Sulha

by Malka Marom

  Like in a dream I passed by check-in counters of airlines of Arab nations at war with us. For eight years, not a day goes by that they don’t embargo us, besiege us, threaten to drive us to the sea, yet here their sons and daughters—dressed in opulent abia, kaffiyyes, veils, and even fur coats over thowbs and jalabeeyas—were under the same roof with Levi and me and no one fired at us even a hostile glance. Perhaps they couldn’t tell that I was Israeli. Your own people you recognize immediately. I saw no Israelis in the crowd; the El-Al counter was closed by the time I reached it.

  For the first time in my life, I found myself in a place where no one knew who I was, where my parents came from, what I feared, dreamed, hoped. I had no idea how liberating the anonymity of exile could be until that moment. For the first time in my life I didn’t feel compelled by the times, the place, the values instilled in me, to assume responsibility for anyone but my infant son and myself. For the first time, I wasn’t compelled to meet anyone’s expectations but my own, or conform to the mould that shaped my generation . . . Only for a few brief moments did that freedom last—moments as sweet as stolen water.

  Levi, an independent soul even then, kicked and squirmed himself free of my arms. And before I could pick him up, the child crawled away, like he did at home whenever he wanted to play hide-and-seek. The faster I ran after him, the faster he crawled. Soon, he had scooted out of my sight. I called out his name, but the child, thinking he was in a crowded park or beach in The Land, waited for someone to pick him up and return him to me. Here, at the airport, though, the rushing crowds ignored me, as if, like in the nightmares, I had no voice.

  “Watch out for the child! . . . Watch out . . . for my child! . . . Stop! . . . Be careful!” I was afraid the rushing crowd would trample him underfoot.

  “Leeevvviii!” I cried as soon as I spotted him, only a few seconds after I thought I lost him in that wilderness of indifference.

  I couldn’t wait to get out of the airport. But almost everyone I approached to ask directions to the bus or taxi stand kept on rushing by; the few who stopped shrugged or muttered, even before I finished my question: “Sorry, I don’t know . . . don’t understand . . .” And Levi, sick of being captive in my arms, wanted to crawl in the airport like at home, to eat in the airport like at home, to nap in a crib like at home . . . He was overtired and hungry. And I had no English pounds and only a few dollars. I wasn’t allowed, by law, to take much foreign currency out of The Land. And I didn’t know how much anything cost—how much to get to the hotel by cab. Or if I might need the dollars allotted to me—or more—for God knows what emergency. Never before had I been forced to wonder: Who do I know here? Who can I ask to back me up in an emergency?

  So, this is exile, I thought, homesick already.

  But London—What a surprise to find London festive and bright, not grey and drab as I had imagined. Display windows on Regent Street towered to the sky like mountains of emeralds, rubies, and diamonds. “Christmas lights,” the taxi driver explained. It boggled my mind that anything Christian could be so beautiful, joyful, peaceful . . . I didn’t expect to find Christians with swastikas stamped on their foreheads, or Tommy guns slung on their shoulders, but the Tommies I knew when they ruled The Land were not of this place.

  Incredible how their occupation tactics didn’t corrupt the Tommies at home. Amazing how nice and polite the Tommies were in their London, saying, “Beg your pardon,” even when you stepped on their toes, and “Excuse me” . . . “Please” . . . “Thank you.” They weren’t patronizing when they said it, like they used to be in The Land. No, it seemed natural, almost inbred.

  I tried it once. “Thank you . . . Please . . . Excuse me,” I said, but I associated the words with the hypocrisy of the powerful, the grovelling of the weak, the brown-nosing of the collaborators, the misguided trust of the assimilated, the resignation of the ghetto. So heavy these words, even eight years after the Tommies had left The Land.

  What a thorn in the butt we must have been for the Tommies, I realized in their London. It must have been hell for them to put their lives on the line in a land arid, parched, hostile to them, decade after decade, night and day, to fear that every step they took might be their last. Many got killed, wounded—for what? Why did they have to fan the embers of war, not only between Arab and Jew, but between Arab and Arab, and Jew and Jew?

  How could they have stayed away from such a London? Where in The Land could they see a river as mighty as the Thames, a lawn as green and wide as Hyde Park, or a hotel like the one in which Trans-Canada reserved a room for Levi and me?

  The King David Hotel in Jerusalem had seemed like a palace until I saw this hotel. If there was ever in The Land a palace like this hotel, it had been destroyed in one war or another, one crusade or another, and so were the trees, if there was ever a stretch of peace long enough for them to grow as tall as the Christmas tree that stood inside the lobby of this hotel. Nowhere had I seen a tree so tall outdoors, let alone indoors; or such fancy moulding on such a high ceiling; such a plush carpet spread on such a wide wood floor; such a huge stonework fireplace; or such logs stoking the fire—huge they were, like the ones my parents had described when they told me of the logging camps in Poland where my father had met my mother; where they worked for Hakhsharah (developing muscle and stamina for the pioneering work of rebuilding The Land).

  Up in the room was a beautiful booklet for room service. I ordered, and they served. It was incredible: Whatever I ordered, the Tommies served; my wish was their command. I ordered and ordered, thinking the next order would give me a taste of justice.

  I’d never felt so ugly, cruel—and sick. I had never seen butter before; it was too rich. Even the smell nauseated me.

  CHAPTER 5

  The slanting sunrays tease colour out of stone. The mountains, boulders, and rocks are streaked with ancient hues of bronze and rust, copper green, iron red, yellow, purple and pink, grey and brown. The sky bands the horizon with cloudless blue. Afternoon shadows stretch long to the east—

  North! South! West!

  The tents are facing east. Because the mountain peaks to the east shield the tents from the morning sun? The camels are still grazing on gravel and stones. But that shimmering green spot, I see now, is a tree—looks like an acacia—not very far from the tents.

  The Badawias seem to be racing against the sun now, so busy preparing food they don’t notice Salimeh starting to crawl toward the fire. Her tiny elbows keep collapsing, dropping her head to the stones, dust, and dung. She stops to play with filthy balls of unspun wool and hair, chews on a rusty rim of a pail, licks off the sand stuck to a tea glass—too close to the fire.

  The infant-girl cried and screamed as soon as I picked her up. Her girl-mother sprang to her feet and grabbed her child from my arms, spewing a torrent of curses. Her senior co-wife, Azzizah, also cursed and cursed. You wouldn’t suspect that, only three or four months ago, the same Badawias demanded I give my breast to this infant—as part of a ritual that converted me from stranger to stranger-no-stranger. That made me little Salimeh’s godmother, her adopted mother, and therefore a member of her clan, her tribe.

  Maybe they only sound like they’re spewing curses because their language is harsh to my ears and you never see a smile on their veiled faces. And maybe I hear my own anger in their voices. Day before yesterday, I knew what compelled me to come here; now, I don’t. Day before yesterday, I thought my night-school Arabic would serve me well here; now I find it’s good enough only for classroom tests. Day before yesterday, I believed I was welcome to visit-stay here a week, a month, a year; now I catch a snippet like “People hear my blood is exposed and they come to visit-stay like vultures” and I start to spin-curve like a question mark.

  But the minute I tune out their speed-talking, the minute I concentrate on their body language, I see these two Badawia co-wives working together like a team, with no sign of rank—no seniority, no privile
ge of youth. They consult each other—Enough salt? More oil?—both crouching by the cooking fires in front of Tammam’s tent, next to the jerricans and a large pail that serves as their kitchen sink. Whenever one leaves to fetch a bowl or a spice, the other takes her place. There is no sign of discord between them, only harmony.

  Their cooking utensil is a shibriyya—dagger. Their kitchen counter is a torn sack spread flat on the ground. They store their ingredients in dented tin boxes, cloth bags, and bundled rags. Rice is boiled in a chipped enamel pot. They bake their pita over a flat iron disk that looks like the top of a rusty gasoline barrel.

  It is impossible to keep dust and sand away from the food because of the goats, the saluki dogs, and the wind—and because they cook first, clean house later.

  They use bunched twigs to sweep the ground, raising dust, sand, and coughs. Now they shake out the blanket-carpets, spread them back flat on the ground around the fire. Tammam glides over to Azzizah’s tent and comes back dragging two more carpets; rolls them up like bolsters. Then, stuffing all the presents back into my duffle bag, she asks me if I remembered to bring a gift for their husband.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “Good,” she says. She doesn’t ask what I brought.

  It is not proper for a guest to work, Azzizah told me when I offered to give them a hand. “Recline, recline on your welcome-carpet,” the senior wife said, as she gives a sponge bath to Tammam’s infant. She dips the dusty hem of her dress into a few drops of murky water. The baby cries and kicks, and after her bath her face seems to be covered with grey powder. Azzizah brushes the dust away with one of her shawls. They save every drop of water, it seems, and serve the rinse-water to the goats.

  Now, all of a sudden, Tammam and Azzizah tense up. Each sits down on her own blanket-carpet, pulls a mirror from her red wool sash-belt, straightens her veil, and sticks some kohl in her eyes.

  “Should have changed Salimeh’s dress,” Azzizah mutters. Then she and Tammam fall silent.

  I turn to see if anyone is approaching, but I see no one. I hear only the wind, and the saluki dogs running away. A moment later they run circles around the master of the tents, Imsallam Suleman Abu Salim.

  “Ye-massikum bil-khayr,” he mutters, his voice dark and raspy.

  His wives murmur something under their veils—a reply to his greeting, I guess.

  The dogs sit behind his carpet even before he folds his legs.

  Silence. This is the second time today that a greeting is followed by silence. The fire hissing and a coyote, hyena, or fox howling far in the distance, the sound bouncing from mountain to mountain. A purple shadow falls on the plateau—the mountain peaks in the east glow like the sun.

  Imsallam Suleman Abu Salim breathes like a heavy smoker. Commanding, regal, dignified, intimidating . . . such a presence. Though last night, when Tal and I arrived at his maq’ad—men’s-guest-receiving-place—I saw this Badu being gracious to a fault. I sense a sort of quietness in him, the inner stillness of a man who is not afraid to die.

  A slash above his jaw looks like someone was aiming for his neck and missed—not by very much. His scar glistens dark through his white stubble like a wild streak. His white kaffiyye headdress doesn’t fall down in majestic folds but is wrapped around his head like some rag, as though he couldn’t care less about his appearance; he hasn’t shaved in a week, hasn’t bought a new jalabeeya—shirt-dress—or a new abaiah—cloak—in years.

  And his shoes—he wears them without socks— dusty, scruffy black shoes with the laces missing. He takes them off before folding his legs on his carpet and puts them on before getting up. His feet must be swollen or his shoes too tight—how else could he keep them on, walking without a shuffle, without a sound?

  His two wives own no footwear, by the look of their feet.

  His hands look like those of a top executive, not toughened by manual labour like his wives’. He wears a ring—only one, but what a ring, a scarab set in gold. Plundered from an Egyptian tomb? In his smuggling days? Why doesn’t he upgrade the living conditions here in his tents? Surely he can afford it if he can afford his ring, and the silver and gold and gemstones on his wives.

  Cooing like a dove now to her father, little Salimeh breaks the silence. Her girl-mother lays her down on the carpet and . . . oh, how that infant smiles and laughs, crawling straight to her father. I don’t know where I got the impression that Bedouin men value sons more than they do daughters. Maybe they do, and only here does Imsallam Suleman Abu Salim hold his infant daughter like a testament to his virility.

  Unlike his wives, Abu Salim doesn’t live isolated and remote in forbidden tents. He has met strangers, and not only in his maq’ad. His wives must know this, but they don’t seem to comprehend it.

  “She is doing writing, you know. Her name is Nura,” says Tammam. “Nura remembers-learns by doing writing, for strangers cannot remember from generation to generation—min jil le-jil—like us Badu. We Badu are blessed.”

  Silence . . . God, what a silence.

  The Badawias stare at the fire as if praying or escaping. The wind shifts and blows smoke in his direction. Abu Salim coughs and spits, buries his spit with a handful of sand.

  “Aywa—yes,” he says finally, handing his infant daughter back to Tammam as if to say, “Mind your infant and your tongue. Remember your place.” “Hormmah,” he calls her. Doesn’t “Hormmah” mean “shameful,” “disgraceful”? “Say, tell me, yaa-Hormmah, what was your guest writing to remember?” he asks her. His tone, his manner, would intimidate the hell out of me, but if his girl-wife feels intimidated, she gives no sign of it.

  “Your guest is doing writing,” Tammam says, “to remember-learn everything we Badu remember-learn without doing writing . . . because we Badu are blessed.”

  “Is that what your guest told you?” Abu Salim asks his girl-wife.

  Silence.

  “Supper will get cold,” mutters Azzizah. To protect Tammam? Me? Should I interfere now, tell him, “Yes, that’s what I told Tammam?” But that’s what his wives could say—

  “What were you writing?” he asks me.

  And now I understand why you need a bit of time here before you open your mouth.

  “I was writing not to forget,” I reply. “My memory is not as good as it was when I was young.”

  “Aywa—yes,” says Abu Salim. “We Badu have a saying, ‘All is carved in stone when one is young, and carved in sand when one is old.’ But you are not old. You told me a story, I know. You strangers call stories ‘lies.’ Telling story-lies is not good, I heard you strangers say. We Badu like to hear story and also to tell stories, to spice up life. We Badu have a saying, ‘A man who tells no lies—no story—is a man with no pepper’,” he says, flashing his brown teeth.

  His girl-wife Tammam brings him a dented jug, and a frayed towel that was once white. Her husband washes his hands first, and then tells me to do as he did. After the senior co-wife washes her hands, she holds the jug for Tammam to wash up.

  Their dinner table is the gravel ground in front of their husband’s welcome-carpet. Dinner is rice heaped on a round bronze tray.

  “But where is the samn?” Abu Salim mutters. “Where is the Honour of guest?”

  And a lot of Honour Azzizah pours over the rice. It looks like puckish green oil, thick like grease and smelling of mildew.

  “Eat, eat,” says Abu Salim, and when he sees me hesitating, he explains that samn is clarified butter Azzizah prepared, not from goats’ milk, but from camels’ milk. “Azzizah watched over it for a month—yemkin—maybe a year.”

  “Eat . . . guwwa—strength, power to you,” Abu Salim and his wives say, as we say “Bon appetit.”

  So I told them, “Guwwa—eat, eat—bon appetit,” but they wouldn’t touch their food.

  “For it is improper,” says Abu Salim. “A proper host never eats with his guests, only a
fter . . . only what is left on the tray after his guests have their fill.” They would rather starve than be “not proper,” it seems.

  I was famished. But, like the tourists I used to laugh at when I was a child, I couldn’t even look at that tray, and the rice kept sliding from my fingers.

  “Wallah, how ignorant Nura is,” the Badawias mutter. “Even her fingers are ignorant . . . not even knowing how to roll rice properly from a tray.”

  “Yes. Would you show me, teach me . . . eat first?” I say.

  Abu Salim has obviously seen a stranger or two who didn’t appreciate Badu delicacies. “Welcome a guest even if he arrives in the late night, even if he had wronged you, even if he offends you,” he says, spitting behind his back. He covers his spit with a handful of sand and, with his other hand, starts to roll the rice into spoon-size balls.

  His wives follow, digging their fingers into that same tray. Each person seems to have a territory in the tray, as if the rice, like a pizza, was divided into four portions. Each hand rolled off rice from his or her territory only; they didn’t touch the rice in my territory, the invisible triangle in front of me. Each showed me how to roll rice with my fingers. And when they saw my fingers picking only white grains of rice, they shoved the rice, dripping with thick green grease, over to my territory.