I told them it was nearly noon

My husband, my son, and my brother were still asleep. I told them over and over again how late it had gotten, but none of them even budged. “What is this?” I said. “How did you get so lazy all of a sudden? You didn’t used to be like this! Now up and at it. It’s time to wake up and see the sun, at least, and talk with me a little before I go.”

I told them the tea and breakfast were ready, and that we needed to talk, since I’d had some things on my mind for a long time. But they just went on snoozing.

How in God’s name had they gotten to be such sleepyheads? I swear, if I were just a tiny bit meaner, I would have yanked those covers off them and tossed them across the room! But I didn’t have the heart to.

You’ve been a softie since the day you were born, Mustafa! Who could have wished for a more tender-hearted brother? I mean, you stayed with me when everybody else left me behind. Some went to Jordan, some to Syria, and some even made it as far as Sweden.

When my other brothers started getting wanderlust, you told them, “I know every one of you hears himself being called in one direction or another, and that that’s the only voice he can hear. Then he’ll follow the voice until he disappears into it.” Who else would have talked that way, Mustafa? You sounded so wise—like a philosopher or something! And when they made fun of you, saying, “And you, Mr. Mustafa, what direction are you being called in?” you just pointed to the ground.

“Come on!” they said. “The ground isn’t a direction. It’s a place!”

“Well,” you told them, “all directions meet here, on the ground, so whoever’s on the ground owns all the directions, too.”

God, what you said that day made me so happy! And it wasn’t because it meant you’d be staying here in Gaza with me after I got married. No, it just made me happy. It made Randa happy, too, when I told her about it.

She liked it so much, she said, “Can I write that down?”

“Sure,” I told her. So she scribbled it in her notebook.

I mean, how many Mustafas do I have? You’re the one who insisted that I go to school and get a college education.

Forgive me, Mustafa, but I have to say this: if you’re not taken away from here by your concern for your children, you’ll be carried off by your hormones—by the urge to chase a dream far away from this misery of ours on the Gaza Strip. But don’t get me wrong: I know that even if you were married and had twenty kids to worry about, you’d stay here with me. You said so yourself, though not directly, when you asked, “And Amna, who’ll be here for her?”

I know I didn’t hear it with my own ears, but I’m sure that’s what you must have said. And I’ll bet they were glad to hear you talking about some other reason to stay. I heard them whispering, “At least there’s somebody who’ll stay and take care of our sister.”

And you did stay. You told them, “According to a certain Palestinian legend, God creates people out of two kinds of soil: the soil in the place where they were born, and the soil in the place where they’ll die. You and I were made from the first kind: this is where we were born, and this is where we’ll die. The soil that’s calling my other brothers might be in the places where they’ll die. But what’s calling us is the soil right under our feet. That’s how it’s been from the very start. And who of us can’t hear a call that’s that clear?”

You remember the story of Muhammad Musa Abu Jazar? It confirms what you told them. I mean, how else could you explain it? A man goes away for forty years, and while he’s gone he fights battle after battle somewhere else. Then he finally comes back to Palestine, and dies defending Rafah—right here in our back backyard!

So now I understand what you were saying to them. I get it now, Mustafa. Like, all of a sudden the light went on. I know now why you pointed to the ground. It’s because you could hear it calling, even though you weren’t telling me so. It doesn’t matter whether I’d heard that legend before or not. What matters is that we feel it, since it’s inside us. I can hear it running in your blood.

So why didn’t they get it, too? You were always at least ten steps ahead of them. I don’t mean to exaggerate, of course. But I remember how, when Jamal came to ask for my hand, he got all flustered over a question that shouldn’t have come as any surprise, since it’s the question every dad asks somebody who comes wanting to marry a daughter of his. He said, “How do you know the girl?”

Well, the poor guy didn’t know what to say! He told me later that when he heard that question, the sky fell in, and it was full of clouds. He used to laugh whenever he told the story again: “Like, all of a sudden I was sopping wet. And it wasn’t sweat! If it had been, I would have felt it trickling down under my clothes. As it was, though, it was coming from under my clothes, and from on top of me, too!”

“So,” my dad said to him, “you mean to say you’re in love with her?”

Then the idiot had the nerve to say, “And is a man supposed to marry a woman he hates?”

“Are you making fun of me?” my dad roared. “In that case, I haven’t got any eligible daughters!”

You’re the only one who stood by me, Mustafa. You tried to make me feel better. You told me not to worry.

“Don’t worry!” I yelled. “What do you mean, don’t worry? If we don’t get engaged now, then when will it ever happen? When he gets back from Egypt? He’s not going to graduate for another four years, and God knows what might happen between now and then!”

But you just said it again: “Don’t worry!”

I thought: since you said it twice, you must know what you’re talking about. So I didn’t bring it up again.

Then you told me, “Don’t lose touch with his family. Go visit them. They like you. Go on acting as though you’re one of them—their son’s fiancée, his future wife.”

“You think that would work?” I asked.

“Of course,” you said.

“But Baba would blow his top!”

“Blow his top?” you said. “I don’t think so. That would only happen if Jamal were here in Gaza and not away in Egypt. Then again, he might. But only at first.”

And things happened just the way you said they would. Just exactly. He ranted and raved. He fumed and he fussed. You told him, “She’s visiting his sisters. They’re her friends. Jamal’s in Egypt, and the only people home are his mom and dad and the girls,” but he just shouted, “Regardless—she’s not going to see them. She’s not going to see them, you hear?”

Even so, I spent more time at their house during those years than I did at home. After a while he stopped asking me where I’d been. He saw how happy it made me to be with them. I don’t know why he felt the need to act the tough guy. Maybe it’s just because he was a father, and we were up to our ears in worries.

Then one day he called me and said, “Listen, Sweetie, I think you should marry the guy. The best place a girl can be is in a household where her in-laws love her more than they do her husband. I see now how much they care for you!” He paused for a second or two. Then he added, “As for him coming and saying that he’s in love, we can’t have that! You get me?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. Then he burst out laughing. “What? Do you really think I’m serious?”

Then he went on laughing, and he kept laughing until he died. May he rest in peace.

When I think back on that, I laugh so hard that things get out of hand, and I have to cry a little. But now that I’m crying, I don’t know if my tears are tears of joy or sadness. You guys have got me all confused.

Anyway, it’s nearly noon! How did you get so lazy all of a sudden? You didn’t used to be like this. You’ve way overslept. So up and at it. It’s time to see the sun, at least, and talk with me a little before I go.

Mustafa, don’t forget—you’re the boy’s uncle. And you, Saleh, get up and see your birthday sun. Don’t let it pass you by! This is the start of your new year, your lucky year. Come on, silly boy! Does anybody in his right mind let his own sun pass him by, the sun that’s rising just for him? Look out the window! There’s no haze today. No smoke, even. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this day to come?

I counted the days for so long that I’d lost track of time. Then I woke up one morning and, lo and behold, you were all grown up! And now I’ll tell you a secret. But don’t tell anybody. Don’t even tell the ground, since then the wind will find out about it. I’ve been thinking this over for a long time now, and I’ve decided that the best thing is to have you and Lamis get married.

You still don’t want to get up?

The tea’s getting cold while you three lie around like lazy bums. By God, I don’t know why I even go to the trouble to make it every day!

As for you, Mustafa, listen: if you don’t get up, I’m going to go ask for the girl’s hand myself.

. . .

You’re not going to? Fine, then! If Saleh wakes up before I get back, don’t you dare say anything to him. I want it to be a surprise.