“What does it mean?” said Sahar.
“I don’t know,” said Mariam.
That summer, Sahar spent the hottest, most uncomfortable hours of the day reading on her bed. She set aside the history books and lived only in novels. One particular afternoon she was near the end of a novel about a queen of Egypt who ruled many centuries ago. She was trying to stop herself from accelerating towards the climax, because she would mourn when it was finished, when she became aware that her mother had come into the room.
“They know,” she said.
On her back, Sahar rested the book upon her chest. “Who does?”
“Your uncles. Two of them visited today. We can expect the third any minute.”
When Hani Murad first arrived in Paris, he had yearned for a life of political significance. But after a year of working for Emir Faisal, he was already dreaming about a domestic one. As the delegation finally settled in Damascus to set up the new administration, he and the other aides encountered greater and greater obstacles, and as the French became progressively more violent and one by one the lights of their movement were snuffed out by censorship, and as the public despair became personal, and each one in the palace began to reflect on his private failures, this secret fantasy of Hani’s started to grow. He pictured himself at a law firm. And writing—he could return to the history of Turkey he had been translating. He imagined a house. In Nablus? Jerusalem? A wife. The comfort of knowing that he might reasonably guess the content of each hour of the day.
In 1920, the Arab resistance against the French in Syria had failed in toto, and they lost their war of independence almost immediately. Hani and the emir, fugitives from Damascus, parted ways with four kisses on the cheek in the back of a taxi. Faisal was accepting a British appointment as king of Iraq, with an Englishwoman as his chief advisor. In the spring of 1923 Hani returned to Palestine, a Palestinian. As he had predicted, he had no choice in the matter. Their dream of a united Levant was scuppered, at least for the moment.
Jerusalem was quiet when he arrived. Or as quiet as she ever was. Hani entered salons and slapped old friends on the back, grinning as they kissed him; he caught conversations midway, and gave sophisticated monologues when asked for his opinion. Should they cooperate with the British and their quasi-democratic systems, if that meant accepting Zionism? Or should they boycott entirely, and continue to strive for independence without compromise—which was what they were owed, by both previous promises and natural right?
“What do you think, Hani,” they asked. “Could the English be persuaded to reverse their commitment to Zionism?”
Hani was tugged down to the tables, forced onto the couch, and his voice grew hoarse with his point of view. He rented an apartment in Jerusalem. He arranged to meet with the heads of the maj or families, unburdened himself of the various pieces of wisdom and experience he had collected, asked them which side they fell on, to cooperate or to boycott. He ordered all the newspapers, caught up on local opinion. He purchased a desk and pushed it up against a window in his new study, with a view of Damascus Gate. He watched the crowds file in and out.
He took a train north to visit his family. Uppermost in his thoughts that day was his aunt Um Sahar: he had long feared that he was to blame for her widowhood.
Years ago, during that naïve early period in Paris, Hani had sent a letter to Jenin urging his uncle Fuad to join his band of exiled Arab thinkers, who were gathering in the evenings in one another’s houses and debating with exhilaration. The war had begun, his friends were fired up by new currents of influence, and Hani, young and bursting with ideals, wanted to share his new world with his uncle. Usually his group corresponded using numerical ciphers, but since Fuad would not know the code Hani wrote to him in plain Arabic. He never received a reply. A short while later, news reached him of Fuad’s execution. That letter of invitation haunted Hani, dropped so carelessly into the postbox on the Rue du Four.
For years he had rehearsed an apology to his aunt. On arrival in Jenin he found her much changed: her wrists stuck out from the sleeves of her gown, her delicate back was curved. And at the sight of that thin, solitary figure in the unlit corridor, the selfish nature of his desire for forgiveness flashed upon him, and he knew he must say nothing. It would cost her too much to pull up that atrocity so far in the past. How odd that he had imagined she might remain as she was, trapped in forty days of mourning while he passed away years. She smiled as Hani held her hands and asked how she was. Oh, this and that, she said. She mentioned a daughter. The sunlight pulsed behind clouds, brightening the room so the bookshelf and furniture glowed and dimmed. He said he was delighted to see her, and that he missed her. But the truth was the house weighed on him, and he was relieved when it was time for him to go.
At the door, she remarked: “You remind me of him.”
“Who?”
She smiled.
“I sent a letter,” he began, unable to stop himself, “from Paris—”
She shook her head, still smiling.
“If there is anything I can do for you,” he said, “you must tell me.”
On his way back to Jerusalem, Hani stopped in Nablus to see his old friend Midhat Kamal.
Since his marriage three years earlier, Midhat had been living with his wife and child in a small house on the edge of town. The child was named Massarra, and she was a year old.
In contrast to Hani’s aunt, Midhat had changed little since their last meeting. Except for his belly, which was rounder. His hair was thick and long, and although at first his boyishness seemed to have gone, once they were seated in the salon and the niceties were over, he began to joke, and his eyebrows stretched northward as they used to, with that familiar mischievous look. At first he made a point of holding his baby daughter on his knee, but when she struggled and whined Fatima appeared and silently collected her, swinging her in her arms back to the kitchen.
“I was sorry to hear about your father,” said Hani. “God bless him.”
“Oh,” Midhat pawed the air to brush it off, but then seemed unable to say anything else. Fatima had made some ma‘mool biscuits, which were still warm, and very crumbly, and they ate these in silence. Then Midhat said: “We started a new business. Tailoring clothes. I’m working with one of the Samaritans. And Butrus, our old tailor. We make suits.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Hani. “Congratulations. May God keep your business in good health!”
Midhat grinned. “Ba‘dayn we are importing some women’s clothes from Cairo.”
“Well, you know I am looking quite tatty myself,” said Hani. “Perhaps I shall come to you. This suit is ancient. I bought it in that place, do you remember?”
“The one with the blonde?”
“Exactly. They had those fantastic cravats.”
“I still have three or four.”
“You don’t!”
“I do.” Midhat chuckled. “They have half a drawer to themselves. Fatima thinks I’m mad. But anyway—tell me about the political life. How is it?”
“Ya‘ni … the Zionists are in less of a fever, so the Arabs are just fighting each other. Nashashibi, Husseini, you know how it is.”
“Same in Nablus.”
“But I am optimistic about the next delegation to London. I am optimistic.”
There was nothing to be optimistic about. Hani didn’t know why he was performing in this way for Midhat. Perhaps it was something that occurred between friends parted for a long time: first impressions after the hiatus were more important than true firsts because they were weighed down by expectations born of memories. A true first meeting required modesty; a first meeting after time had passed required boasting. The fact was that the new delegation to London had been advised by their British supporters to soften their demands. Don’t ask for independence, they were told: you won’t get it. Curry favour, show you are peaceful. Ask to have a say in immigration. Then you’ll appear reasonable, and the powers that be might take pity.
A f
ew days later, the Arabs boycotted the elections for a legislative council. To accept any British institution was to accept British rule. Hani was sitting at his desk looking over the crowd at Damascus Gate when his telephone rang.
“Operator speaking,” said the receiver. “Hani Murad?”
“With you.”
“Madame Murad on the line.”
A click, a rustling sound, and a different voice said:
“Amto will you come back?”
“Aunty, hello. What’s wrong?”
“Will you come? I don’t … I don’t want to … to speak on the …”
“Understood,” said Hani, to whom secrecy was now second nature. “I’m on my way.”
In the hallway, his aunt looked even more frail than she had the last time.
“You said if I need anything. Did you mean it?”
“Absolutely,” said Hani.
“My daughter is fourteen years old. She is Fuad’s only heir. Three of her uncles …”
Before she had progressed very far into the story, Hani realised what was being asked of him and reached for the back of a chair.
“Ah of course!” His aunt gestured that he should sit down. “I am so much a mother I forget to be a host. I will boil water for coffee.”
“There is a big difference in age,” said Hani, as his aunt rummaged in a cupboard. “You know how old I am? Thirty-four. When she is twenty she’ll realise …” He rested one hand on top of the other. “I can see you are in a predicament, but I don’t know that this would be the right—”
“I know how I raised her,” said Um Sahar, facing him with the coffeepot. “She’ll never feel that way. I beg you amto. I have no alternative.”
Every nicety was gone; she put the ghallaye on the stove and sitting beside him pressed her fingers on top of his. His eyes roamed her face. He had killed her husband. He had left these women unprotected. He bent his eyes to her hands, so thin the knuckles were like coins.
“May I see her?”
When her mother called for her, Sahar was already listening at the door. She hung back before entering. This was a nightmare. Was it possible? Another uncle.
“He is a good man,” said her mother.
The good man was already grey. He was tall and thin, and his heavy eyelids gave him an ironic expression. He smiled at Sahar. She wanted to be sick.
They put the veil on her that night. Her mother prayed loudly and wept. After dark they took a car all the way to Jerusalem, and Sahar slept on the backseat, waking every now and then to the noise of the engine and reaching for her mother’s hand.
They must have carried her upstairs for she woke in the morning beside her sleeping mother. A man’s voice came through the wall in isolated bursts. Sahar crept out of bed and opening the door a crack saw the good man standing at the table by a window, speaking into a shiny object she knew at once must be a telephone.
The sheikh was even shorter than Sahar, and his head looked like a shiny nut. When he arrived at eleven o’clock, he set a lump of papers on the table and opened his Quran. The mother would act as the agent, he explained, with barely a glance at Sahar. Like a heroine submitting to fate, Sahar sat soundless at the other end of the sofa while her mother and Hani repeated the Fatiha and responded to the sheikh’s legal recitations. Within a few minutes, they had signed the book of marriage.
“We will send you to school,” said Hani, when the sheikh left, touching Sahar’s head.
11 February 1924
Dear Sahar,
First of all I want to tell you, and I hope you don’t mind, but in your last letter I noticed two grammatical errors. When you write: “Of the twelve girls in my class, only four of us are Muslims,” you put “twelve” in the accusative, but you should remember that “twelve” shows case agreement, so it must be in the genitive. However, you write “four” correctly, in the masculine—because of polarity for the cardinal numbers. The other error is in your use of the subjunctive—remember to drop the nuun.
I am busy with politics as always. There are many arguments. Do they talk about this much at school?
Salamat,
Hani
15 March 1924
Dear Hani,
Thank you for your corrections. The lessons are fine. I enjoy my classes in Geography and English and History. I thought that I would like the Literature classes because I enjoy reading, however I do not like the teacher. She is always very certain that she is correct, and she does not like to hear other points of view!
My favourite teacher is Miss Schmidt. She teaches Geography. She is not friendly at first but I believe she is a conscientious person. In addition to this, she is intelligent.
The teachers do not talk about politics in the school, however the students talk. Most of the girls here do not like the Mufti. Even the Muslim girls talk about not wearing the veil. Please do not tell my mother.
Is your work very difficult? What is your opinion of the Mufti?
Salamat,
Sahar
23 December 1924
Dear Sahar,
I am sorry for this delay, I have been busy as usual. We have failed to convene another Congress, the divisions are very deep. Zionist immigration is increasing, land is sold all over, and the Arabs still have not formed a united front. I am not sure if it is appropriate to share my opinion of the Mufti. In fact, I have not yet decided. I prefer not to take a position and stick to it as though upon it my honour depended, since this is a habit I see everywhere, to the detriment of the national movement. Men claim to have principles but really they only care about keeping power. They do not try to see the larger picture, which is that while we are squabbling with each other the land is being taken from under our feet.
I know you prefer stories and novels, but I recommend that you read poetry, even if they are not teaching it to you. Start with al-Barudi, he is full of moral wisdom. Also I like the Egyptian poet Hafiz Ibrahim very much. And here is some of Ahmad Shawqi for you to enjoy:
And the star stared at us like an eye unmoving, unblinking
So that at parting’s call our bond dissolved.
Now a sea separates us, and beyond the sea a wilderness.
My night is now here in Egypt, hers there in the West,
How content with her company must her night be!
Yours,
Hani
17 January 1925
Dear Hani,
I enjoyed reading what you wrote about the problems facing the Arabs at this time.
I find this poem very beautiful. I know some al-Barudi and Shawqi but I will read more.
We heard about the protests when Lord Balfour visited. Is this not an example of the ability to suspend squabbles in the face of a greater cause?
Sorry this letter is short. Today is sports day, and I am playing tennis.
Sahar
26 May 1925
Dear Sahar,
It pleased me very much to see you at your mother’s house. You are growing fast, and I admit it was a shock to see how tall you are! And you are well spoken.
I am writing to you from Amman. I have come to visit my friend King Faisal of Iraq at a meeting about the new uprising in Syria. It is pleasant to be with him, he is an example of an honourable man, so careful of the fates of others.
Hani
29 June 1925
Dear Hani,
We have finished our end-of-year examinations, and now it is the holiday. Since my mother did not want me to return to Jenin we are staying in Jaffa until August.
Are you in Syria? We have been hearing about the uprising against the French. I hope you are in Jerusalem. Since I am sending this letter to Jerusalem, however, whenever you read that question you will be in Jerusalem! I pray you are not in Syria.
Now I am not at school I have been reading the newspapers. Did you hear that after the British government diverted all the water from an Arab village to give to the Jews building houses in Jerusalem, the Arabs took the government to court, and th
ey won? I think this is a sign that the British government is a just government, that they will relent before their own legal system when the proper argument is made.
Salamat,
Sahar
2 October 1925
Dear Sahar,
Your reaction to the water dispute made me smile. Sometimes the law can seem boring but sometimes, yes, law is the stuff of life. As to whether the British government is just, we shall have to see.
Thankfully I was not in Syria. We have been organising a Central Committee for the Relief of Syrian Victims since the uprising started, however, and we have written to the League of Nations to protest the brutal French bombardments of Damascus.
I begin to wonder whether a revolution is what we need in Palestine, as they have in Syria. There are some people promoting this in the North. Our tragedy is that the Palestinian national movement currently has no strategy. More than a thousand Jewish immigrants enter the country each month and it is clear they wish to create a Jewish state. We might be the majority but we are treated as a minority, and I see they intend to make us one. This alleged British policy of maintaining the Status Quo is totally false.
I am building a new house in the Musrara neighbourhood which I hope will be pleasing to you. The architect is Turkish and has designed several other houses nearby. Meanwhile I am working with domestic disputes and land issues, and it seems that while we enter a political malaise there is an atmosphere of sociality with the Brits. There are many parties, for example.
You are back at school now. How is the start of your final year?
Salamat,
Hani
15 November 1925
Dear Hani,
Entering the final year of school I have an unusual feeling. I will be sad to leave my friends, particularly Margo and Lamees. I know I will still see them although not every day. However, I am also excited. Tonight we have a concert in the courtyard and Lamees is playing the piano.
How is the house in Musrara? It is strange to think there are only a few months left. Today we had a sewing class and I have been making a turban hat for myself. I am afraid these details are boring to you, but they are all I have to tell, so forgive me!
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