Sulha

by Malka Marom

  “I think Egypt values land more than honour, and Israel values life more than land, therefore Israel will give this desert to Egypt for peace, and Egypt will take it with both hands. Therefore, I say let us pay water rights for the she-camel, and keep the passageways for ourselves.” The neighbouring elder looks at Abu Salim, trying to see if his opinion has had an effect. Abu Salim simply nods his head, as he does after every speaker.

  “Aywa, well put . . . well put,” says Azzizah’s uncle, in the booming voice of the hard-of-hearing. His seashell earrings, Azzizah’s remedy, are not much of a hearing aid, it seems. “But I am not sure that Israel values life more than land, for I have seen how the Yahod of Israel are willing to risk their lives for the land. Aywa, I have seen how small in numbers they withstood the onslaught of enemies, outnumbering them ten thousand to one, coming from all sides—Egypt, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, Saudia, Iraq. And I remember how the Yahod of Israel had battled the mighty English, Wallah, with no weapons, only with courage and cunning. Aywa, look for yourself who rules in the holy land the holy city, Al Quds—Jerusalem—today. I see no English ruling there; I see no Arab ruling there . . .”

  “The Arab fellahin are bound to destroy Israel, even if it will take generation after generation to chip away at Israel, Wallah. The holy city, Al-Quds—Jerusalem—cannot be ruled by the tribe of Israel, for the Israelites are heathens, descendants of slaves,” says Abu Salim’s uncle, “and Egyptian slaves they always will be. For a person can never change his ancestors, nor what they did. Aywa, Egypt can never make peace with Israel because the Israelites’ ancestors had plundered Egypt, robbed her of silver and gold, then stole away to the desert and buried the treasure in Wadi El—not far from Mousa’s Chair. Aywa, yes, the Israelites are ashamed to dig it out. But one day, after the Arab fellahin defeat-destroy Israel, Egypt will come here with giant drilling rigs and they will unearth a thousand years or two, or maybe three thousand years of sand. Wallah, it may take a hundred years or two, or maybe three hundred years, but they are bound to discover the treasure that their Israeli slaves had plundered from them. Or else everyone will think that they can also rob Egypt, and Egypt will not mind, not remember—will even extend a hand for peace to her own slaves who robbed her.” The Badu elder shakes his head, as if three thousand years ago was only yesterday—just like our fanatics argue whether Bar-Kokhba was a hero or a schmuck, as if their lives depended on what that hero-schmuck did two thousand years ago.

  Yesterday’s sands burn under everyone’s feet here—theirs and ours.

  No one laughs when the Badu predicts Egypt aims to collect the golden calf and give her slaves three thousand lashes for escaping three thousand years ago and not staying on the job to finish the Sphinx or the pyramids.

  Little Jeff crawls over to the inner circle by the fire to sip a hot glass of sweet tea. Abu Salim sends a steaming glass over to me with the visiting child-girl. She doesn’t walk in front of the men but behind their backs, in the darkness beyond the rim of the firelight. She hands me the tea, and runs as if I were djinn-demon, al-shaytan—Satan. What can you expect from a child-girl who hears my tribe described as treasure-stealing, heathen slaves—and the evening is not yet over.

  “Beware . . . beware, yaa-my fellow Badu, before you decide what price to pay for the she-camel. Let me tell you,” shouts Azzizah’s uncle, the one wearing Azzizah’s seashell remedy, “not all that glitters is gold, but the opposite holds true as well . . . You would not think that such a tribe of slaves like the Yahod would have such a noble Badu king as King Daud—King David.

  “Aywa, King Daud was a Badu—a Badu like us, slight of build, but his blood was pure, and his heart noble and courageous, and, like our ancestors, he led the caravans across borders when the ancient tribes used to visit raids on one another. Wise as the wisest of Badu, King Daud would raid the camels where the mountain trails widened. Aywa, every sheikh had put a price on his head, but no one could track him down, for he was a better tracker than all who were tracking him. Shelter he took in his father’s tents, and day in, day out he tended his father’s herd when Allah touched his shoulder and said, ‘Go to be the king of the Yahodi tribe.’

  “Daud told Him: ‘Wallah, I am content to be a simple Badu, what have I to do with the Yahodi tribe?’ Daud did not want to be the king of the tribe of Israel. But Allah told him that the Yahodi tribe had no son fit to be a king, for they were all slaves, not of noble blood. . . .

  “‘Why then would you want a kingdom and a king for them?’ Daud asked Allah. And Allah replied that he chose the Yahodi tribe to be his whip to punish all the nations who strayed. They spared no one. Daud’s Yahodi army conquered what we call Lubnan today, and also Syria, Iraq, Persia, Jordan, and Sinaa.

  “But his son, Suleman, was not of pure blood. His mother was not of Badu blood; she was a Yahodiya, daughter of slaves. And her son Suleman liked the hole, not the sword. A thousand wives he married, and so a thousand palaces, one for each wife he had to build.

  “Only because Allah had loved his father did Suleman retain his kingdom. But his sons did lose that great inheritance, and I think the sons of the Arab oil kings will lose their wealth and their kingdoms just the same, for they have strayed.”

  “You are right,” says Abu Salim’s brother, the Badu wearing the black eye patch. “The Arab fellahin have strayed. Once upon a time their bellies were slim like a wolf on the prowl, but today, like the wolf of the hills, they cower beneath the pop of a hunter’s shot. Only the sons of the poor they send to do battle for them. Every battle, you see the desert littered with their shoes, which they took off for to run away quick-fast from the battle, aywa. That is why Israel is bound to grow bigger—and heaven help us, for one day, not the Arabs but the Israelis will say: To us belongs the earth and all who dwell therein.”

  “Israel has no king,” the mountains shout after the elder with the seashell hearing aid. “Israel never had a king like her Badu king, Daud. But Wallah, I remember the first Israelites I saw, a long, long time ago it was—long before she was called Israel, up in the north border of Lubnan and Israel it was when we were sitting by the fire that a group of men approached us, riding horses like us Badu in those days, and one was even riding a camel. They all were wearing Badu clothes, even shibriyya—daggers. And, like true Badu, they greeted us; like us, they tended flocks, matched us poem for poem, story for story, hospitality for hospitality. Wallah, we could not believe they were Yahodi men. And they were good neighbours, Wallah.

  “A good neighbour is better than a brother who lives far . . . Aywa, waterholes we shared with those Yahodi men, grazing land, and firewood. But they are small in numbers. Aywa, the Arab fellahin are bound to win, for their sons are far too many to count. And many sons bearing weapons in their hands are like locusts, and you know what they say of locusts: One is a miracle, but many are a plague.

  “Aywa, that is why I think the Yahodi tribe of Israel is fighting a losing battle . . . Wallah, if I were a tongue speaking instead of their tongue, I would go to the Arab fellahin, and to their rulers and kings I would say: ‘We Yahodi are strangers and we loved you; we came to live among you. But our sons are few. We fear we will perish and so we ask you to fold us under your protection.’”

  “The Israelis possess a new weapon more powerful than many sons. This new weapon is called ‘the atom bomb.’ That is why America, and even Russia, is afraid of Israel,” says one of the neighbouring elders.

  “Aywa,” says Azzizah’s uncle and Abu Salim’s, “you die just the same if a rifle is aimed at you or ‘the atom bomb’ or the sword. A battle you win, not by weapons, but by holding ground. Aywa, men hold ground, not rifles or atom bombs or even swords.”

  “That is true,” says Abu Salim.

  Silence.

  Everyone is waiting to hear his decision, it seems—whether to gamble on peace or on war, pay water rights or smuggling routes for his son’s bride. But Imsallam Suleman
Abu Salim takes his time. He stokes the fire, rolls a cigarette, spits behind his back, covers his spit with a fistful of sand. Finally, he clears his throat and says, “I think the Yahod of Israel won every battle but lost every war. They cannot win because they are too few in numbers, and because they have no understanding of their enemies. Aywa, I agree that they battled valiantly in the first battle they call War of Independence—thirty years ago, I think it was. They were men then. But after that battle they became women . . . Aywa, I have seen the Yahod of Israel in the second battle they call the Sinaa War, more fearful than women. And when the American sheikh—Eisenhower was his name—told them to give Sinaa back to Egypt, like women they did what they were told.

  “And in the next battle, the one they call the Six-Day War, they won Sinaa from Egypt—but from the air, aywa, hiding in airplanes. And the Golan they won from Syria, hiding in armoured tanks. Only the Holy City, Al-Quds, they won from Jordan fighting like men—hand to hand, face to face, on their feet. But then they spared their enemy. . .”

  “Wallah, they do not know their enemy,” says Azzizah’s uncle. “That is their biggest failing. Aywa, had the Arab fellahin conquered Israel in but six days, they would have slaughtered every Yahodi, drunk his blood, and stuffed his belly with sand . . .”

  “Spare your enemy and he will wait, gather strength to attack you again—even a woman knows that, ”continues Abu Salim. “Yet it caught Israel by surprise when that happened five years ago, in the battle they call the Yom-Kippur War. Wallah, how the Arab fellahin nearly destroyed Israel once and for all in that war . . . Aywa, Israel won the battle but lost the war. And why? Because they were afraid to risk their lives. . . Aywa, for the lives of thirty-fifty sons who had shamed her—sons who had surrendered in battle instead of fighting to the death—Israel gave Egypt the city of Suez and the fertile pasturelands around her. And now they surely will give Sinaa back to Egypt for peace/no-peace. For they have no understanding of their enemies . . .”

  “Aywa,” says Azzizah’s uncle and Abu Salim’s. “The Arab fellahin will never allow Israel slaves to rule the holy city Al-Quds—Jerusalem. I heard people say that Saudia is hoarding weapons for the next battle.”

  “Yes,” says Abu Salim, “one day, Wallah, one day Egypt, Syria, and Jordan are bound to band together, and after they destroy Israel, they will destroy the Felastiniyiin fellahin, and the oil kingdoms too. And then they will battle each other until they also are destroyed . . .”

  “And then we Badu will rule in Sinaa,” mutters Jeff.

  “Inshallah—God willing,” the men responded, then chuckled, as if that was a dream—unattainable.

  “Wallah, I will be sorry to see the day Egypt rules here in Sinaa,” says the visiting Badu Abu Hasan. “For when Egypt ruled here in Sinaa, she did not drive water trucks to our tents, as Israel does in years of drought. And she did not dispatch a helicopter to rescue a Badu injured or ill, as Israel does. And what will happen to all the clinics and all the schools that Israel had built for us here in Sinaa? The Egyptians will keep them for their own pleasure. And us they will imprison if we refuse to be her slaves—serve in her army instead of her sons, battle for her instead of her sons, die for her instead of her sons.”

  “Aywa, Egypt was a merciless ruler, but I prefer Egypt’s rule to Israel. For Egypt will not tempt our sons to sell their legacy for clinics and schools, water and roads,” says Abu Salim. “Wallah, I long for the day when our sons will ride their camels like men in nights with no moon, on roads/no-roads, borders/no-borders.”

  “Aywa—yes. But reading and writing means wealth today, not heavy saddlebags crossing borders,” says Abu Hasan.

  “True,” says Azzizah’s uncle. “Wealth is not measured by heavy saddlebags and not by reading or by writing. Wealth is adabb—character, manners, reputation, aywa, reputation. If you tell me of a man who fans the fire, lets its flame bring people far from home, then I will say: that man possesses wealth. Aywa, if you tell me that a man is like a well never dry though the ropes are worn, I will say: that man possesses wealth. Aywa, everyone and everything dies, but the noble deed—the story of the noble deed. Aywa, only the story remains.”

  “That is true,” says Abu Salim. “A man grows to be noble not from heavy saddlebags, and not from reading and writing, but from the example of his father, his mother, his clan, his tribe. Aywa, I have seen fellahin reading and writing—Israelis also, and many, many strangers—but none were as noble as my son, Salim, before he was tempted to see the world.”

  “Salim is the very most best tracker in Sinaa, the very most best in the whole world—Wallah!” little Mutt shouts, and the mountains grumble in their ancient sleep.

  Abu Salim asks the men if they have formed a decision, and in reply the men ask him what did he decide. He says, “I think Israel will surrender, give Sinaa to Egypt for peace/no-peace. But Israel’s mistake is bound to be Egypt’s gain. For Egypt will gain not only Sinaa but zaman—time—to rebuild her army and train a new generation of sons who will fight like men when Egypt will attack Israel again. But this time Egypt will hold her ground, ya’ani—hold the vast expanse of Sinaa. And even if she will not—ya’ani, even if Israel will capture Sinaa again—she will return Sinaa back to Egypt again. For her sons are too few to hold on to a vast expanse like Sinaa for more than five-ten years. That is why I think that the rights to the passageways will not be worthless soon. Therefore, I think we should keep them for ourselves, and for the purchase of the she-camel we should offer water rights.”

  Silence.

  He doesn’t ask if there are any objections—because he owns the well and her water rights, I assume. No dissenting voice is heard. No one seems to be happy or unhappy with this decision. For all their macho posturing, they are reined in even tighter than their women. They rely passively on Allah, say they are bound by the ropes of fate but otherwise would be free. But here they calculate possibilities, projecting long-term, short-term, almost like the CEOs of some multinational conglomerate. Everyone around them could be clobbering each other to death, even their Arab cousins, and the Badu are looking after their own interests—like pragmatic ultra-orthodox in Brooklyn and Mea Sh’arim? Is such pragmatism inherent in all of us? Is nationalism an acquired trait? Are we light years ahead of these Badu who see only delusion in the dreams of a universal bond?

  A distant hyena howl is carried on the biting wind. In counterpoint Abu Salim daqq-daqq-daqqs the beans for honour-coffee. They are going to toast their discussion, it seems.

  They have decided to gamble on the destruction of Israel. What does that say about my presence here? Is it a matter of indifference to them? Have I been insulted? Complimented? Assimilated into Badu culture?

  Or am I a pawn, invited to write-to-remember and cassette-record that no rumour was ever discussed or mentioned here in the maq’ad, or up in the compound? Why would the Badu talk and talk about everything but this rumour? Is there even one Badu in this maq’ad who is not aware that Abu Salim is trying to convert a double execution into a wedding?

  Is this Badu diplomacy at work? Does deciding to purchase a blemished bride with their most precious possession enhance her value, her reputation, and, by extension, the reputation of her father, her husband, both their clans, and their tribe—the very men who sit here in this maq’ad?

  Who sullied her reputation in the first place? Why would a people who roll in dust value reputation more than life?

  Only the story remains when all else dies: Is that why they didn’t challenge Abu Salim? The Badu remember daimann—forever. All will remember now that Salim’s father chose for him a highly valued, expensive bride.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Polaroid camera transformed everyone in the compound—only for an hour or two, and not so much as to allow a snapshot of a Badawia woman or her forbidden tent. Azzizah, Tammam, and their Badawia visitor stayed behind me while I photographed every man and child in the co
mpound, and also the camels, the goats and the saluki dogs.

  “Bas—enough! You will wear out the camera Polaroid!” the visiting Badawia kept saying after every shot.

  I wish I could snap a photo of her now, staring at the image of all her children emerging from the moist paper in her hand, as if witnessing a miracle.

  “Shufi! Shufi!—Look! Look!” Her children and Mutt and Jeff are giddy with excitement at how handsome they are.

  “Yaa-Alllaaahhhh!” Azzizah exclaims in wonder and awe, and keif—sheer pleasure—transported by the light-hearted, carefree, merriment in her compound.

  “Now you see why I wish to possess a camera Polaroid,” her Badu visitor, Abu Salim’s nephew, says to his wife and then to his uncle.

  Abu Salim’s frown barely conceals his amazement and delight over the stunning portrait of him and little Salimeh, the child looking regal, like she was next in line for his throne.

  One glance at this portrait restored Tammam. Herself once more, it took her no time to learn how to use the camera, and she captured me with little Salimeh, and with Abu Salim, his grandsons, his nephew, his nephew’s children—with everyone except the Badawia women.

  Forbidden.

  “Forbidden!” The visiting Badu snapped at Tammam, grabbing the camera from her hands.

  “But I am not in the picture,” Tammam protested.