When Manal was born, the elders’ verdict was devastating: her previous life would have enormous bearing on her destiny. She would have to live with an infirmity, the dead weight of mistakes she would never remember making. They agreed that for God’s will to be observed, no effort would be made to cure her infirmity. They spoke of resignation, the only virtue they deemed possible in the face of such a cruel fate.
The wind blew from nowhere, regaining its course after a brief pause. Unrelentingly it swept across the Druze Mountain and the neighbouring regions: the Golan that extended to the west and the Ledja to the northwest, with its immense reddish lava.
On this November morning the wind aggressively attacked the volcanic mass, tearing off large blocks that went flying into the desert region of southern Syria.
The wind that wondered in the fields of wheat during the summer months suddenly awoke from a long seasonal rest and established itself as lord and master of the plateau.
It rushed softly into the Bedouin tents, making the goatskins flap, and when evening fell it inflated the earth-red tunics of the peasants whose shifting silhouettes as they returned home from the fields moved against a blazing sky.
However, its real anger and fury fell right above the Soueida town centre, in the heart of the Druze Mountain. Here it sent swirls of volcanic dust and hurled them at the enclosures made of brown stone stolen from the Byzantine churches of long ago. Sand stuck to the walls and seeped into the cracks of low doors and under the arches of the old Khan. Time and time again the wind thought it had buried it for good, but the relics remained obstinate and defiant, refusing to stay buried under the sand.
Chams left Soueida and made her way along the west road. Her will alone guided her body as she bent over to resist the wind. A sudden pain flashed through her back before travelling in dull waves to the rest of her body.
‘God help me. The child is going to be born,’ she whispered. Alarmed and panting, she paused for a moment to pray. She knew that Bedouin women often gave birth alone in the wilderness, cutting their baby’s umbilical cord with sharp rocks. But this birth would be different, dangerous. She had felt this during the early months of her pregnancy, and now she was afraid of dying alone.
Chams walked faster. Her breathing was short and fast: she forced herself not to think of what was happening inside her body. The corner of her veil that pressed against her mouth, covering her head and eyebrows, offered no protection against the burning sand the wind threw in her face. The heavy, dark sky would soon release a torrent of rain. Chams had to make haste. She must reach the village. The pain came again, stronger and more precise. She clenched her fists and waited for it to ease. Suddenly her surroundings seemed hostile. The grey trunks of a few fig trees loomed against the lower end of the fields, and vines, as black and dry as her fears, snaked along the ground above her.
Finally the beams and dirt roof of her house came into view. An old woman stood at the entrance, her dress flapping wildly in the wind. Chams knew she was waiting for her because the old woman could predict events in advance. When she caught sight of Chams she stretched up her black silhouette and shouted a few words that were carried by the wind. Despite her exhaustion, Chams ran the remaining distance that separated them. ‘Hurry Khalte, tell Amar the baby is coming!’ Chams unrolled her mattress and threw herself on it. The pain assailed her brutally.
‘This time I will not make it! Rabbi I can feel it! This child will be the death of me!’
There had been strange signs throughout. At first, they seemed of no importance, nothing but the same discomfort she had encountered during earlier pregnancies. It was the inability to function properly that began to startle her. She would break a dish, spill oil or salt, which, according to village tradition, were bad omens. At first she did not understand why this child tired her so much or why it kept kicking and moving around in her stomach for hours on end. Chams lost her touch, her green thumb: plants died when she touched them. But her fears reached a climax the night a messenger came from Bosra-Cham to inform her that her father was dying. Chams was squatting behind her wooden house cooking sour goat milk: her thighs were open and her stomach protruded. Her mother-in-law was hovering around like an old crow. Chams had to see her father, but she wondered if it was prudent to go when she was so close to giving birth. When her mother-in-law began to fuss and complain angrily, Chams immediately made up her mind.
‘I will go… Allah will help me!’
The old woman persisted: she shook her head and insisted there would be complications. The child should have been born before the coming of winter and the delay was definitely a bad sign. Then, all of a sudden, her whining stopped. Chams paused at the doorstep and turned back, curious to know what had silenced her mother-in-law. The old woman was staring at the contents in the pot. With a heavy heart, Chams realised the milk had curdled. Chunks were floating on the surface. This was a sign that could not be misunderstood. She listened to the old woman say what she already knew: bad omens were associated with the coming of this child. Chams poured the bad milk over the thorn bushes and threw her worn-out shoe at the old woman, who scurried off yelling insults.
Chams reached Soueida and took the evening bus to Bosra-Cham, but when she arrived at her father’s house, he had already passed away. She was assured that Allah, in taking his life, had relieved him of all his suffering. His liberated soul had already entered the body of a newborn child in the region. The women, dressed in black with white veils on their heads, were making preparations to spend a sad night with his widow. Their wails would continue until dawn. In the morning, despite her grief and exhaustion, Chams knew she had to make her way back quickly. She bid farewell to her grieving mother, who looked like a frozen statue, her face completely covered with the opaque veil widows wore.
As Chams waited for the bus that would take her back to Soueida, pain shot through her body and she could taste death on her lips. ‘Rabbi, be merciful. I do not want to die like a dog on the road.’
As soon as she caught sight of Chams, her mother-in-law ran across the field oblivious to the sharp stones tearing at her bare feet. Excitement gave wings to her old age. Although Bou Hassan understood what was happening, he finished loading all the wood onto the back of his mule before he went to meet her. An icy wind, already wet, was blowing fiercely. Now his mother was yelling, screaming in his ear.
‘Go quickly, my son. Fetch the midwife. Your wife is not doing well, and we fear for her life.’
Bou Hassan was upset: his wife had chosen her moment badly. He took his time stacking the wood in a dry place before mounting his beast. He was not moved by what his mother told him. Why should he be? Nothing tied him to the mother of his children any longer. The inhabitants of this rough area never fell prey to their feelings once the honeymoon was over. In fact a wife was more easily replaceable than a farm animal. However, he realised that Chams was strong and hardworking. Besides, the children were still very young. He preferred she not die. He dug his heels into the animal’s side, and the beast darted off like an arrow against the wind.
Chams’s mother-in-law returned to the house as fast as she could. Misfortune filled her with a strange kind of joy. After all, she must not miss out on the action. ‘As God is my witness, I saw this coming,’ she kept repeating to herself.
Chams’s screams reached her ears long before she arrived. She found her sitting on a goatskin mattress, as was the tradition.
‘Here my child,’ said the old lady, giving Chams a ragged shirt. ‘Tear it with your teeth whenever the contractions occur. It helps.’
To keep the children quiet they were sent away with their pockets full of nuts and dried raisins while the women gathered at the entrance of the house.
Amar, the most experienced of the women, had assisted in the delivery of the older children and was, in normal circumstances, extremely capable. But this birth was different. It was not going well: the baby was coming into the world in an abnormal manner. In fact it was not coming out at all. It was trapped inside Chams, who was growing weaker by the minute.
‘Ya Berri!’
‘If the dayé does not come, I will have the death of this woman on my conscience.’
Then Chams let out a cry like that of a wounded beast, which every man and woman in the village heard.
‘Ya Berri!’ moaned Amar. ‘The feet aren’t supposed to come out first.’
The old woman came closer to her daughter-in-law. One glance at Chams made her shiver to the bones. ‘A monster! A monster is born into our family … Agibeh! Agibeh!’ the old woman screamed.
When the dayé finally arrived, she pushed aside the group of excited women and ordered the old woman who was still lamenting at the doorstep to shut up. She knew it would be a difficult birth, but there was urgency in the matter. Rolling her sleeves up, she knelt beside the young woman. Her skilful movements brought life back to Cham’s body.
‘Get me some hot bread,’ she demanded when the delivery was finally completed.
The wheat bread, as soft as a wet towel, was useful in animating the newborn baby. A few taps against her face, chest and legs with the bread enabled the little girl to let out her first cry. The midwife recited the traditional incantations. The child was alive and so was the mother, but the dayé knew it would have been better had the baby died because it was obvious from the deformity in her legs that she would never walk.
Translated by Mirna Hakal