by Malka Marom
Today, those saplings have grown to have the last laugh. And, almost like a gesture of gratitude to these Jerusalem mountains for accepting their roots, the pines have covered up their hard, crusty face with a fine carpet of fragrant needles, still moist from yesterday’s rain.
The cloudbank today only formed and dissolved, as if to emphasize the infinite dimensions of the sky and the potency of the wind. If Azzizah and Tammam were to find themselves gliding up and down these wooded slopes, they would probably think they had died and gone to heaven . . . and then they’d chop at these evergreens for fragrant firewood, their goatherds would devour this green bounty, nurtured by our laughter, sweat, and dreams, and in no time these green Jerusalem mountains would be a story that lives on in a desolate mountain landscape.
Tal didn’t find the pine mushrooms he was hoping to collect here. “They need another good rainfall,” he decided after an hour or so of combing the woods. “You cannot imagine what a great treat these mushrooms are, served on toast,” he said, like a true Francawi. Then, like a true Sabra, he reeled off the names of so many trees, shrubs, flowers, butterflies, insects, birds, indigenous to our Jerusalem hills, I can’t recollect now even one. His passion for The Land was sparked, not by her ancient temples, her age-old stories, the heat of her battles, the blood of brothers-in-arms, but by the Jordan valley, his home ground, where the earth was fertile, yielding, and hot as the desert. I envied him, like the frigid envy the passionate.
I didn’t get out at Bet-Shemesh. And so Tal pressed full speed on the new superhighway that climbs to Jerusalem, as if he was heading to any old capital city. In some spots, this new highway cut through the heart of the mountains and exposed the guts of Jerusalem—her stones. And those stones seemed to be weeping, a tear here and there as if they meant to be brave, but couldn’t contain their sorrow.
It didn’t move Tal. He had a scientific explanation for these tears. Like the ancient warriors, Tal is of the belief that whoever holds Jerusalem holds The Land. Her strategic seat hasn’t changed through the centuries, he told me, as we were entered Bab el Wad, or Sha’ar Hagai, whatever it is called today.
Yesterday’s armoured buses and trucks, used by those who fell trying to carry water, food, and medical supplies to Jerusalem when she was besieged in ’48 and ’49, were left at the roadside since those days to commemorate them. They should be carted away with Masada and the Western Wall, or the Wailing Wall, as it is called in America, Tal said. To him, no matter what you called them, they were but symbols of ruin, failure, and defeat. He didn’t like symbols of victory any better. He didn’t like symbols period, he said. All too often they are mistaken for the essence, “like religious practices, for God, and for Jerusalem,” he explained.
The Jeep crawled up that new superhighway as if the engine lacked that extra something required to make the climb to Jerusalem. And at the steep downhill, it seemed the brakes wouldn’t hold, the Jeep would crash through the rail at the sharp turn at Motza and plunge to the deep canyon below. When the brakes did hold for the turn, Tal patted the Jeep like a rider would a horse galloping on heart alone. There isn’t a bend in The Land more dangerous than this one, he explained. But it seemed he patted the Jeep too soon; at the last hill it inched up, threatening to roll back down at any moment . . .
You would probably love the Jeep for that suspense, Arik—“That’s how you should enter Jerusalem: with fear and trembling,” I can hear you saying. The grey concrete-block austerity-houses that used to make you cringe at the entrance to Jerusalem are spruced up with Jerusalem stone today, and that old trash-heaped knoll is covered up with flowers that spell: Welcome to Jerusalem. And rose bushes in the thousands line the major roads, as if to replace the smell of gunpowder, ruin, blood.
Up on Mount Herzl, when he dropped me off at the black iron gate, Tal handed me his parka. “Can’t keep a person warm on Mount Herzl, I know, no parka could . . . But take it—don’t refuse this least of my offering,” his eyes told mine. “I have many friends in this place,” he said, standing pensive for a moment before heading off to his meeting.
No tourist buses are parked by the black iron gate; no clicking cameras disturb the peace for once. The wave of terror is driving tourists—and pilgrims—away, even from Jerusalem. But there is no keeping you apart from me here, my Arik. Inside my inner self I hear you saying that the Galilee gravestones blend well with the Jerusalem stones supporting the terraces that divide the cemetery, sort of like screens in a huge restaurant—to make it intimate . . . and that the landscape architects had tried too hard to create the impression that this place was a park, not a mountain covered with graves; their designer flowerbeds, bushes, trees, winding paths, terraces, and steps take up too much space; the graves seem too close together and the dead have no breathing space . . .
The overall impression is of a mountain covered with one slab, like a brother’s grave. How young most of the men were when they fell—some as young as seventeen, most in their early twenties. You would call yourself “the old man of the mountain.”
No man outranks another, up here on Mount Herzl. The generals have the same gravestone and are buried in the same row as their men. True equality here. No special plot was allotted to the heroes; like the cowards, pilots, soldiers, and sailors, they lay side by side, row after row—except the ones in the brother’s graves, like the sailors who went down with their ship. Their grave, fashioned like a boat, seems to be sinking again today, due to yesterday’s rain. Ah, well, future archaeologists won’t have to break their heads to figure out how these men died . . . But if those archaeologists were to dig up the paths shaded by the pines planted here, they’d probably think we had developed a species of pine that doesn’t shed needles. It wouldn’t enter their minds that in a land where no plant was safe in any park, the grounds of a whole mountain would be so well kept, even the pine needles were swept away.
No one has touched even a leaf in this “park”—out of respect for the dead, no doubt. If half that respect were paid to the living, The Land would be like a foreign country, you would say and laugh. Ah, Arik, how you would love the silence today—only the rustling of leaves in the breeze, and my footsteps on the hard-packed earth. The few people who came to remember stand silent and stare disapproving—because my head is not covered. I am not here for them. You loved to see, touch, caress my hair . . .
The graves of those who fell in the Sinai War are farthest away from the black iron entrance gate. To reach the gravestone that bears your name, I have to pass through all the sections of all the wars that raged before and after the Sinai War. But because this section is at the farthest end, you have a ravine lot, Arik, with the best view in the mountain. And you would probably like the black gravestones in your section, the only one to use Golan basalt. They add a touch of elegance and variety, you would say; and since neither sun nor wind have faded or bleached the black, they give a dark, opaque, sombre feel of permanence to the loss and are not overshadowed by the wreaths—after all, wreaths rot and die, but stones live forever—unless you crush them.
Pines trees were never your favourite. They smell of death, you used to say. But here they are not standing in a row, like soldiers guarding a cemetery. Only one pine stands by your gravestone. So tall it has grown over the years, it now lends not only dignity, but also a suggestion of ascent.
Your only complaint might be the wind, vicious by this ravine, and you, like most pilots, are—were—extra sensitive to winds . . .
A futile pursuit of wind—that’s how you’d sum up your life, my beloved Arik. Night after night, for years, you busted your butt, working the night shift to earn the tuition fees to study architecture—and what for? Dream towns displayed somewhere in the ministry. For The Land, too, you busted your gut, gave her all you had—and what did you get in return? A great view you can’t see. And if you could see it, you’d say it was scientific, lifeless—a valley ringed by mountains, not a soul in sight.
But if it were humanized, given a touch of the reality of life—abandoned-looking chicken coops, or army barracks—it would still not meet the standards of perfectionism. Did you a hell of a lot of good; everything is good and perfect for you now. You have all the time in the world now. You no longer have to feel bad now that your flying and your dream-architecture left you with no time to be with Levi and me. Oh, how you busted your butt for us too—and what did that get you? Pebbles and shells from the beach in Herzliyya . . .
The only thing lacking in Jerusalem is the sea, you used to say. So, four or five months ago, before I first ventured to Sinai, I brought the sea to your Jerusalem. The pebbles and shells are still resting on your black gravestone. The wind hasn’t carried them away. Time really does stand still for you, Arik . . . You would see nothing strange about a grown woman collecting pebbles and shells, like a girl-child for her boyfriend. Not if that woman was your Leora . . .
Aywa—yes, you gave me the childhood I never had, Arik. You gave me a corner of innocence that no one and nothing could kill . . . A green corner of innocence that replenishes the soul like a river the sea . . . Sulha—forgiveness—is born in that corner—forgiveness and trust, hope and dreams, and the striving to attain the unattainable . . .
Our son, Levi, was born of that innocence. Isn’t that why he wants my consent to waive his exemption? Isn’t that why he wants to wrestle with Jacob’s angel, wearing the shield of God and nothing else? Isn’t that why he wants to face his own fears—not mine, to live his own life, and strive to attain his own dreams?
Why deny him that? He has lived to be a full-grown man, our Levi. There isn’t a corner in his soul that isn’t green, bountiful, full of light and the love of life. That’s your gift to him, Arik . . . And he was your gift to me.
Can you see the Book of Life there on the other side, Arik? Can you see what is written for Levi?
I’m going to count to three, and if I hear no objection from you, I’m going to give Levi my consent to serve any duty he chooses—let him make his own life-and-death decisions . . .
Seven times three I count. The mountain doesn’t shake, and the wind doesn’t die or change direction. The Book of Life offers no reason to fear.
It’s all right to call Levi and give my consent. The boy will be so elated; he won’t be able to sleep. God better make sure he lives to see the dawn, rising blood red from horizon to horizon.
No sun, no wind, no sigh, no kiss, no word, no tear gives a sign here; no rain would wash here, not up here on Mount Herzl. A generation comes and a generation goes, not here. No mountain could ever fill in the hole of loss here.
I stay by the black gravestone until the amber torch that would soon lend Jerusalem her golden glow lights up the tip of the pine like an eternal flame.
EPILOGUE
One night, min zaman—a long time ago—before the great wadis were paved, before the electricity poles defaced the horizon, before Israel returned our Sinna desert to Egypt for peace, in the summer of the year nineteen hundred and seventy eight, in the seventh year of the drought . . . a moonless night it was, the men were discussing their affairs in the maq’ad without giving thought to intruding or visiting strangers. The darker the night, the farther the mountains carry sound. And so, everyone in the maq’ad, and in all the tents as well, could hear a Jeep climbing up and up, far away. And it soon became clear that it was the daring driving of courage, valor, and keif—sheer pleasure.
As the Jeep approached the maq’ad, the fire was burning fragrant and bright enough to see that the Jeep belonged to a Yahodi, for the license plate was yellow. And even though the elders were disappointed that he was not a Badu, they could not help but admire him even more.
Right away all the elders in the maq’ad—all the elders except Abu Salim, my father—started to fuss over the man-stranger. And, as was but proper, they paid no attention to the woman-stranger who came out of the Jeep with him. In the place of honour, they seated him. Tea they brewed to quench his thirst, and coffee to honour him.
But Abu Salim, my father, was observing the man-stranger in one eye and the woman-stranger in the other.
She was a woman-stranger El Bofessa had equipped with his knowledge of Badu manners. My father knew, for she did not join the men like a stranger-woman. But so cold it was outside the fire circle, she wrapped herself with a kaffiyye headdress like a Badu man, freezing. My father could barely see her eyes and nose. He motioned to her to move closer to the fire. And only now, when she folded her legs on the welcome-carpet, Abu Salim, my father, could see by the firelight that she was the stranger-woman his wives had invited to visit-stay with them. For he could see her eyes now. And he could also see how new to the desert she was—brand new she was, but not the man-stranger.
The man-stranger was a Yahodi border-crossing soldier-of-soldiers, my father knew as soon as he saw the man-stranger sitting on the welcome-carpet in the place of honour, wearing the special desert boots that only the Yahodi soldiers-of-soldiers wear. Many a border and a desert his desert boots had crossed, my father could see right away. So could all the other men. That is why they called the man-stranger now yaa-Jabbar—a man of great valor.
The Jabbar was not flattered by their admiration and fuss, my father saw. And so, Abu Salim, my father, thought: Surely this Jabbar was wearing his desert boots while sitting on my welcome-carpet because he held us Badu in low regard. For we Badu, like women, live under the protection of men—his Israeli-Yahodi tribesmen.
Gone are the days when we Badu were great warriors, my father thought, gone are the days when we Badu were feared.
“The woman in your charge is more than welcome to visit-stay in my tents a week, a month, even a year. Her blood, her honour, are on my head,” my father told the stranger-man.
Deep inside, Abu Salim, my father, was wondering now if this woman-stranger was fated to enhance the story that would remain after he dies, or to detract from it. She was fated to tell it, my father knew. That is why he welcomed her into his tents.
And that is why I, Salim, his son, give her permission now to tell all who wish to hear or read whatever she wrote-recorded in my father’s tents.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This novel was researched and written on two continents. In each were many who invested much effort, time and heart to assist me and strengthen my resolve to continue with the work, in particular: the Bedouins of various tribes, clans and dwelling places, who offered me not only shelter, food and water for days and many weeks that turned to months, but also their songs, dances, poems and legends by firecircles burning long into the night. All wished to remain nameless. All have boardened my horizon. To all I am most grateful.
I’m most indebted to Marv Cohen, who travelled with me when I first ventured to the Sinari and was there for me to the last.
And to Alfonso Nussbaumer, a dream of a dessert guide, who first introduced me to the Sinai, and to his wife Nurit. To Dr. Clinton Bailey, a highly acclaimed scholar of Bedouin culture and history, and to his wife, Maya. As well as to Avi Oblas, his brother Danny Shahaf, who afforded me a rare insight into the realm of kibbutzniks and outstanding soldiers. And to Ilon who shared with me, in most intimate and painful detail, her personal and professional knowledge of war widowhood.
A most special thanks to Anna Porter, the Canadian publisher of Sulha; and to Jack McClelland, who read the beginnings of Sulha and spurred me on; to Dennis Lee, who read the early sections, for his invaluable encouragement, comments and advice. And to Haddassa Agassi Rosenberg, who read every line of the early drafts—argued, agreed and encouraged to her last days.
No words can honour the debt I owe Casey Fuetsch. The editorial acumen, passionate stubborn commitment and abundant vitality and enthusiasm she brought to the task—just as my own was depleted by grief. I’m also most grateful to Barbara Berson; and especially Beverley Beetham Endersby, for her copy editing, into which she invested infinite pa
tience and great care to keep the feel of modern Hebrew and ancient Badu Arabic in her beloved English; as well as to Andreia De Oliveira.
I’m also indebted to Dr. Dionisius Ajius, who taught me the Arabic that allowed me to stay alone in Bedouin encampments and conduct my research work without an interperter; and to Dr. Alean Al-Krenawi, for the transliteration of Badu Arabic.
Finally, and immeasurably, my gratitude to my parents, Na’vah and Israel Shtein, for the gift of life, and privilege. And to my sons, Martin Maccabi Himel and Daniel Marom, for their understanding, assistance and devotion, and for doing me proud. And to Inna Shapiro and Tamar Zemach-Marom, for being like daughters to me.
The author is grateful for permission to reprint from the following:
“After my death,” by Chaim Nachman Bialik. Copyright © by Dvir Publishers. Israel. “The Silver Plate,” by Nathan Alterman. Copyright by the author. Acum. Israel. Two lines from poem 1249, reprinted by permission of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Ralph W. Franklin, ed., Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright ©1951, 1955, 1979 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.
Many books, as well as collections of field trip notes, studies and recordings, assisted me in my research of the desert, war, desert wars, and the Bedouin way of life; in particular Dr. Clinton Bailey’s Bedouin Poetry, Bedouin Weddings in the Sinai and the Negev, Studies in Marriage Customs, and Desert Plants in Bedouin Life; Lila Abu-Lughod’s Veiled Sentiments; Emanuel Marx’s Bedouin of the Negev; Shabtai Levi’s The Health, Hygiene and Medicine of the Bedouin of Southern Sinai; David Maimon’s The Bedouin Tracker; Gideon Kressel’s Change in the Bedouin Society, and Izhak Nezter’s The Swearing and Licking of Fire (from the Collected Lectures of the field school at Sde Boker); T.E. Lawrence’s Seven Pillars of Wisdom; H.R.P Dickson’s The Arab of the Desert; Alois Musil’s The Manners and Customs of the Rwala Bedouins; Sir Richard F. Burton’s Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to Al-Madinah & Meccah; Kippur, an account of Israel’s October ’73 war, by Yeshahayu Ben–Portar, Hezi Carmel, Uri Dan, Yehonatan Grefen, Eitan Haber, Eli Landau and Eli Tabor; Hanoch Bartov’s Daddo—48 years and 20 more days: The War Diary; Haim Herzog’s The Arab-Israeli Wars; Ezer Weizman’s The Battle for Peace; Max Hastings’ Yoni, Hero of Entebbe; Self Portrait of a Hero, The Letters of Johnathan Netanyahu; Israeli War Widows, Beyond the Glory of Heroism by Lea Shamgar-Handelman; and Eva Kirschner’s Study of Bereavement and Rehabilitation of War Widows in Israel.