It was one of those heavy nights

And that’s putting it mildly.

I thought of writing a journalistic report called “Who could sleep?” but I didn’t. It was enough just to scribble my thoughts down night after night to realize what was going down in Gaza.

It was one of those heavy nights.

I don’t know when I managed to shut my eyes, although I’ve begun to wonder whether I actually close them even when I’m asleep.

And who could have stayed asleep anyway?

The knocks on the door would have jarred me awake.

Everything gets all mixed up in this puny head of mine. My mother used to say to people, “Look at that one with the little head, and her sister. One of them alone has more sense in her noggin than the whole lot of you. If God had given me nothing but daughters, I’d be the happiest person in Gaza!”

I liked to hear my mom say that. But it bothered me, too.

It’s a bummer to have a little head in a country that’s full of big sticks and people who point gun barrels at you all
the time.

But in the end I decided I was fine with my head, small as it was, and, unlike my twin sister, I took the appropriate precautions.

I did my best to keep my head out of the billy clubs’ range, since a single blow would have been enough to smash it to smithereens. At the same time I said to myself, “As long as it’s no bigger than this, snipers will be sure to miss it.” (Time would tell, though, how wrong I’d been about that.)

These are the sorts of thoughts I used to have during the first intifada. But now I’m not sure whether I still think the same way, or whether I’m just remembering the way I used to think.

The bombing had been going on for so long—with shells, missiles, tanks, helicopters, and even fighter planes—I couldn’t tell the different sounds apart any more. A lot of people used to brag that they could tell you exactly what kind of weapon they were hearing. But I wasn’t one of them. In fact, I was always amazed at people who could do that. I mean, when all the sleep you get is a tiny snooze that you manage to fall into by a miracle in the wee hours of the morning, how are you going to be able to tell the difference between banging on a door and bombs going off?

“They’ve started shelling again,” said my mom. “Or is that somebody pounding on the door?” (So, then, I wasn’t the only one.)

I got up. I knew nobody else would. The only other person in the house was my grandmother, who was holed up as usual in her room because, according to her, the sound of the gunfire didn’t reach it so easily.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning to you.”

“Is your mom home?”

“Yeah, she’s here.”

“And your dad?”

“My dad? He’s in prison, you know that!”

“Oh, I forgot, damn it all.”

“On account of the occupation!”

“Of course. What else is there?”

“Come on in.”

“Sorry, I can’t right now. But I wanted to make one request.” After a pause, she went on, “Well, I’ve always dreamed of having a daughter like you or your sister. And with your help, I can make the dream come true!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, your sister will be my daughter!”

“And who said she wasn’t your daughter already?”

Ignoring my question, she went on, “My son’s grown up now, and your sister’s a sweet young lady. And nice-looking, just like you! As you can see, the world’s a stinking mess. But still, I was thinking this would be the best time to find him a wife, and I was wondering if you could talk your mom into letting him marry your sister. With your dad being in prison and all, some people might say it isn’t proper, that the timing’s not right. But what can we do? If we wait till things get better—till the occupation’s over and Palestine’s free and we get our land back—we’ll be waiting forever. Nobody will ever get married and have families!”

I was tongue-tied. I just stood there in the doorway, feeling limp as a rag. Some time later—during which I suppose she must have said a lot—I found myself mindlessly nodding my head. And she must have interpreted my nods the way she wanted to.

She took a couple of steps forward and planted a kiss on my forehead.

“Like I said,” she went on, “you’re the only one who can help me, and I have a feeling everything’s going to be just fine.”

Then she turned to leave. I reached out to stop her, taking hold of her long black dress. She looked back at me.

“Come in,” I urged. “We can have a cup of tea together, at least, and some breakfast.”

“No, no,” she protested. “We can have the tea later. And I’m not hungry. I’ll go home now and get some things I need, and then I’ll go put his mind at rest. You know, the kid’s been sweet on her for a long time now. I’d just been waiting for him to get old enough for me to do something about it. I know she’s a little older than he is. But now he’s sort of caught up with her, if you know what I mean. Have you ever seen anybody so in love? Today’s his birthday, and I’ll have a little party. Why don’t you come over? After all, you and she have the same aura.”

She stopped talking, lost in thought.

I stood there gazing at her. She seemed worn out, and looked older than usual. All the burdens she’d had to carry would have crushed an oak tree, but she still stood as tall
as ever.

“I’ll give the boy the good news, and you can tell your sister. What do you say?”

For the second time I found my head nodding without knowing what this meant. And like before, she took my nodding to mean what she wanted it to. Rushing toward me, she gave me another kiss on the forehead. Then she stepped back a bit, looked me over thoughtfully, and said, “You’re all I have in this world, bless your heart. I feel better now. Believe me, if I had another son, I’d marry you to him!”

“Seriously, Auntie Amna? I don’t need proof of how much you love me!”

Her eyes filled with tears. She turned to go, and I watched her walk away, her headscarf flapping in the breeze.

“Who’d come knocking on our door this time of the
morning?” wondered my mother out loud, her eyes still half-closed.

“It was the sound of shelling,” I told her.

“I knew it must be. But I thought maybe I’d been dreaming. To hell with them all! They’ve turned our nights into days! Don’t they ever get tired? Are they so deaf they can’t hear the bombs they set off?”

After my head was under the comforter, she asked me, “What time is it?”

“Six.”

“Six? Get up, then! Haven’t you slept long enough?”