Abdel Qader held his boy, his eyes brimming, and others cleared the room, making space for a new family’s togetherness. In a tender solitude of their own making, Alwan and Abdel Qader marveled at their baby, inspected his pinched placenta cord, playfully praised Allah for the healthy endowment between his legs, watched him suckle from Alwan’s breast, kissed him and consumed his scent, and gave boundless thanks for Allah’s generosity. Allahu akbar.
As is the Arab way, Khaled’s second name was his father’s name, his third name was his grandfather’s, and so on, followed by the family name. So he was Khaled Abdel Qader Mhammad Ghassan Maqademeh. And just as children take their names from their fathers and grandfathers, they in turn name their parents. Thus, from that day forward, Abdel Qader became known as Abu Khaled and Alwan was Um Khaled.
THIRTY-THREE
Teta Nazmiyeh was the one who cut my umbilical cord. She said she knew I would be her favorite grandson from the moment she held me. But that was our secret and I kept it.
When Alwan and Abdel Qader’s son, Khaled, was born, Hajje Nazmiyeh thought he had been in the world far longer. She was the first to get a good look at him. Holding her newborn grandson in the name of Allah, the most merciful, most forgiving, she nearly dropped him when she saw the tuft of white hair at the top of his black mane, remembering her sister Mariam’s words: Khaled has a white streak in his hair. Allah was all knowing and mysterious in His ways. She tried to contemplate what it meant, but she became tangled and confused in her own thoughts. Foolish old woman was her final word to herself on the matter, but that did not prevent her years later, as Khaled learned to speak, from asking him if he knew or dreamed about a girl named Mariam.
“No” was the consistent answer, however creatively she framed the question.
Despite the growing encroachment of Israeli colonies and menacing guard towers, the family lived their days sustained by gifts of the sea, daily chores and toils, rumors and gossip, politics and defiance, and love. As all of Hajje Nazmiyeh’s sons married and began having children, she was surrounded daily by a regiment of grandchildren who petted her and competed for her affection. They were cousins who divided, fought, and united according to the current alignments of their mothers, whose jealousies and arguments provided a shifting landscape of allegiances. The wars of the daughters-in-law were sometimes firestorms of curses and sometimes icebergs that got dragged into Hajje Nazmiyeh’s kitchen on Fridays when they all gathered for the jomaa family meal after the noon prayers. And just as much as these jomaa gatherings were occasions for treaties, they were also battlegrounds, where biting remarks and gloating stares were flung across furniture, eyes were rolled, brows were furrowed, and feet were stomped. But there were lines they dared not cross. Allah’s name could never be invoked except in reverence, vulgar curses were not allowed, and Hajje Nazmiyeh’s word was always final, her authority absolute in matters of family disputes.
The jomaa ghada at Hajje Nazmiyeh’s would set the tone for the rest of the week. When one of the sisters-in-law came flaunting a new dress—“My husband bought it for me for no reason at all”—the others pouted for days, demanding of their husbands, “Why can’t you be like your brother and buy me presents every once in a while for no reason?”
The same happened with new furniture and appliances. It happened often enough that the brothers finally implored one another to ensure their wives would not provoke such jealous havoc. But in vain. When one of them became pregnant, Nazmiyeh joked to the other wives, “Looks like the rest of my sons are going to be happy in the coming weeks because I know the rest of you will try to get pregnant, too.” Alwan begged her mother to stop speaking like that. “They might think you’re serious,” she said.
“Who said I wasn’t serious, my daughter?” Nazmiyeh smirked. “You just wait. In a few weeks’ time, at least two of them are gonna come back and say they’re pregnant.”
Alwan read the Quran more often, as if to offset her mother’s unseemly speech. In the domestic wars between the sisters-in-law, Alwan was neutral ground. Nothing in her nature provoked the others. She was Hajje Nazmiyeh’s only daughter, not very attractive, and she had only one son and a husband who was odd and remote. She was also the closest to Hajje Nazmiyeh, the glue that held all the siblings together and forced the wives to share their lives and children with one another. Hajje Nazmiyeh was the wisecracking matriarch that the other matriarchs loved and hated in equal measure. She was perhaps the only matriarch who was referred to by her first name. All mothers were addressed as Um so and so. It was not a sign of disrespect that Nazmiyeh was not identified by her relation to anyone else, but a testament to the force of her being, a mixture of defiance, motherliness, kindness, sexuality, and sassiness. No son or husband could rename her. People were drawn to her. Her children and grandchildren doted on her and kissed her hands when they joined or left her presence. She was the mother-in-law who taught her new daughters how to cook meals the way their husbands liked them. She made them all blush with her questions. “Does my son know what he’s doing in bed? If he doesn’t, you shouldn’t be afraid to teach him.” She made them laugh. And when they needed to cry, they found a tender place to do so on her shoulder. Without realizing it, these women who thought they disliked one another became bound in sisterhood under Hajje Nazmiyeh’s aegis, and it showed in times of trial, like the day Hajje Nazmiyeh got the call about her brother, or in the coming years, when the sky crumbled, raining death on their roofs.
THIRTY-FOUR
No one noticed my first “episode,” when I went in and out of the quiet blue. It was a day like any other. I was perhaps six, walking to school with my cousins and friends, when settlers descended from their perch. Jewish women pushing their babies in strollers, their older children marching along. I saw it immediately, the jubilant venom of bullies out for fun. We all scattered to take cover as the settler kids, under the watch of their mothers, hurled stones and broken bottles at us. Just before the world drenched me in a silent blue, I felt the hot wetness of my urine stream down my pants, against my leg. The next thing I recalled was my cousin chastising me as we huddled behind a boulder, “Next time don’t just stand there like a dumb donkey. If I hadn’t dragged you away, the Jews would have gotten you.”
The day came when Israel removed its settlers. The world said it was as if Israel had cut off one of its limbs for the sake of peace. Palestinians in Gaza sucked air through their teeth and rolled their eyes. Isn’t that something, they said. They steal and steal, kill and maim, and they’re so brave for giving it back after they’ve depleted the soil of clean water and nutrients. To hell with them, they said, roaming the refreshing absence where settlers had been. Hajje Nazmiyeh started speaking with Mariam again, asking for signs. She didn’t know for what. She warned against so much celebration. “Light will cast shadows,” she reminded people.
Soon thereafter, Atiyeh passed quietly in his sleep. It was not unexpected, for he had already acquired the qualities of the dying—endless patience and deep wisdom, shuffling feet, trembling hands, and random smiles. Sometimes, with no apparent provocation, his hands and Nazmiyeh’s would find one another—watching television, eating, cleaning the dishes, or in bed—and their fingers would engage in their ageless private tango, born so long ago of forbidden longing amid remnants of a bygone castle and citadel. They both knew an ending was near, but they never spoke of it except in the quiet dance of their hands. Still, his death was shattering. It made Nazmiyeh suddently an old woman, the youth she spent in love now buried in a grave. Nazmiyeh removed her colorful scarf and tied black grief in its place. She watched in anguished nostalgia as her sons washed, carried, and buried their father. They gathered around their mother and kissed her feet as the Quran intoned from the sound box, its hypnotic melody moving through mourning bodies. People came with condolences and left in respect.
Around the slow motion of the family’s loss, Palestinian factions fought one another and when the faction less conciliatory to Israel w
on, Israel locked down the whole of Gaza, cordoning off even the sea.
From that day onward, Hajje Nazmiyeh slipped into the soothing blackness of widowhood, and she never added color except the embroidered stitches of heritage on her thobe. Abdel Qader kissed his mother-in-law’s hand, asking Allah to add many years to her life, and from the sea that lived inside him, he said, “At least Abu Mazen died naturally.” At least Zionists had not killed him.
THIRTY-FIVE
An American girl named Rachel Corrie came to live in Gaza. Her beauty touched us all. All twelve million of us Palestinians around the world. In a letter she wrote from Gaza to her mama in America, she said, “I spent a lot of time writing about the disappointment of discovering, somewhat first-hand, the degree of evil of which we are still capable … I am also discovering a degree of strength and of basic ability for humans to remain human in the direst of circumstances … I think the word is dignity.”
Alwan, Um Khaled, had another pregnancy in 2003, which progressed late enough to identify the gender before she miscarried. Her husband had been telling his fishing comrades he was having a girl. And that’s why Abdel Qader blamed himself for the miscarriage. He had spoken with authority of things that are the exclusive domain of Allah. Still, he grieved, but he soon resigned to his characteristic surrender to Allah’s will.
“It was not our lot to have this child, Um Khaled,” Abdel Qader tried to console his wife. “We will try again. Enshallah, we will have our Rachel, habibti,” he said, as he sought Allah’s pardon.
Alwan took courage and protested, “Everyone is naming their daughters Rachel, Abu Khaled. I don’t want that name. It’s not even Arabic and we don’t know what the English name actually means.”
“Alwan, we agreed. You named the first one. I will name the next,” he said, sure of victory in this domestic disagreement.
Alwan said nothing more.
“Trust me, Um Khaled. Whatever the name means in English, here, it means purity of heart, unfailing faith, and deep courage.”
“Abu Khaled, let us not name a child we don’t even yet have. It’s bad luck.”
He agreed wholeheartedly, embracing his wife.
THIRTY-SIX
Once, Baba returned carrying the sea in wet hair and soggy clothes. On that day, Mama had sent me to trade with the neighbors a lemon and garlic for onions that Teta and I chopped up for our meal. A year later, when I went into the blue for good, Sulayman took me back in time to witness what had happened that day in the ocean. And in the going-back, we became part of that day. We, Sulayman and I, were the ones who had cajoled the fish to shallow waters.
Abdel Qader Bade an unceremonious farewell to the sea one day. The Mediterranean was calm and the sky endless. He and his fishermen comrades inhaled the expanse as they reached the limits of the three nautical miles imposed by Israel. It was as far as they were allowed before gunboats would fire, so they cast their nets and waited. They were four men in Abdel Qader’s boat, and Murad, his cousin, pulled out a deck of cards, worn and tattered from many games of Tarneeb in the moist, salty air of the sea.
The fishermen bantered in the world of men at sea, cigarettes dangling from the sides of their mouths, unshaven hard faces in the sun, a contented brotherhood floating on a silent immensity, waiting for it to deliver their sustenance. They stayed that way for hours before reeling in nets of small fish. They knew the catch would not be bountiful so close to shore, but they thanked Allah for what they had, as a pile of writhing sea creatures glistened in the sun. They cast their nets once more, and this time, they caught a miracle. Prime sea bass, grouper, bream, snapper, red mullet, striped mullet, sardines, tuna. The fishermen could hardly believe it. Where were all these fish coming from? Answered prayers, the mysterious ways of Allah’s mercy. And the excited cries of fishermen in boats near and far filled the air over the water.
The elation at sea was suddenly muted as Israeli naval vessels sped toward the fleet of small fishing boats fanning Gaza’s shore. Most boats quickly gathered their nets and sped off with their good fortunes toward land. Abdel Qader and his comrades were closest to the vessel and could not flee the Israeli boat heading toward them. As they stood folding their nets, one of the fishermen exclaimed, “Check that we’ve not drifted beyond three miles!”
“We’re fine. Just stay calm. We’ve done nothing wrong,” Abdel Qader said, and suddenly, the ocean became a small room with a small fishing boat, a naval vessel, and no windows or doors. Abdel Qader shouted over the water, “We are not beyond three miles.”
Soldiers laughed and shot a hole in the boat. The fishermen scrambled to plug it. “You say you want freedom, but you are oppressing the fish,” one of the soldiers said, laughing. “Maybe we should tangle you in a net to show you how the fish feel.” They ordered the fishermen to throw their catch back into the sea, and they all watched those sea creatures swim away. Then the soldiers ordered the men to strip and get out of the boat, making them count to a hundred while treading water. When they finished, the soldiers ordered them to start counting all over. The minutiae of cruelty alleviated the languor of patrolling the sea; so the soldiers were amused, but then they grew bored, though they waited and took bets as the fishermen counted in the water.
Abdel Qader and his cousin Murad were flanked by two of their comrades, Abu Michele, a Christian, and Abu al Banat, a man who had six daughters and no boys. People called him “father of the girls.” He was the first to succumb to exhaustion and as he sank, some soldiers cheered as others paid out money to them. Abdel Qader and Abu Michele tried to hold him up, but they could barely hold themselves. Abdel Qader pleaded, “Have mercy. We have children and families.”
Murad quietly closed his eyes and melted like despair into the sea, then one of the soldiers took aim and shot Abu Michele’s shoulder. Abdel Qader uttered the shehadeh, preparing to meet his end. But the soldiers were done. They sped away, their wake flapping against remnants of the boat. Abdel Qader relaxed his body and let it glide through the water, holding his breath, holding off the compulsion to breathe water deeply into his lungs, until a hand reached for him. He climbed in the water and cut through the surface with a loud gasp of air. Abu Michele floated next to him, nearly passed out, and said, “Don’t leave me to die, Abu Khaled.”
Several families from Khan Younis were grilling food, having a picnic on the beach, when some of the children came panting from the water, pointing to something in the distance. The adults rose to their feet, squinting their eyes to make out the approaching shapes. There was at least one man, in distress. They saw hands waving, then heard the man’s calls for help. Two young men from the family had already jumped into the water, swimming to the rescue. Closer, they saw another, injured, clinging to wooden remnants of what was probably a boat. Others dove in with abayas to cover the naked men before they limped out of the water. The injured man had been shot in his shoulder and had lost blood and consciousness. They rushed him to the hospital. There, they questioned the men.
“What’s your name, brother?” someone asked.
“Abdel Qader, Abu Khaled,” the man said and added only this much more: “We’re fishermen. The Jews came. There were two others, returned to God’s sea. I have to go tell their families now. I will be back for my friend with his family.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
When Jiddo Atiyeh passed away, Baba stood in the front row of the prayer lines for the deceased. Like everyone else, he said to Mama and Teta, “May his remaining years be added to yours.” And when it was just us at home in the evening, when he was smoking an argileh, when he exhaled his thoughts in a cloud of smoke that stared back at him, he said, “I am glad for Ammi Atiyeh to have died of age. It’s a blessing to die naturally.”
There was no work on land. Israel’s siege of Gaza saw unemployment rise to eighty percent and malnutrition began a slow creep into the new generation. Abdel Qader joined the growing number of jobless men, who gathered in their neighborhoods every morning. These were laborers, acc
ustomed to rising before the sun to wait in Israeli checkpoint queues to get to their jobs. They were men with large calloused hands, damaged nails, and the scars of hard work. With strong, if not young, backs. They’d gather, compelled by the pull of a breadwinner’s habit to leave their families early and return late, tired and proud from the hours of backbreaking toil. They’d gather to escape the shame of idleness. To avoid the eyes of their hungry children. Few of them ever stood in the UN ration queues. They could count on their wives and daughters and sons to accomplish the humiliation of waiting for hours to haul back the bags of rice and flour. But Abdel Qader had only one son, barely seven years old, and a pregnant wife who had already had too many miscarriages to risk another one by carrying the heavy rations.
He delayed going to the handout lines as long as he could. He even tried to get his nephews and nieces to help, but they were already getting their own families’ allotments. When there was no work to be found and nothing was left to eat, he hung his head and waited in the ration lines with women and children, who looked at him with pity, fueling his sense of impotence and uselessness.
His shame shape-shifted to anger, and Alwan was the easiest target. Her weakness and inability to deliver healthy children sooner was to blame. He questioned his choice of a wife with narrow hips who had taken so long to bear him a child. Luckily, the firstborn had been a son, sure to carry on his name. Still, if she had been a better wife, he would already have many children who could have stood in these lines to spare their father such disgrace. He should have listened to his mother and sisters when they had tried to dissuade him from marrying Alwan, whose grandmother had been the crazy lady of Beit Daras. And whose mother, Nazmiyeh—though he loved the woman, God bless her—was the most crass hajje he had ever known. He should have been more pragmatic in choosing a wife. It was all Alwan’s fault. The fault of her deficiency and her cursed family.
The Blue Between Sky and Water Page 12