by Malu Halasa
“Before you kill him, you will have to kill me first.” A disembodied voice, weary and indifferent, floats to them from out of nowhere. Mustafa steps in front of the sheikh’s car with no shirt, in his boots. He holds one of his travel souvenirs, America’s finest for CQB—close quarters battle—an M4 carbine assault rifle.
“I am the only person here truly qualified for the job. My credentials are”—he wets his lips—“impeccable.” His quiet deliberation gives the impression of a man talking to himself. Then raising his voice, he growls at the men standing over Hussein, “Move!”
The sheikh’s followers step closer together, forming a tight circle around the heaped body on the ground.
“Should I demonstrate?” Mustafa is seconds away from firing.
Even in the poor light, the henna prayer etched across the young man’s chest is visible. “But you,” the sheikh is staring at him, “are one of us. You are marked, a soldier of Allah.” He leans on his stick. “Mujahid, remember your instruction; put down your weapon.”
“Move!” Mustafa shouts again. “Or everyone will die, except the lieutenant. He’s suffered enough. All of us have suffered enough.”
The sheikh’s words sound honey-coated. “Why threaten us? As true believers, we are only doing our duty.” When the soldier doesn’t reply, the sheikh becomes aggressive. “I demand the truth. You have dedicated your life to Allah—what are you doing in this hellhole?”
Mustafa answers thoughtfully. “Only what I have been taught, master: bide my time, surprise the enemy, then be quick, be brutal. Jihad is only satisfied with human blood. And these revolutionaries,” he jeers at Mr. Ammar, although his eyes won’t leave Samira, “look at me for your lost innocence.”
Muna stifles a scream as the young man from the garden throws himself at the soldier, but the mujahid is quick. He swings the rifle hard into the boy’s stomach and, as he doubles over, once more across the forehead.
“Such foolishness,” Mustafa sounds coldly detached. With a faint jerk of his chin, he glowers at the man with the handgun, daring him to act. The sheikh’s follower throws it to the ground.
Hussein staggers to his feet, and Samira, rushing to his side, leads him away from his attackers. A low rumble of engines belonging to at least two vehicles—now on the mountain, are making the turnoff. Hussein, leaning on his baby sister, whispers the only real advice he has ever given her: “Take who you love, travel lightly. Leave now!”
She thinks he must be delirious until he promises her, “I will tell Mother Fadhma and she will understand. Send word when you can, return if it’s safe; we will wait for you.” When she hesitates again, he stresses, “Go before it’s too late. Those who come now are truly dangerous. Listen to a brother who has witnessed too much.” Despite his weakened condition he gives her a last piece of useful advice—“The soldier knows the way”—before forcibly pushing her aside and stumbling off into the darkness.
The sheikh is berating Mustafa again. “Believer, among us, your brothers, you are not an outcast. Among them”—he points at Samira—“a hired hand, a murderer, condemned to run for the rest of your days.”
The soldier takes aim. “Before you drown in your own blood, drink from mine.”
In the split second between threat and action, the assault weapon wavers. Samira, recognizing the signs, positions herself beside him to do whatever she must, as two sedans barrel down the dirt tract toward the farm. Headlights akimbo, they screech to a halt. Heavily armed men rush the sheikh and his followers. In the confusion Samira seizes her chance and she is not alone. At that moment the heavy barn doors slide open and a cascade of fluorescent light fills the yard. The roar of grunts, howls, thrashing, and cussing dies down. All eyes are drawn to Hussein, beaten and weak, standing perfectly still. In his hand is an enormous meat cleaver. He gazes at the assembled and walks around the enclosures housing the pigs. Each time his step falters, he supports himself against a railing. It is the arduous journey of a man in pain, but his purpose is clear.
At the largest pen, he places one leg over the bars, summons his remaining strength, and climbs into the minuscule space not taken by Umm al-Khanaazeer. Shocked by the unexpected visitor, the pig’s gargantuan body rears onto her hind legs. Hussein is nearly dwarfed, but his weapon is well placed. Treachery from the hand that once cared and nourished it is the cruelest blow. The pig’s bellowing cries intermingle with whimpering groans that Hussein identifies as human and belonging to Abu Za’atar. His corporeal body or astral spirit—Hussein isn’t sure which—has ascended Musa’s mountain to bid his lucrative IVF experiment good-bye.
But nothing distracts Hussein from his errand. A lifeless face squeezes words out through clenched teeth. Every third one is emphasized as the cleaver hacks into flesh. “I will not let a pig stand between you and your maker. If you believe that Umm al-Khanaazeer’s death means our resurrection, it’s my pleasure to help you.”
The sharp blade comes down hard on the sow again and again. Crouching, she endeavours to crawl into the four corners of the pen, but Hussein is relentless.
“How we all yearn for greatness.”
Blood rises in fountains and falls like rain.
“And all the while it is here, in the belly of a pig. God knows we are all tired of being last, stupid, corrupt, attacked.”
As Hussein works on, the animal stops moving and the mass of flesh accepts the blows as easily as a pillow. He hauls himself up on the side of the pen, holding what’s left of the big pig by one ear. Her half-open eyes peer haughtily out.
“This is my sacrifice so the killings will end. No more wars over useless land. No more feuding between the godless and the godly, one bloated with hunger and thirst, the other with righteous greed. What benevolent ruler kills hundreds of thousands for a Swiss bank account? Who considers rape of little girls religious ecstasy? Any excuse is convenient when you want to destroy countries and steal lives.”
Abu Za’atar has been watching Hussein with mounting revulsion. When he can no longer restrain himself and is about to fly into the barn, a hand reaches out from the darkness and holds him firm. Squinting with his good eye, he can just make out the charm against the evil eye around Samira’s neck. Its dull gleam catches the light before it fades away into nothingness. He could have easily imagined it but will brag about this detail for years to come. Muna stands at his side as Samira blows both of them a kiss before disappearing behind a ridge for good. Following her are two unlikely companions: one wonderful and the other an unknown quantity but more than likely useful in a pinch.
Sometimes when his good and bad eyes cross each other, they prevent him from seeing clearly, or rather that will be his excuse if called to the witness stand. He could alert the mukhabarat that the fugitive they seek is getting away, but with so many suspects to choose from, he won’t be missed. Abu Za’atar has been in the company of the secret police long enough to appreciate their particular brand of deterrence: men intent on doing so much good they cut down everybody in their way. Abu Za’atar removes his never-without, woven from five hundred thousand of the finest Egyptian cotton threads, and derives much-needed comfort from its softness. No matter the situation, Samira wouldn’t want it otherwise, and he won’t allow her impeccable standards to slide.
“Hope is something with wings” is his final comment on the whole sorry ordeal, which he imparts to Muna.
In the barn Hussein has sunk to his knees and plunged his hands into the massive dead pig. “God Almighty,” he sobs in great gasps, “let this khanzir wash away its sins and ours.”
His clothes are bathed in blood. He lays down the meat cleaver and steadies himself enough to climb out of the pen. Something else is on his mind.
“My father taught me to give in order to receive. Wild boar ran in the Yarmouk Valley before man sowed the first seeds in 5500 B.C. They will thrive there once again,” he vows. As he regards his blood-soaked fingers, he is astonished to find that, for once, they are not trembling. The pain of the beati
ng and the sorrow of killing his pig have been pushed aside by a curious elation. At last, he feels responsible for himself.
As he walks the length of the barn, flicking open the latches on the pens, his mind is racing. It will be impossible for his rapacious uncle to understand, but Hussein and his family will manage. Any material deficiencies will be compensated for with love and attention. Laila will learn to trust him. So will Mother Fadhma—if she can fight her natural tendency of living in regret. There will be the initial shock about Samira, but he and the old woman will cope. For too long each and every one of them has been engulfed by memories more vivid than the reality of their lives.
Hussein’s hands begin to pulsate and expand, filling his field of vision. He can clearly distinguish every fold of skin in sharp, unnatural detail. Each is a tiny river of blood, and in the rivers a thousand futures are flowing. He cannot be sure what will be unleashed. His sons will either end up as doctors or killers. He doesn’t know which. His sister was the one person in the family who could have benefited from his experiences. Tonight was the first time he tried to help her. If they meet again, and this too is an uncertainty, he will explain that many roads lead to redemption. Temporarily, his burden feels lighter. As the barn starts spinning fast and then very, very slowly, with great difficulty Hussein raises his head and sees the specter of his father. Al Jid is no longer angry or ashamed of his son.
Pigs of every conceivable shape and size run amok—speckled, tan, black, and brown, hairy and smooth, the beauties and the ginger beasts, piglets with the good fortune to evade their mother’s digestive tract but who will not survive the cruel night alone, the castrated six-month-olds ready for slaughter, the crippled and the runts. Caught in the teeming animals, the sheikh and his followers, the mukhabarat strongmen, and the front’s political wing fall angrily over one another. Wordlessly, Muna and Abu Za’atar detach themselves and go to Hussein while all around them porcine mouths, from which milk teeth have been lovingly plucked or filed, issue an unearthly cry of liberation.
A handful of male animals, their instincts dulled by captivity and testosterone growth hormone, turn northwards and ascend the barren higher slopes towards the church and ruined monastery on Jebel Musa. The rest, as through drawn by gravity, move downhill. Suddenly mountainside rocks and shrubs are alive with hoof, snout and twisted tail. Faster than anyone can drive, for the road is far from being the most direct route, the pigs flee through the lower pastures and fields. Some, sensing the long journey ahead, stop for water at the prophet’s springs and drink before trotting off to catch up with their friends. When older sows start slowing down and losing their way, brazen younger pigs take over and, at the bottom of the small hills, avail themselves of the pleasant respite offered by the lilies and oleander in Matroub’s fragrantly cool and fairy-lit garden.
By the forked crossroads, siblings who have not been separated since birth gamble on the final destination of the main arteries through the town and take off in different directions. Some head into the Eastern Quarter, and the thin streets and contorted alleys become a racetrack, from which the animals emerge at the other end, dizzy but amused. Others are waylaid by roadside garbage near the covered market but not for long. Soon every corner of the town is filled with snuffling rooting pigs.
In the grey before dawn, as the rich dew forms, the dogs yield their accustomed haunts to an unseen threat. Glimpsing the cause from the front terrace, Mother Fadhma carefully disengages herself from sleeping Laila and the boys so as not to disturb them. The old woman walks slowly through the new house and doesn’t stop to consult her dead husband. In the kitchen she starts her preparations for the family’s comfort food, hot mint tea and toasted za’atar bread. Samira and Hussein have been out all night and they still might not be on their way home. Fadhma realizes she will have to face whatever comes calmly, rationally and without fear. It is no good preparing all the while for disaster; sometimes you have to be ready for what might have a passing resemblance to success.
At that hour the only person on the streets of the town is the butcher’s assistant Khaled. The juvenile favours the wee hours of the morning and often sneaks out of his father’s house for a relaxing stroll. Initially the odd pig or two doesn’t make much of an impression on him but as their numbers grow he stands out of their way on the steps of the mosaic church and observes. He is well versed in Biblical stories about plagues of frogs, locust and vermin but khanaazeer has never been mentioned. He doesn’t mind. The animals are in too much of a hurry to cause him trouble. When an adorable bonetired runt collapses, Khaled picks it up and strokes the soft downy fur beneath its belly. He thinks about keeping it under his bed but he’s never been good with pets. He might be slow but he isn’t stupid. As he leaves it snoring on the steps three veiled women pass in front of the church. He thinks he catches his name on the wind. Only then he notices that one is wearing heavy boots and has feet like a man’s.
For the pigs, the unpaved streets seem to hold little fascination, except for the smell of food from the falafel stand. Two, which don’t have the good sense to follow their noses to the service square and frolic in the rubbish heaps of the barbecues and restaurants, find themselves listlessly sniffing around Abu Za’atar’s Marvellous Emporium, where the scent belonging to their great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother is vague but unmistakably pungent. On Lovers’ Lane, a large rust-colored boar releases his pheromones and urinates under a lamppost.
Most of the pigs converge on the track between the boys’ and girls’ schools, which leads to the fields and open countryside of the surrounding plateau, eventually down the desert steppes to the valley, and finally to the jungle wilderness of the zur along the banks of the Jordan River. They have been given a chance they cannot afford to squander. Only the most ignorant would choose to be in the town after the first glimmer of light in the east signals the beginning of another hot bothered day.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We are daughters of the morning star poem from Mohammad, sceau des prophètes: Extraite de la Chronique de Tabari, trans. by Hermann Zotenberg, was translated into English by Olivia and Bassem Snaije, 2017. Outside the tent there was talk about honor… about haram…I’m a woman not a slave… from the rap song Female Refugees by Monma, Al-Raas and Al-Sayyed Darwish was translated by Ghias Aljundi, 2014. The mud of their own land on their face appeared in Land Without Honour by Kitty Warnock, 1990.
Malu Halasa thanks Marina Penalva and the Pontas Literary and Film Agency; Olivia Taylor Smith, C.P. Heiser, Jaya Nicely and Nancy Tan at Unnamed Press, Majd Masri, Lawrence Joffe, Mitch Albert and Rebecca Carter.
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