The Lady from Tel Aviv

by Raba'i al-Madhoun

  My mother says nothing. She bites her lip, unsure what to say. I add: ‘You know, Mama, we have absolutely no donkeys where I live. If someone were to bring one to London, I bet they’d want to put it in the zoo, or on display somewhere. And then the media would rush around to cover it—it’d be a huge event. Tourists would pull out their cameras to take photos of themselves standing next to the donkey as a souvenir of the miraculous occasion. They’d take the beast on tour around the whole country. They’d establish an official pedigree for him and his asinine ancestors and give him an annual physical. You know, I was sort of hoping that someone might take a picture of me standing next to a Palestinian donkey. And don’t get me going about all the carts that the night farts out of its arse. Mama, don’t be shocked by how I talk—you use the same expression. And the call to prayer—God damn the call to prayer in this country! As if my ears weren’t sore enough from having to listen to Israeli soldiers shout and yell all day. Aren’t five hundred muezzins screeching into five hundred microphones a bit much? Has the Resurrection Day come early for Gazans? Are people so afraid for their place in heaven? Why don’t they get themselves into a neat single-file line and wait until their cases come up for review? It’s a pity that each muezzin trusts only his personal timepiece.’

  My mother begins to laugh, then stops herself.

  ‘For forty years, Mama, the various Palestinian factions have never joined together in a single front. So why would I expect Palestinian muezzins to form a unified front during my visit?’

  My mother banishes the traces of an unlaughed laugh. When she talks, her voice is gentle and reassuring. ‘Don’t worry about it, son. That was only your first night back home. By tomorrow you’ll be used to it again. Between you and me, we stopped noticing these things long ago. We don’t notice anything any more. We sleep through artillery barrages. It is like nothing happened—that’s how used to it we are. You want to know how fucked up life is here? I’ll tell you. When it is completely quiet and there’s not a sound outside—that’s when I get so nervous I can’t sleep.

  ‘Get up, my good son—go and shave, take a hot shower. You’ll start to wake up and feel more rested. Amal is going to come over and bring us our breakfast. Get yourself ready, your cousin Maryam called a little while ago and said she was going to stop by. She wants to see you. Maryam’s crazy about you, you know. Get up and get ready.’

  *

  Two women in their early sixties walk into the last bachelor pad. They walk down the short hallway and stop near the mattress on the floor. As they remove their shoes, they greet my mother and look at me. Four eyes watch me with great curiosity.

  I get up to welcome them, genuine warmth and inquisitiveness on my part too. I hold out my hand to each of them. We sit down, a small circle around my mother who, as usual, sits hunched over herself on the ground. Not for one moment does she stop welcoming the women into the room.

  The first one looks at me. She is very dark-skinned. With a warm, friendly smile, she says, ‘Of course you remember me, right, Abu Fadi? I’m your cousin, Maryam.’

  ‘Umm Zahir,’ my mother adds.

  ‘Maryam?’

  I lean over and embrace her, our eyes filled with tears. Maryam, my cousin, was a few years younger than me. Unlike her brother Nasreddine, who made fun of and cursed his complexion, Maryam loved the pigment of her skin, just as others in the family also loved it—she had a classic, Pharaonic kind of beauty. My mother had once wanted me to marry her brother’s daughter. And, whenever the thought occurred to her, she didn’t hesitate to talk about it at length. ‘Walid, Maryam is as dark and sweet as a black plum. She’s got a great sense of humour, and her lips almost drip with honey. And you know, she is sweet on you. She likes you. I swear to God, she once told me, “Where am I going to find someone as good as my cousin?”’

  And I used to answer: ‘Mama, Maryam is beautiful and sweet, and every cousin would love to marry her, but now’s not the right time. I still have to finish my studies. I’ve got my future and the path before me is still a long one. When it’s time to get married, God will give her away, and each of us will take his share of what fate has in store for him.’

  Maryam, this Nefertiti of a woman, makes me forget the other woman who’s come with her, whose name I still do not know. Eventually, Maryam notices that while I am studying the other woman, she is stealing sly looks at me. She rushes to correct things. ‘Abu Fadi, this is my neighbor Leila. Leila’s a distant relative, by the way. She’s the daughter of al-Hajj Hassan Darwish who used to live in Jabalia Camp West. She’s lived with her husband’s family ever since they were married. She lives right next door to me in Khan Yunis.’

  Something inside me begins to stir. I cannot tell whether I have fallen into a dream, or am waking from one. There is something about Leila. She awakens my senses and confounds them too. This is Leila from my novel—the Leila that Adel El-Bashity fell in love with decades ago. The Leila that Adel returned to find. The Leila that I, following in his footsteps, hoped to find for both of us. Has she stepped out of the text to welcome me home?

  The two women say goodbye and get up to go. Maryam walks out of the apartment, and with her, a real Leila.

  12

  We are a society of gossips, of chitchat as twisted as those slogans we repeat and repeat until we begin to think they are fact. We are a people convinced that our blather pierces through fog and strikes at the heart of the grandest truths of all. On the afternoon of my second day, I am instantly immersed in all this chatter, and I cannot find my way out again until the very end of the evening. This is the daytime version of the nighttime chaos that has kept me awake. Every last relative comes to welcome me, some of them to meet me for the first time. They have all heard so much about the only author the Dahmans ever produced. They are all impressed by the three novels he has written. They have seen him a few times on television, gesticulating wildly with his hands as he expertly discusses literature and politics, using the kinds of words some people get and some do not. And when they see their cousin the journalist, it gives them real pleasure to exchange glowing praise and knowing looks with one another. ‘That’s Walid—he’s our cousin.’ It is entirely possible that some have come only out of respect for my mother. Or perhaps respect is not the right word. It could be that they fear those broadcasts of hers that continue round the clock, except during those very early morning hours when she is sleeping. And even then, it is possible that her updates continue unabated in special dream coverage. She would not hesitate to ruin the reputation of a person who failed to arrive in a timely fashion to wish her well on the safe arrival of a son who had been absent for such an unprecedented amount of time.

  The relatives continue to throng to the last bachelor pad whose sitting room, for this event, we have amply furnished with stuffed cotton mattresses and pillows for everyone to sit on. And meanwhile, my mother keeps repeating: ‘See, Walid. The son of Sofia, your father’s aunt, still has not bothered to come. Oh, he says he’s sorry, My son’s getting married. So what? Go marry off your son for all I care. Who could get mad at you for doing that? God help the man and help his bride. I hope the two of them give birth to a barnful of boys and girls.

  ‘But still, what’s so hard about coming over to greet your cousin? Couldn’t you at least come over before your son’s wedding to say hello to an old woman whose son has just returned? The bride’s not going to run away, is she? The earth isn’t going to open up and swallow her, is it? The wedding’s tomorrow—if he doesn’t come to see us, we’re not going to attend. It’s as simple as that. If someone doesn’t come to see you, it’s not right for you to visit them—no matter if all the kids in their family were getting married on the same day. Am I right, or am I wrong?’

  My cousin Abul-Abd interrupts her. ‘Don’t be like that, Aunt. You know as well as I do what a pain a wedding can be. I married off five of my kids. Nowadays, people are so busy they don’t even have time to scratch their head when it itches.’

&
nbsp; My mother is not convinced—she begins to complain about how there are others who have also not shown up. And she starts to rattle off their names one by one. And for each person on the list, she swears an oath that she is never going to speak to them again.

  Emad tries to change the subject by bringing up an old joke – one so good, he swears, that he is sure I could not have heard it before. It is about an electronic device made in Korea, and an operation to implant it under my mother’s tongue. It was supposed to operate by remote control, but unfortunately, the device did not work so well. ‘I’ve been pressing the stop button this whole time, but it’s not responding.’

  I laugh and my mother joins in, even as she wastes no time trying to show how wrong the remote control theory is. She tells everybody that it has been forty years since she sat with her son, and that she is going to say everything she has kept inside her all these years. ‘Whoever wants to listen can do so. And whoever doesn’t, can stick a finger in their ears. And whoever needs a device can go implant one in themselves.’

  More than a couple of people in the room protest. ‘Don’t take it so hard, we don’t mean it. Go ahead and speak.’

  Like an Israeli helicopter in the Gaza sky, my mother relaxes as soon as she realizes that she is in total control of the situation—and she seizes the opportunity to talk even more.

  Abu Ahmad, my mother’s cousin who is a fervent Hamas supporter, steps in to change the direction of the conversation. ‘The men from Hamas have acquired anti-tank mines. I saw them planting some with my own eyes. I even saw them detonate one.’

  He addresses his words to Abu Khalil, the cousin sitting next to him, who has been worn down by an unrequited devotion to Fatah all these years.

  Abu Khalil is not having any of it. ‘You’re making that up.’

  ‘No, I saw one—it was an actual mine. Why is it so hard to believe, Abu Khalil? I’m telling you, it was an anti-tank explosive. I saw the cloud of dirt that went up when they detonated it under the tank. There was a plume of smoke and dust all across the sky. What do you expect our men to do? Plant mines and then put up warning signs that say: Danger, you are now approaching a Hamas minefield!’

  ‘Abu Ahmad, my friend, what are you talking about? I am sure that the explosion you saw wasn’t any bomb. And Hamas doesn’t have any mines to plant anywhere. What you saw was most probably just a truck hitting a wall. That would raise the cloud of dust you think you saw. If I’m wrong, then tell me this—where did the tank go when it got hit by the mine?’

  ‘The Jews came and towed it away.’

  ‘May God come and tow away both your tongues!’ my mother says. When my mother intervenes, she is like a multinational force parachuting into a conflict zone. And by the time she gets there, the conflict is done. Abu Ahmad and Abu Khalil swallow their tongues.

  Confident that no one will interrupt her as long as she is talking to her long-lost son, my mother continues, ‘Abu Fadi, you don’t want to go on listening to Abu Ahmad and Abu Khalil’s tall tales, do you? Those two do nothing but fight whenever they meet. And their fight is nothing but words. One of them stands over in Hamas’ corner, the other stands up to defend Fatah. And each heaps insults on the other. Listen to your mother—and don’t pay any attention to what they say. It’s nonsense. And about that ring—I held on to it for over a year. Then I placed it with Ansam, your niece, for safekeeping. God rest her mother’s soul.’

  She wipes away two sudden tears with a handkerchief, and continues. ‘It cost two hundred dollars. You know who gave me the money? Your sister, Raja, God rest her soul. I go to my neighbour Majda. You know Majda—you and your cousin were calling her from the crossing to see if she could go to the house in Khan Yunis and get you my ID number. I give her five hundred dollars and I tell her: “Listen, Majda, my dear, go buy some gold with this money.” Gold is always better to have than dollars. Besides, I don’t even have a bank account. Everyone else puts their money in bank accounts, don’t they?’

  I catch Emad’s eye and cry out for help: ‘Someone, hand me the remote! Please!’

  While everyone laughs, Abu Ahmad seizes the chance to launch another attack on his political opponent. ‘You know, Abu Khalil, your neighbour Shehada wanted to become a government minister. They wanted to make him Minister of Health, you know.’

  ‘Screw them! What the hell does Shehada know about health, anyway? Here is what our neighbour knows about health: when he gets a headache, he stays home from work. He sits in bed and takes off a week’s worth of sick days.’

  ‘You think that the other guys who became ministers are any better than him?’

  ‘Look, cousin, maybe—maybe—he could handle things at the Ministry of Sewage.’

  Everybody is cracking up again, when Abul-Abd jumps in. ‘So sewage gets its own PA ministry now? Is that why it stinks so bad?’

  Abu Khalil’s enthusiasm grows as the conversation goes on—and he adds: ‘Look, old man. The Jews came to the PA and said: “We would like to purchase your sewage.” And the PA told them: “No.” So the Jews came back begging, and this time they didn’t pose their request in that garbled Hebrew they speak. This time they asked in clear, comprehensible Arabic: “We will pay good money for your shit.” But still the PA refused to sell. They said the Jews were going to collect it and treat it and turn it into gold. Pure gold, my friend. And the Jews went on saying: “Please let us take it off your hands.”’

  Abu Ahmad cuts him dead. He is so upset you might think we had been talking about selling the nation’s soul. ‘You mean they’re trying to get it on the cheap, cousin?’

  ‘Hand over that long beard of yours—you don’t deserve to wear one! You’re deluded if you think Israel would pay cash for your shit. The PA never once was so deluded to suppose that a country could sell its citizens’ shit for hard cash. Not even the EU pays cash for shit—and they pay cash for everything around here. Israel merely made an offer to purchase, that’s all. First in shekels, then in dollars, if you must know. Does that sound like a good deal to you?’

  Abu Ahmad is now defiant. ‘No, I do not like it one bit. First of all, the sewage project is German. The engineer overseeing it is German. And he said they’re going to use it to irrigate the lands to the west of Beit Lahia. If the faeces is sold, our German friend is going to be disappointed. And don’t tell me that he belongs to Hamas—or have Germans gone and joined the Islamic resistance now?’

  ‘The sewer project? You think that’s really going to happen?’

  ‘Do you think these things can be done overnight? Sheikh Zayed City in Jabalia stood unfinished for years. The construction was stopped for years until Mahmoud Abbas came in.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Abbas was in Egypt at the time. The PA has refused to sell the sewage. They have even said so publicly, We will not sell our shit to Israel. They want to treat it and reclaim it just like they do in developed countries. The PA is on public record as saying: This crap belongs to the nation and we’re not going to treat it like shit. We will not let anyone shit on the excrement of the good people of Jabalia and Beit Lahia. The PA considers excrement a nonnegotiable part of national sovereignty, and would never compromise on the issue without a general referendum. They did pretty much everything they could have done on the issue. Although I guess they could have organized public demonstrations. I can hear it now—crowds of patriots in Jabalia and Beit Lahia shouting:

  It’s our shit, now get in line

  Us in front and you behind!

  Our shit, our shit, friend or foe

  Belongs to us, for evermore!’

  ‘And what happened in the end?’ I interrupt, hoping to put an end to this crappy conversation.

  ‘Ho!’ Abu Khalil answers. ‘The PA came and the PA went—but the shit never left, did it? The whole area reeks of it. You smell it wherever you go. The sewers are overflowing. And don’t forget that Gaza’s sewers pour directly into the sea. And Wadi Gaza too—it is now nothing but a canyon of pipes pumping the
nation’s shit into the Mediterranean. And the water supply is polluted, so now we have to buy bottled water from the Jews.’

  Amal, Abdelfettah’s wife, brings out cups of coffee, followed by cups of tea. Everyone sits and drinks as much as they like, shifting their bodies back and forth now and then. Their legs get tired, even though they’re used to sitting this way.

  Well-wishers keep on coming and going. The conversation never stops, nor does my mother’s broadcast system. There is no remote control in the world that could stop her now—not even one made by Sony. No one listens to anyone else. Abu Ahmad locks horns with Abu Khalil and their private battle goes on. My mother tells me stories and I am somehow expected to listen to all channels at the same time and follow each of their many updates. I am supposed to take in and comment on everything that is said in my capacity as professional journalist or television guest brought in to comment, as an outsider.

  It is another day of incredible, laughable and heartbreaking reunions. I let them go on saying whatever they want to say. I jump in sometimes with a word or two, simply to let them know I am still listening. But that is never enough for my mother—she insists on dragging me into things with that tongue, and I let myself be dragged along by her. ‘I’ll tell you what’s a fact—when I hear someone is a Hamas supporter, I turn my back on them. If they walk by, I don’t say hello. When the Israelis kill someone, those jerks run around everywhere making such a racket about it. And then they try to give money to the poor victim’s family. In other words, if I can be blunt with you—they’re buying people, that’s what they’re trying to do. Am I right or am I wrong?’

  ‘Auntie, you’re absolutely right,’ Salah ventures.