?”
Another told her, “I got you a pillow.”
And a third scout brought her water. Amira answered each one of them calmly, saying, “May God bless you. You are the best men in the world, give me, give me.”
Mazen felt somewhat guilty and embarrassed vis-à-vis those youngsters who stayed with Futna and her mother all the time and paid no attention to the others, die consuls, the journalists, the priests, and the nuns. Their only concern was this baby. At this age a person is still pure and innocent, at this age the birth of a baby is the secret of the universe and its miracle and other things do not matter. At this age a baby is more important than all the consuls, the journalists, the clerics, and the politicians.
He was in a position of responsibility, however, trusted with important people; what would happen if any one of them were hurt? What if a consul, a priest, or a even a journalist were hurt? Would the situation in Wadi al-Rihan be compared to life in Algeria in the nineties?
He overheard the words Kiryat Rahil in a conversation between the governor and one of the consuls. A journalist asked, “Kiryat Rahil?”
Then the governor asked, nervously, “Tell me what should I do? It is Kiryat Rahil despite you and me. If you were the man in charge, what would you do?”
The journalist was dumfounded and stared at him from behind his eye glasses, repeating, “Kiryat Rahil?”
“Yes sir, Kiryat Rahil,” reiterated the governor, with controlled anger, as if the journalist was responsible for the situation and its complications, He went on cornering him with his questions, “Do you have any objection? Do you have an alternative?”
The journalist was trying to get out of the situation repeating the name Kiryat Rahil. The governor became even angrier and shouted at him, “What do you suggest? Do you have an alternative?”
The journalist turned around and left, mumbling, “Why should I interfere, you’re the one in a position of responsibility.”
The governor shouted, trying to stop him, “Listen brother, what J say is not to be published, do you understand what I’m telling you?”
The journalist muttered as he moved away, “Of course I understand.”
He stood near the window watching the action.
Futna said smiling, but exhausted, “I was afraid he would be a Mongoloid.”
Her mother said comfortingly, ‘Your son is normal, but he weighs so little. He’s very thin and needs an ambulance, he does.”
Amira looked left and right and saw Mazen. She begged him for assistance, “Mazen, isn’t there an ambulance?”
He looked at her, then at her daughter, then at the child and said confused, “What do you want me to say? You know the situation.”
She saw his confusion and hesitation, and said to encourage him, “This difficulty will pass, we’ve seen worse.”
She smiled to herself then to him, and said whispering, “At least it’s not in Hadassa.”
Not in Hadassa? He wondered what she meant with those words. What if he had mentioned Kiryat Rahil, what would she have said? He was peeking behind the curtain as if looking for something, but that thing was in his head or in his heart or in both—what was it?
He saw Kamal standing near the window and joined him, seeking an explanation. Kamal made no reply as if he hadn’t heard him. Mazen repeated the word Kiryat Rahil, provoking Kamal to respond in a loud whisper, “The problem is not with Kiryat Rahil but with you, Mazen Hamdan, boarding a bus alone and leaving the people waiting for a way out of here.”
His words upset Mazen, who asked him, “What do you mean?”
He turned to him and pointed at the outside, saying, “You were always there, all your Life, what brought you here? What changed you?”
His eyes bulged, his heart sank as a result of this attack, and he prepared to defend himself. He said angrily, “You were there all your life as well and you didn’t care.”
Then he left quickly to get away from his brother. He felt his legs give way due to a very sharp pain like a knife stab. He turned to Kamal and shouted under the effect of pain, “Stay there and never come back.”
He took a few more steps, his head buzzing with questions and reactions, his father’s questions, Amira’s questions, and those of his brother. He moved in circles looking for something, when suddenly a question popped into his mind, a new question, born at this instant. He stood still, turned back again and shouted to his brother, “Which is better, a bus or a plane?”
But his question remained unanswered.
Sitt Amira refused to board the bus which carried the consuls and the journalists. She objected strongly and categorically to the very idea of crossing Kiryat Rahil to reach the hospital in Nablus. The governor changed his mind as well and felt that staying in the citadel with the people in these circumstances was a must. It was a matter of duty, for history and for people’s judgement. What would they have said had he left, that he had followed the consuls and the paying purses, leaving them alone? What would the journalists have said? And the Hamdan and Shayib families? Would they have said that he had left a woman bleeding on the floor and run for his life? He wouldn’t run away, he would stay with them to the last man and the last breath.
Mazen came begging the governor to board the ambulance with them to cross the two checkpoints, the Arab and the Israeli. Futna was bleeding and she could well die, while the child was weak and needed medical assistance quickly. Mazen sat in the front and Amira stayed with her daughter and the grandson in the back of the car. They crossed the Arab checkpoint without delay or complications, but the disaster was the required stop in the main street in front of the Kiryat Rahil checkpoint. While they were enduring the long and tiring wait, Mazen noticed the Bey in his Mercedes, with the yellow license plate of Jerusalem. He crossed the checkpoint without stopping and without being searched. He went by like lightning. Mazen was surprised and turned his head to confirm what he had seen but his position between the governor and the driver blocked his view. The governor asked him whether something was the matter with him. He explained, still surprised and dazed:
“Was Abd al-Hadi Bey al-Shayib at the party?”
The governor said, casually, “He was sitting behind his sister and I greeted him”.
Mazen asked, “Behind what sister?”
The governor explained casually, as he was watching the soldiers dragging their feet while a long line of cars was forming each waiting its turn, patiently and apprehensively, “The sister sitting in the back of the ambulance.”
“Do you mean Amira?”
The governor didn’t answer him and continued to watch the soldiers, the cars, and two young men standing against the wall, as if in a punishment position. They faced the wall, holding their hands above their heads. He whispered, “By God, what have we done to be treated like this?” wondered the governor.
Mazen, who had become accustomed to this sight, wasn’t moved or scared, or even surprised. He didn’t comment on the governor’s words or pay attention to him; he was thinking instead of the Bey and how he had passed through the checkpoint thanks to his Jerusalem license plate. He wondered how he had arrived at the checkpoint and whether he truly had been at the festivities? Why had no one seen him? Was it because of the crowds and the chaos, or had he arrived with the consuls and left with them? Why had no one seen him? He turned to look back from the small window and saw Amira carrying the baby, while Futna was lying on the stretcher holding a glucose bottle in her hand. He shouted to them, “The Bey passed through the checkpoint in his car without stopping.”
Amira looked at him with her big eyes but didn’t comment. He repeated, “He crossed the checkpoint with his Jerusalem license plate.”
She didn’t say a thing and continued to state without uttering a word, but Futna said in a weak voice, “He went and left us? That’s not possible, you’re certainly mistaken, it can’t have been him.”
The mother continued to stare without saying a word. Mazen turned his head and continued to watch the action around him.
The governor stepped out of the car and tried to approach one of the soldiers, but one of them shouted at him in a thundering voice, “Stop, stop!”
The governor stretched his hand to explain to him that he meant well, and wanted only to talk to him. But the soldier repeated, “Stop, stop.”
But the governor insisted and raised his voice saying, “Just a word, one word.”
The soldier thundered, “Not even half a word, go back.”
When the soldier felt that the governor was dragging his feet and unwilling to obey immediately and quickly, he raised his weapon and pointed it at him, saying sharply, “Return to your place.”
The governor returned to the ambulance and sat in his place.
Futna said in a weak voice, “Maybe if you say that we’re going to Hadassa they would let us go.”
The mother didn’t answer her and kept staring through the small window, her arms unconsciously squeezing the baby, repeating: Hadassa, Hadassa, son of Hadassa, the ticket to cross the checkpoint, by God! She continued to stare through the small window.
The governor said, pensive, “I used to dream, I often dreamed, but for what!”
He stopped suddenly and turned his eyes toward the hill on which Kiryat Rahil was built. He saw the red brick, the barbed wire, various buildings, the playgrounds, strange stairs, and huge water pipes cutting through the rocks and the ground. The homeland had become strange, it has become an exile, he thought to himself. The land of dreams was devoid of dreams. The liberation dream has become a mere slogan that doesn’t relate to the land, a nightmare. How much had he dreamed while in Dhahran, and in Lebanon and Tunisia? He used to dream of a genie coming out of a bottle, offering him his services, saying, “Shubbayk, lubbayk.” He would ask the genie to carry him and throw him under an olive tree, give him a loaf of bread, olives, an onion, and salt. Here he was now, in front of an olive tree, on a road filled with checkpoints and facing a high fence. This is where the dream ended.
Mazen said with painful embarrassment, “The festivities were a scandal, all our work and efforts were for nothing.”
The governor shook his head without commenting and recalled the past, the long years, the many martyrs and sacrifices. Then came Madrid and Oslo, then Tal al-Rihan and Kiryat Rahil.
Mazen was watching a familiar sight, a checkpoint, soldiers, young men with their hands raised above their heads, a long line of cars, while whistling bullets were heard in the distance. The wind carried the smoke of bombs and gases, he said, “I sometimes feel my head is like a barrel full of gun powder. What’s wrong with us, brother? What have we done and how can we face the tragedies and protect ourselves? Our people aren’t up to the challenge and neither are we up to the plan. No small spot in the world would give us hope or even the flicker of a light, what have we done?”
He then remembered Kamal, what he had said and how he was running away from these circumstances. Did he blame him? In the depth of his heart he did but in a remote corner of his mind a question kept nagging him, “Had Wadi al-Rihan embraced him? Even we, his family, had we embraced him, had we understood him, had we listened to him, had we given to him so that he would give back to us?” Mazen had told him that leadership was giving, but Kamal had yelled back, “I’m not a leader and I don’t have leadership qualities. I’m only a scientist, ready to work, give me work.”
But the work moved away from him and was picked up by Said, who changed the purification station into a pollution station.
Mazen suddenly remembered his brother and said, “Kamal is leaving tonight I wonder how he’ll manage.”
The governor asked him casually, while taking in the sight of the growing number of young people lined against the wall and the street full of cars, “Who are you talking about?”
Mazen replied, saddened, “My eldest brother, he’s a scientist who works for the Germans.”
The governor said in a monotonous tone, “For the Germans? What Germans? He must return and work with us. The country needs its sons’ brains, he must come back.”
Mazen muttered, feeling twice as depressed as before he had heard the empty reply of the governor who spoke meaningless words, “It’s difficult for him to return.”
But the governor repeated thoughtlessly, “He must come back.”
Mazen repeated somewhat angrily, “It’s difficult for him to return.”
The governor repeated the usual words, “Give me his papers and I’ll bring him back.”
But Mazen didn’t reply and remained silent. The governor turned to him and said, sincerely, “I can bring him back. I can get him an identity card and a national number.”
Mazen wanted to take a deep breath, to shout, to beat his cheeks, to rip his shirt and get out of his clothes. He wanted to tell him: is Kamal a national number? Is that what we are, just numbers? Is that the difficulty? Is that the secret of his refusal to return? Doesn’t this man understand that the most difficult thing in this case was not the number, but numbers? We are the difficult part because we are the numbers, we are the leaders, we are the environment, we are the street. He then remembered the conversation they had had about Kamal and Nahleh’s experience in old Nablus, and the ordeal with the Black Tigers. They had been held at a national detention center, and it was therefore more dangerous. It wouldn’t have been so frightening had Kamal been detained by the Israelis. What could Mazen say? He had asked his brother vigorously to be patient, to understand, and to make sacrifices because the true leader must be generous. Kamal had shouted at him, having lost all patience, “I am neither a leader nor an administrator, just give me work.” But the work had disappeared and Said had caught it.
Futna said in a weak voice, “Mother why do you always react like this, what would happen if we said Hadassa? They might let us go through if we say that we’re going to Hadassa.”
The mother didn’t reply and continued to stare at the sight from the small window behind Mazen’s head. Although the window was too small to reveal the whole scene, she knew what was happening there. She had memorized the events, as familiar to her as the various districts of Jerusalem, all its corners and its paths. She was a young woman in her thirties when they had entered the city with their machine guns, and she was over sixty now. She was a mother, Nasser’s mother then and she was a grandmother now, for this one!
She looked at her daughter, felt sad and remembered her son Abd al-Nasser. She found it strange that the present generation of the Shayib children lacked enthusiasm, ambition, and intelligence. In the past, they had been lighting flames, strong like a rock and a dome, their radiance had lit Jerusalem. One could recognize them in a crowd. There were famous leaders, religious scholars, historians, and thinkers in the family. At that time, Jerusalem was the greatest city in the world and the members of the Shayib family were the jewels of the world.
There were prestigious schools and colleges in Jerusalem at that time. Its graduates were geniuses, lawyers, teachers, scientists, and religious scholars. Religion was a shining subject then, it pulled one up toward the skies, lit the public squares, and the centers of learning. Now religion is heard through loudspeakers and the shouting from the top of the minarets every Friday, rather every day, five times a day. The voices were hoarse and raucous, lacking tenderness. They sounded like drums and aroused fear in people’s hearts. It had been so different in the past, the morning adhan had been like a glass of milk scented with the fragrance of flowers, drunk in the morning it brought a feeling of peace and serenity’ to the drinker and warmed his heart and insides.
Futna’s father, may he rest in peace, used to tell the judge and the court cleric that “the adhan has to be as soft as the breeze, and as tender as basil because the adhan is the breeze of paradise, the scent of paradise and God’s whisper inviting us to submit to him.”
Amira didn’t submit now because the adhan woke her up like the sound of a cannon and reminded her of the present situation, of the sounds of cannons, of machine guns and tanks. Can this be God’s voice? Or was it the sound of the tanks crossing the valley and climbing over the hill to reach the citadel?
If Futna only understood this difference, if she had understood it in the past she would understand the present situation. But Futna didn’t listen to the morning, noon, and evening adhan, she only listened to her music. She loved dancing and wearing beautiful clothes, looking attractive in her short dresses and getting pregnant from over there, then giving birth. Was this today’s generation? Was this what the old generation had given birth to?
Futna said to her mother, “Mother, I’m bleeding heavily. When will we get there?”
Amira remembered her daughter and found her very pale, her lips were as white as cotton. She put the baby down and knocked very hard on the windowpane. When Mazen looked back she said, begging, “Can you talk to them and tell them that she has just given birth and is bleeding? If we continue at this rate we’ll never get there, we won’t,”
The governor turned to her and said, “We’ll get there, but as you see the line is long, you must be patient.”
Mazen felt uneasy sitting between the governor and the driver. He wanted to ask him to make way for him so that he could tell the soldiers that she had just given birth and was bleeding, and the child needed medical attention. But he was embarrassed as he remembered the governor’s humiliation when he tried to talk to the soldiers. He said, “Sometimes I feel as if I were suffocating and I wish I could get out of my skin and run away to Frankfurt or Berlin like Kamal, who ran off to save his skin. But I stayed inside my skin and my own skin is too tight for me. I’m ashamed of myself, sometimes I look in the mirror and I say to myself, you’re Mazen? You are Hamdan Guevara? You are Hamdan’s son?”
The governor said with mounting anxiety, “Leave it to God, what can we say? One must be patient and look beyond the present. If we paid attention to every word where would we be today?”
Mazen turned to him and asked angrily, “Well, where are we now?”
The governor smiled with the expression of those who know, the mature, experienced men, those scoured by time. He said quietly, “We must be patient and look beyond the horizon.”
Mazen was deeply irate and wanted to shout at the governor. How could he tell him to be patient, to wait, to look beyond the horizon? Did he have a date? Did he have a deadline, a year, two years, ten years, fifty years? He wished they could understand each other, but Mazen wasn’t sure that the man understood.
The governor mumbled in a low voice, “We dreamed a lot but to no avail!”
A few years earlier he had been living in Tunis, in a palace near the sea. The visitors, the journalists, an Arab minister and one from the European Union had said that it would be solved. But he hadn’t believed them because the solution had been suggested many times before. It had been mentioned in Tunis, in Beirut, in Amman, in Baghdad, and in Moscow, but it had never materialized. He had gotten used to living without a solution. He had grown older and became more and more removed from his past and his activities. He had begun his professional life as a story writer, then as a playwright. One of his plays had been performed on stage but it hadn’t achieved much success because it hadn’t appealed to the people. It promoted the spirit of struggle and patriotic feelings. It contained speeches glorifying heroes, martyrdom, and suffering. The play ended with the ululations of a tearless mother who had lost her son. People left the theater without crying, without emotions, and without feelings.
His stories had been quite successful because they were about real people he had dug from the past and his memories, when he lived in the village. He had read avidly and spent long hours silent, observing people’s lives, listening to them talk under the mulberry tree, and the vine trellis, in the cafés, and during Monday’s market. The peasants’ voices filled the pages of his stories and the reader felt them budding with life, with the day’s concerns, and the hopes of the future. Then came the present and his present was removed from that of the people, from their streets, and their simple daily stories, their marriages and their divorces, the fights between neighbors stealing from each other, or fighting over a basket of figs.
Futna said in a faint voice, “Mother, I’m bleeding heavily.”
Amira knocked at the window and Mazen turned his head toward the governor, then toward her and didn’t say a thing. But the governor said, very slowly, “What can we say, the line is long.”
Four persons were trapped in this long line between the citadel and the road block. There was Sitt Amira, Futna’s mother and the baby’s grandmother, Mazen Hamdan Guevara sitting between the governor and the driver, and the governor predicting a quick resolution to the situation. There was also a bleeding woman and a newborn baby in dire need of medical attention.
Mazen was getting extremely anxious and began moving his legs in a fast, nervous, and annoying way. Even the governor was beginning to lose his patience after an hour and a half waiting in this line. Amira had recourse to religion for help. She recited the al-Falaq chapter three times, then al-Kursi followed by Yasin, but none of them resulted in opening the way for their passage. Strangely enough it was the daughter who felt least threatened, possibly because of her silliness, her mental limitations, or the bleeding and her will to live, She was the calmest of them all, the most reassured and relaxed. She was sure of crossing the road block, and didn’t think that the bleeding would lead to her death. Her major concern was staining her clothes with blood and her good appearance. She feared that sleeping on her back would spoil her hairdo, and continually interrupted her mother’s recitation of Qur’anic verses to ask if she were presentable. Her mother would reassure her with a nod of the head to avoid interrupting her recitation of the holy verses. Futna asked her mother to bring her the blue nightgown, her slippers, and the baby’s clothes after they arrive at the hospital. Amira’s response to her daughter’s request was to raise her voice, occasionally stressing some meaningful words. But only the word envy attracted Futna’s attention. She asked her mother, “Mother dear, do you think that all this happened to us because of Nahleh’s envious eyes?”
The mother didn’t reply and continued to pray in the darkness and the silence of the night. It was almost ten in the evening but the line had not moved. The floodlights were blinding, but the soldiers at the road bloc were relaxed and the number of young men lined against the wall was growing. The long wait had exhausted the governor, he felt depressed and bored, and tried to kill time telling stories and evoking memories of his life in Tunis, Beirut, Dharan, and even his childhood in the village. He related that he used to study under the light of the street lamp until the morning. He had read Eliya Abu Madi, Maxim Gorki, and Hasanayn Haykal among other authors whose books could only be smuggled in.
He said to Mazen, smiling as he remembered his past victories, “We used to snatch the books and read them over and over again. Whenever a book was confiscated we would laugh, because we knew it by heart. It was stored in our brains and couldn’t be confiscated.”
Mazen asked him, in a covert irony, having reached his wit’s end, “Are the words still stored in your memory?”
He didn’t turn to Mazen to answer his question, but went on talking in a monotonous voice, almost whispering, “Of course they’re stored, and will be to the day I die. Do you think that words can be confiscated? A ruler can confiscate a book but not its words. They are the concrete embodiment of ideas. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Mazen was extremely bored, but he confirmed his understanding of the governor’s words.
The governor smiled in the darkness and said to Mazen, “Oh my God, we’ve endured and suffered so much! No people in the world has endured what we’ve endured, more than the Jews, more than the American Indians and the blacks.”
Mazen turned to him and asked, curious, “The blacks?”
The governor paid no attention to him and continued to sift through his memories, “I saw them in America and in Africa. By God they are good people and they like us. They like the Arabs and the Muslims and some of them have converted to Islam. They invited us to speak in their mosque and after the sermon they began singing, they held hands and began to move as if they were dancing an African dance and I found myself dancing with them. From that time on, Jackson never left us. He visited us seven times in Tunis and according to him things were beginning to turn in our favor.”
Mazen muttered surprised and curious, “In our favor?”
The governor said joyfully, “Naturally, naturally, you know that die number of blacks is increasing in America, it’s unbelievable, and so is the number of Spanish and Mexicans and all those who come from overseas. I mean all those described as colored. Their number is increasing very fast, while the number of whites is decreasing daily. The equation is predictable and its result means that the colored peoples, led by the blacks, will rule America without a revolution, without a coup d’état, without bloodshed and all that nonsense. It will be done through elections, they will rule through the elections!”
Mazen turned to him and asked, furiously, “Are you sure?”
The governor exclaimed in reply, “Of course I’m sure. Jackson said so and Jackson backs his arguments with polls, and the polls say that the number of whites in America in the year 2055 will literally be one-third of the whole population. At that time what would America become?”
Mazen said, “A third world country.”
The governor seemed to agree with him, saying, “It’s possible, it’s possible, and then America will be different.”
Mazen stopped balancing his legs and said begging, “Let me pass because I’m squeezed in here and I must get out. Can I, would you please? Excuse me?”
He went out in the dark to pee.
Futna said, “Nahleh didn’t believe that the baby would be a boy. I told her twenty times that a doctor in Hadassa confirmed it to me. He saw it on the screen and said it was a boy. But Nahleh refused to believe me. She would have liked the baby to be a girl or a Mongoloid. When she saw me give birth she lost her mind and gave us both the evil eye.”
Her mother raised her voice while reciting the Qur’anic verses to silence her daughter, but Futna didn’t stop talking, as usual. She went on, “It’s also possible that Abu Salem’s daughter is the cause, God only knows.”
The mother stopped praying to figure out what her daughter was inventing. Futna explained, “I mean the curse of Abu Salem’s daughter when we went to their house. Do you remember how insolent she was? Do you remember what she said and did? Do you remember how she touched her belly and said vulgar words that only a vagabond would utter? Maybe she felt that I was happy and very lucky because the baby I was carrying was the only heir. In other words, my son was an only child and a male and had only one sister. His sister isn’t even interested in the inheritance. This means that he will inherit everything, unlike Abu Salem’s daughter. who has ten brothers and two unmarried sisters, not counting Nahleh.
I am sure she thought of all this while she was sitting there staring at my belly, her hands resting on her own belly. Isn’t that true mother?” Her mother did not reply but she stopped praying. She fell into a total silence that covered her brain like an endless white fog. She didn’t see any use in praying for a woman who could think like this. But Futna was her daughter after all, whatever she said and whatever she did, she was still her daughter. She was kind and pleasant, and very amusing. She couldn’t deny, however, that sometimes she-got on her nerves. She loved her mother dearly and sincerely and always inquired about her whenever she was sick. She gave to her generously whenever she asked for money and even when she didn’t. She gave to her father and brother, as well, showering them with her wealth. She even opened a souvenir shop for her brother with her late husband’s money, before his death. If anything serious should happen to her daughter, she would lose her consolation and her support in this world. Futna was indeed the best of daughters, the prettiest and the dearest daughter, and this baby was after all her baby, despite his problems.
The governor continued talking in the same monotonous voice, “I thought that misery existed only in Beirut but it seems to follow us everywhere. How can the wealthiest revolution become so poor? Was it conceivable that the oil rich countries would ever become indebted? And you still say that America will never change! It has to change despite itself, it must change. America is responsible for our misery and when America becomes like all other countries in the world you could say that we are free.”
He then turned toward Mazen and asked hastily, “Do you want to get in?”
Mazen was standing in the dark, leaning against the door. He shook his head and said dryly, “I’d better stay here.”
The governor went on saying, “The problem with our people is their eagerness for a quick solution, one delivered on a rocket, at no cost to them. Is it conceivable to have a solution without paying a price? Look at Japan, Germany, and even China.”
Mazen muttered, “Look at Mandela.”
The governor didn’t seem to hear him, or maybe he heard him and didn’t stop, to avoid losing his train of thought. He went on, “Look at China, opium was destroying the people and hunger was eating away at their bodies. See where they are now. They’re as active as ants, riding bicycles, every member of the family rides a bicycle, even the ministers ride a bicycle. They’re a united people, a patient people, and a people with a vision for the future. If we could only look far enough! But our people want immediate solutions delivered on a rocket.”
Mazen objected, whispering, “No, in a Mercedes.”
The governor did not seem to have heard him or he heard him but did not pay much attention because the focus of his conversation was the bicycles. He continued his reflections on this topic, “People used to say silly and stupid things about the Chinese, that they wore khaki clothes like prisoners and police officers, that they were all dressed alike. What’s wrong with that? I wish we wore identical khaki clothes like them, rode in carts and bicycles, and could become a great nation like them. If we imitated them we would become like them and even better, don’t you agree?”
Mazen didn’t reply. He was thinking about Kamal’s project that had turned into a catastrophe. The purification station had become a problem, the festival was a scandal, and this man whose help he had sought to go through the roadblock did nothing but talk. He cited examples from Japan, Germany, and China where the people run and ride bicycles, unlike the Arabs, who ride donkeys and travel in Mercedes cars.
He turned his face away from the ambulance and saw the young men lined against the wall with their arms still raised above their heads. Then he saw the long line of cars shining under the floodlights. He remembered Kamal, his father, the crowds, Saad and Said, and Abd al-Hadi a! Shayib. He also thought about the consuls and the journalists who had left in the bus while they were still waiting in the ambulance, at the roadblock. Who was to blame, he or the governor? Neither one. The governor could do nothing but dispense words from his past readings in a remote village. China runs on bicycles and how do we run? We run on dilapidated coffins!
Futna said, her voice weakening, “Mother, I must be sleepy. I’m dizzy, I can’t keep my eyes open, is it alright to sleep?”
The mother became aware of the seriousness of her daughters condition and said, “No, don’t sleep, you might lose consciousness.”
Amira remembered how she used to advise her to be strong, solid, and courageous. She repeated the same recommendation, “I’ve always told you to be tough. Don’t sleep or close your eyes, do you understand me?”
Futna replied, in a weak voice, “Alright mother,” then she fell asleep.
The mother knocked at the small window and asked in a harsh, determined voice, “You, in front, what’s happening with you?”
The governor turned to her and said calmly, “Sitt Amira the line is long, we cannot jump over the other cars. We must be patient, we have to wait for God’s help.”
She said, angrily, “Honorable governor we can’t wait anymore. My daughter is losing all her blood and she is about to die as I watch her. Is this acceptable? And you Mazen, where is Mazen?”
The governor called him, smiling, “Answer her Mazen, answer.”
Mazen moved closer to the window and said with frustration, “Yes, aunt, your orders?”
She said angrily, “I don’t understand, both of you are important people in the country and you’re unable to talk to them? Talk to them in English.”
The governor said, defending his position, “Believe me, I tried, didn’t you see me?”
She replied angrily, “I want results, not efforts. Try again, a second time. My daughter has delivered a baby and is bleeding heavily, she might die while you are sitting here telling stories and talking nonsense. Don’t you know English?”
The governor smiled and said, politely, “No, I don’t.”
She said dryly, “How did you talk with them, then? You said you’ve tried, what language did you use? And you Mazen, do you know how to talk to them?”
Mazen replied, weary and embarrassed, “Of course, I do.”
“In what language?” she asked.
“I know a little English and Russian. But they understand our Arabic. It’s not a question of language however, the fact is that they’re upset.”
She grumbled angrily, “By God! Aren’t we all upset? My daughter is about to die and they don’t want me to be upset?”
She then turned to her daughter and shook her by the shoulder saying, “Futna, Futna, get up dear. I think that we should step out and talk with them. Open the door.”
Mazen hesitated and said in a low voice, “No aunt, what are you saying?”
She replied, firmly, “Open the door I tell you. Do you think that I’m not able to talk to them? I know French and English and also a little German. I can talk eloquently and say words that would make anyone proud. I can make them listen to me and respect me. Go ahead, open up.”
He lowered his voice even more, saying, “Sitt Amira, the Israelis do not acknowledge anyone, listen to anybody, or respect anyone, have you forgotten that?”
She said stubbornly, “No, I haven’t forgotten, neither have I forgotten that I am Amira the daughter of Shayib, whose father fought with the revolutionaries against the British, and whose grandfather protected the Aqsa Mosque. Are you trying to intimidate me with a bunch of soldiers gathered from all over the world? I can’t sit still while my daughter is dying before my eyes. Go ahead, open up, open up I tell you.”
She then turned to her daughter and shook her, “Get up Futna, get up my daughter, let them see what we can do. One knows no English and the other is afraid of the soldiers. Get up daughter, get up sweetheart.”
But Futna didn’t move, throwing her mother in a state of panic. She shouted, “Futna get up. Futna! Futna!”
Mazen rushed to the back of the car and opened the door, but Futna had gone to her Creator while they were arguing.
Two soldiers moved toward Mazen and the ambulance, pointing their weapons and shouting, “Stop, stop!”
One of the two soldiers hit him on the head with the handle of the machine gun, causing him to fall to the ground. The baby woke up and cried as they shouted. The grandmother looked at the soldiers, then at her daughter, and when the floodlights shined on her, her eyes were glassy and tearless. The soldiers shouted again and the baby cried. One of them said pointing the machine gun at her, “I said stop.”
She said, calmly, “Alright, alright.”
She then handed them the crying baby, and said calmly and proudly, in English: “Thank you very much, this is your share.”
My uncle drove me to the airport and said, reproachfully, “It isn’t acceptable that you’re going away and leaving us.”
I wiped away my tears for the first time in many years; I had recovered my ability to feel. I said affectionately, “I’ll be back, I’ll return, by God I will.”
He said in guise of a reminder, “And your little brother, for whom arc you leaving him?”
I said, a little embarrassed, “You and Amira are up to the responsibility.” He said, hoping to influence my decision, “Although the inheritance of the boy is double that of the girl, your part will be saved for you.”
I shook my head without commenting, and I walked toward the plane.