Sulha

by Malka Marom

  This place will never be the same.

  In return, the neighbouring Badawias presented me with jewels—rings, bracelets, anklets, necklaces. . . I jingle-jangle like a Badawia now.

  CHAPTER 17

  The darkness was not as dense and confining now that the fire-circle in front of Tammam’s tent was just a heap of scorched ashes and a skyful of stars dropped low and bright enough to reveal that the commotion that woke me up and raised the dust was stirred up by the saluki dogs, running circles around the compound as if a predator was lurking below this plateau.

  My fight-or-flight response kicked in.

  A moment later, Abu Salim hushed the salukis, as if they were just imagining things. Without protest they ran to him in Azzizah’s tent—pitched thirty meters, give or take, from Tammam’s.

  A few feet from me, Tammam sat still like a rock. Then she heaved a sigh, and whispered to herself, “Patience is better than thinking, if only you could manage it, oh self.”

  “Esh hassal—what’s going on, Tammam?” I whispered. The tension emanating from her, and the loneliness, knotted my thighs, my gut. Her jewels jingle-jangled as she turned toward me and the worry in her eyes lifted. She was glad, it seemed, to have a person other than herself to talk with, think with—wait with—for the camel-rider.

  Tammam had heard the camel-rider well before Abu Salim hushed the salukis. She knew then that the approaching camel-rider was the first son born to Abu Salim’s sister, and that he had been riding a distance of seven-eight hours if his point of departure was anywhere near his compound; and that the salukis were stupid dogs not to have remembered the camel-rider; and that all too soon we were bound to find out what had brought him here at this hour of the night.

  All that information the girl-wife imparted to me as might a woman who feared the arrival of news that her husband, brother, or son had fallen on the battlefield.

  I had not picked up a sign that a camel rider was out there, except for the commotion of the salukis. But so silent are the strides of a Badu riding camel, most strangers can’t hear them until the camel and its rider materialize in front of them—out of nowhere, it seems—startling the hell out of you. Only a Badu can hear the silent strides of a border-crosser’s camel ten-fifteen minutes away. I found it an admirable ability in the Badu—until tonight when I waited with Tammam. Waited and waited . . .

  The minutes stretched long, all I could hear was her heart beating—an echo of mine on the night I had waited for Arik, only to be told he’d never return.

  Abu Salim’s white kaffiyye, glowing in the dark by Azzizah’s tent, signalled to the camel-rider to dismount there. Tammam, careful not to jingle-jangle her jewels, froze to a rock again as she strained to hear the exchange of whispers coming from Azzizah’s tent.

  “Why don’t you walk over to Azzizah’s tent if you want to hear what they are saying?” I asked her.

  “I can hear from here what they are saying,” she whispered back.

  My ears caught only the secretive conspiring sound of whispering and the long silences in between. After each silent pause ended, Tammam would invariably mutter, “Yaa-Allah . . . yaa-Allah,” as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

  The exchange of whispering at Azzizah’s tent ended almost as soon as it began. And as the camel-rider left the compound Tammam sighed in relief. On second thought, it seemed, her eyes searched mine, as though seeking explanation, clarification.

  “Did you not hear what brought the camel-rider to this compound at this hour?” I whispered to her.

  “I did, but surely it cannot be that a bride is what had brought him here at this hour.”

  “A bride?” I asked her.

  Silence. Tammam uttered not another word until it sounded like Abu Salim and Azzizah had fallen back to sleep. Then: “A bride that Abu Salim is wanting to purchase.”

  “You mean Abu Salim wants a third wife?”

  “No,” replied Tammam. “The whole desert laughs at a man who marries many wives. Abu Salim would divorce Azzizah or me before he married another wife. All he would have to do is to say ‘I divorce thee’ three times. My brother would come to fetch me, and I would return with him to my father’s tents. But I am sure that Abu Salim would not divorce me. And I am even more certain that Azzizah does not want to be divorced from Abu Salim. Yet tonight, in her tent, I heard Azzizah whispering-urging Abu Salim to purchase the bride that Azzizah called ‘She-camel,’ which is also what Abu Salim and his nephew called her. For that is how we Badu talk of a bride when we talk of her purchase price.”

  “And what do you Badu call a she-camel when you mean a she-camel?”

  “Wallah—we Badu have a hundred words for a she-camel, or maybe only fifty or sixty words.”

  “But do you Badu never call a she-camel a ‘she-camel’?”

  “Yes. Sometimes.”

  “So how do you know that Azzizah, Abu Salim, and his nephew were not talking-whispering about the purchase of a she-camel and not a bride?”

  “Maybe they were . . . I will tell you what I heard them whisper and what I think of what they whispered, then you tell me if they were talking-whispering about the purchase of a bride or a she-camel,” replied Tammam.

  The girl-wife commenced filling me in, adopting the ancient singsong lilt of the storyteller. “The owner of the she-camel does not wish to part from the she-camel, else he would not demand for her a purchase-price so high that the whole desert would laugh at the Badu who pays it. That was the first thing Abu Salim’s nephew said-whispered.

  “‘What exactly is the all too high purchase-price her owner demands I pay for his she-camel’? I heard the whisper of Abu Salim inquiring of his nephew.

  “‘Her owner demands you pay for his she-camel water rights to all your water sources, or passage rights to all your border-crossing routes,’ replied Abu Salim’s nephew.

  “And now I heard Abu Salim thinking it over, thinking and thinking to himself, and then to his nephew Abu Salim said-whispered, ‘If that is the purchase-price her owner demands for his she-camel, he does not wish to part from her.’

  “Surely they are talking of a she-camel, meaning ‘bride,’ for no father wants to part from his daughter, I thought to myself. Yet, I clearly heard Azzizah urging Abu Salim to purchase the she-camel. So now I thought to myself, surely they are talking-whispering about a she-camel—meaning ‘she-camel,’ not bride. For Azzizah would never urge Abu Salim to purchase another wife, I am certain of that.

  “But next I heard Abu Salim say, ‘The she-camel is blemished.’ And now I was certain they were talking of a ‘bride.’ For I am certain Abu Salim would not purchase a blemished she-camel, no matter how cheap or dear her purchase-price. But in his eyes all women are blemished.”

  “Blemished—how? What is their blemish?” I whispered-asked Tammam.

  “Allah aref—God knows: being women, not men, perhaps,” replied Tammam.

  “Blemished she is, I clearly heard that,” continued Tammam. “And then I heard Abu Salim say-whisper to his nephew, ‘Tell the owner of the she-camel that I agree to purchase her at his asking price, and that after I consult with the elders of my clan I shall inform him, Inshallah, if her purchase-price be water rights or border-crossing routes.’

  “Thereupon his nephew departed. But surely it cannot be that what has brought him here at this hour and has sent him off at this hour is but a purchase of a bride, let alone a she-camel, blemished.”

  “Can you not ask Abu Salim or Azzizah, or both, to clarify it for you?”

  “Of course, I can. But they are seasoned wiser than me. And whenever they deem it the time to clarify it for me, they will do so. Besides, it is not prudent to show you lack information, for information is power.”

  “Why is it not prudent to show you lack power?”

  “Because you are treated like kharah—shit—if you lack power,” replie
d Tammam. “Patience is better than thinking. Tomorrow, Inshallah, or day after tomorrow, I will know what is this blemished she-camel that Abu Salim wants to purchase.”

  “Would your kinsfolk be angry with Abu Salim if he were to divorce you so that he could marry this blemished bride?”

  “No, there is no shame in divorce. And besides, Abu Salim is not divorcing me, I am sure of that. For Abu Salim thinks I am pregnant and Abu Salim is not a man who would divorce a pregnant wife.”

  “Wallah, yaa-Tammam, no one would know you are pregnant from looking at you.”

  “Aywa—yes. I neither look nor feel pregnant. But Azzizah told me and Abu Salim that she has no doubt I am pregnant. And Azzizah is a darwisha who can see in the alum crystal if a woman is pregnant or not. So maybe in this, my second pregnancy, it was fated that I be of the Badawias who neither look nor feel they are pregnant for the first three-four months. Or maybe my womb is not swelling, nor stirring with a child, because I am of the Badawias who neither menstruate nor conceive for as long as they breast-feed their infants. Or maybe the drought dried up my menstruation and my womb is barren this year. That happened this year, not only to the goats, but also to many Badawias. The whole desert knows it. Still, you must swear—swear—you will not reveal to a soul that I doubt I am pregnant.”

  “I swear.”

  “Once you swear, you die if you do not do as you have sworn you will do,” Tammam warned, her eyes torn wide by fear. Is Tammam afraid she might die, like her mother, the day she gives birth to her second child? Is that why Tammam urges her infant daughter to enjoy her mother’s love, as if the child won’t have too many days to enjoy it? Each moment of such love is more precious than anyone but an orphan like Tammam could appreciate. You would think her husband would be heartbroken to hear Tammam tell her infant daughter, “Take what is left of the rest of my life and enjoy it . . .” Why doesn’t he empower his girl-wife with the information that more Sinai Badawias then ever these days are checking into the maternity wards of the Israeli hospital in Eilat, only a couple of days’ travel from here by Jeep?

  “Was Azzizah with you when you birthed little Salimeh?”

  “Yes. If I am pregnant now, Azzizah will also be with me, Inshallah, when I birth my second child. But if I am not pregnant now . . .” Tammam heaved a sigh. “Tomorrow, Inshallah, or day after tomorrow, surely it will be made clear to me why Abu Salim offered to pay such a high price—water rights or rights of passageways, yaa-Rabb—for a blemished camel or a blemished bride.”

  “You sigh like a woman tired out by her fears,” I told her.

  “Laaa—no—I am not afraid of my not knowing,” said Tammam. “I am afraid only for—and of—my brother. Every Badawia is afraid of her brother.”

  “Of her own brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a brother is duty-bound to kill a sister if she strays or even if it is only rumoured that she has made love with a man not her husband,” replied Tammam.

  “Her brother and not her husband is duty-bound to kill her for that?”

  “Aywa—yes,” said Tammam. “Your husband can divorce you for that. But if your husband kills you, your brother is duty-bound to avenge your blood, no matter how far you strayed. That is why it is said that the worst fate to befall a man is to have a sister who is rumoured to have strayed, for no one loves you more than your brother—except your mother and your father.

  “Your father also is duty-bound to kill you if people say you made love to a man not your husband. But my brother would never let my father kill me, for my brother loves my father and knows it would kill my father to kill me.

  “O, take what is left of the rest of my life and enjoy it,” Tammam whispers to little Salimeh, as she hugs and rocks the girl-child, sleeping cradled in her arms. “Day by day your uncle, my brother, is cutting his distance short on his way to visit us. Any day, any day, my brother will be here, Inshallah. Maybe then I will know why Azzizah urged Abu Salim to purchase a blemished she-camel or bride, no matter how high her purchase-price.”

  “Does it not kill your love for your brother, this Badu honour-killing law?” I asked.

  “No,” Tammam replied, her eyes tearful. “I love this brother of mine. For many months I have longed to see him. My mother is his mother, too. She had only birthed him and me. And when she died birthing me, he was old enough to remember her, so, he told me everything about her. And when I was little and my father’s wives mistreated me, he was the one who protected me. But he cannot protect a sister who is rumoured to have strayed, no matter how much he loves her, not even if he is as powerful-respected as Abu Salim. For only blood can clear your blood-kin of the shame you bring upon them when you stray.”

  “And what if a Badu man strays, makes love to a woman other than his wife?”

  “He, like a woman who strays, is bound to be killed by his brother, his father, or his blood-kin,” replied Tammam, “for he shames his clan just the same, even if he is only rumoured to have strayed.”

  “You mean to tell me that all a person has to do to shame your blood-kin is to start a rumour that you strayed?”

  “Aywa—yes,” said Tammam. “But the punishment for starting such a rumour, or for spreading it, is death. So dir balak—watch out—Nura. Spread malicious rumours about blood-kin, Abu Salim’s, or mine, and your blood will surely be exposed for five generations. Dir balak, Wallah, I have told you before and I tell you again, for five generations your blood will be exposed if you reveal to anyone anything you see, sense, or hear in our tents, without permission from Abu Salim, his son, or his son’s son.”

  “Why is it forbidden to reveal anything I hear, see, or sense here?” I asked Tammam. Blunter than Azzizah, she would give me a straight answer, I thought.

  Silence.

  “Why did you, Azzizah, and Abu Salim invite me to visit-stay with you?”

  “Because you came here knowing nothing,” Tammam replied. I cannot tell if she is joking.

  “Now I allow you to write to remember by the light of your torch. It will not disturb me,” Tammam advised me, as she was about to butt out her cigarette, almost as if she was afraid now of the dark, of the uncertainty and confusion that trailed the camel-rider, of the baffling whispers. “Patience is better than thinking,” she mutters.

  If she can’t understand what’s going on here, how could I? But, Wallah, she is right, I came here knowing nothing, neither the old wilderness, nor the new . . .

  j

  It was after nightfall when Tal and I reached Yamit. The headlights flooded the deserted beach, highlighting the lifeguard station, boathouse, showers, washrooms, and restaurant—all locked and shuttered. To the east, a band of powerful security lights blazed atop poles supporting the security fence around Yamit, turning the horizon into a tableau of war, of siege. To the south lay Gaza, and the dense and squalid misery of the worst of the Palestinian refugee camps in The Land. North, at the very edge of the high beams, was a tall meshed fence, squared off, as if to detain prisoners, and clamped to it at eye level, a sign in Hebrew and English said: No camping allowed on the beach outside this fenced area. That explained why the beach was deserted.

  “Strange restriction. I’ve never seen one like that in The Land. Is it for security?” I asked Tal as we checked the fenced-in area.

  “I doubt it,” he replied. “More likely, the maintenance crew didn’t want anyone to camp on their beach. It would feel like being in a concentration camp to set up in this fenced-in area.”

  We decided to camp elsewhere, climbed back into the Jeep, and then . . .

  I can’t remember how it happened. I only remember how I wept when Tal embraced me, drawing me close to him, and sliding his arm under my braid like you, my Arik, used to. And I, dry-eyed for years, sobbed on his chest . . . I tried to pull away, embarrassed by my outburst and need, but he held me closer, whispe
ring, “It’s all right . . . All right . . .” The more he accepted me, the more I convulsed with tears, a wellspring of pain buried for decades—of loss, exile, shame . . .

  “It’s all right . . . All right,” he kept whispering, caressing, embracing. Then, suddenly, a blinding light, like a locomotive, sped through the darkness straight for us. Was someone up there determined to punish us for transgressing the sixth commandment with an embrace?

  “It’s all right . . . all right . . . It’s only the searchlight on a border-patrol command-car,” said Tal, brushing a tear from my face.

  The search-beam flooded the Jeep. Two shadows flung open Tal’s door, snapping, “What are you doing here? Didn’t you see the sign? Can’t you read? You don’t have eyes? Let’s see your I.D. civilian and military.”

  “What’s going on?” Tal asked the two men—one hefty, one slight, the Laurel and Hardy of the border-patrol.

  “You can’t park here after sundown, can’t camp here overnight—only in the fenced-in areas,” said the hefty one.

  “Why only in that fenced-in area, like prisoners?” I asked.

  “For security reasons.”

  “Don’t explain anything, you don’t know who they are,” the slight one, corporal stripes on his sleeve, ordered the other. Turning to us, he again demanded, “I.D. civilian, military.” And when I handed him my Israeli passport, he raised his voice. “Give me your I.D. not your passport.”

  “I have no I.D.” I told him, and Tal chuckled as if I was spouting metaphors. But the corporal looked like he thought I was mocking him. There was no comedy here. I explained to him that my I.D. card was taken from me when I dropped out of The Land, or when I got my Canadian passport. “Check my Israeli passport and you’ll find my I.D. number.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” He walked off to the blinding darkness, flicked on his flashlight, and checked our papers. “Come, look at who we have here,” he called out to the rookie; just loud enough for us to hear, he continued: “You won’t see many military I.D.s like this one. See here, in this box under rank, it says, ‘Major.’ And under name of the unit it says, ‘Combat,’ but no name. And look, in this box under ‘Corps,’ it says nothing. See? It’s blank, blank, blank. That means we’re not good enough to know we got us a hot shot major in the Unit. You know, those sons of whores who walk around as if no one has a prick as big as theirs . . .”