by Radwa Ashour
I had not told my aunt about what had happened in Sidon and Ain al-Helwa; I had not spoken with her about the destruction of the camp or the arrests or the mass killing. I had not told her that we had had no news of Ezz or his wife for four weeks. But she had learned of the invasion. She said, “So, are we going back to Tantoura?”
I did not answer. She said, “What’s the matter, Ruqayya? Have you become hard of hearing? I asked you, are we going back home?”
I said, “I heard you, Aunt, I heard the question. How would we go back? I told you that the Israelis have entered Lebanon; they’ve occupied the whole south and gotten close to Beirut.”
“I understand. But it’s possible the fedayeen will defeat them—is it possible, or not?”
“It’s possible.”
“And when they defeat them they’ll follow them to Palestine and we’ll go back to the village. What does Ezz say?”
“The lines to Sidon are down. He hasn’t told us the news from where he is.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’s all right, Aunt.”
“And the resistance?”
“What about it?”
“Is it all right?”
For a moment it seemed to me that I would slap my face in despair and yell at her, “How should I know whether it’s all right or not?” It was certain that the Israelis had occupied the whole south and the Shouf and had arrived at the heights above Beirut, and they had destroyed Ain al-Helwa and taken half its men to prison or to their death.
I patted her shoulder, and said, “God be thanked, Aunt, the resistance is fine.”
She sat up on her bed and said, “Give me one of Amin’s cigarettes.”
I did not comment, but handed her a cigarette. She said, “Why are you just standing there? Where’s the lighter?”
I brought the lighter and lit the cigarette for her, and she began to smoke it calmly. She didn’t cough nor did any twitch appear in her face to indicate that this was something new for her. I stood watching my aunt’s hand as she brought the cigarette to her mouth, inhaled the smoke and then lowered her hand as she exhaled from her nostrils, as if she had been smoking for countless years. After my surprise, which was closer to astonishment, I found myself laughing and saying to my aunt, “What do you think, should I buy you a pack of cigarettes?”
During two months of intense daily shelling, going down to the shelter and leaving it and going down again, my aunt did not ask again about the news of the war and the fedayeen; she contented herself with asking about Ezz. I would tell her that he had managed to find a way to contact Amin. Every two or three days he would call him and say remember me to Mother and don’t worry about me. I would fabricate the words, finding them strange as they emerged from my mouth, loud and complete, clear and stiff, to hide the lie, or to overcome the lump in my throat. I did not know the fate of Ezz or his wife, after the planes had destroyed Ain al-Helwa and artillery had shelled it for ten days, leaving no stone atop another; they had even destroyed the hospital on top of everyone in it. I would repeat, Ezz is fine, Aunt. She would nod her head, as if agreeing with what I said. I don’t know if she believed it or if she had decided that her share in the battle was to overcome her fears, not to express them, and to endure. When the building would shake and the glass in the window would fly in shards that could kill us in a moment she would not comment, saying nothing. But in the shelter she would talk and talk about one subject, never deviating from it: Tantoura. She would talk about it continuously and in detail, attracting the attention of those who heard her. She always ended with the same words: “When we go back home, I beg you to come and visit us. The village is beautiful, it’s worthy of you, and you are worthy of it.” Umm Ali would assure her that she would visit her, if God willed.
Umm Ali was like a dovecote, everyone was at ease with her, whoever they were. At the height of the shelling, if she was not absorbed in one of her numerous long prayers, she would joke and soothe and set minds at rest. How could she keep her calm amid the minefield in the shelter, under almost ceaseless shelling? Yes, it was a minefield, because when our nerves were shot someone would explode at the others or at himself, with or without a reason. I hit Maryam. My hand got away from me and I slapped her face. I yelled at her, or I just yelled at no one, and then I cried. I would bathe her in the least water possible; she would stand in the basin (I remember it clearly: a basin of green colored plastic). I would soap her head and scrub her body and then pour out a little water, just a little. I would not throw away the water left over from the weekly bath but use it to clean the house, keeping a little of it to water the plants that by some strange accident had managed to remain alive: stalks of basil and sage and green thyme. The plants were smart and judged the situation, and like us they came to make do with the least little bit of water. Maryam suddenly urinated in the basin, and my hand got away from me: I slapped her, and then I slapped my own forehead. Then I cried, and Maryam also cried—was it from the slap, or from my sudden tears?
Where did Umm Ali get all these bonbons? Who had the wit to think of bonbons and the neighbors’ children when the bombs were as continuous as Judgment Day, beyond the imagination of the ancients? She would put her hand into her deep pocket and bring it out, opening her palm, and the children would see the candies, their shiny, transparent wrappers showing their colors: red and green and purple and yellow and white. The little ones would rush to take one or two for each of them. Years later I asked Maryam about her memories of the shelter, and she said, “Three things: The noise. The intensity didn’t only hurt my ears, but made me feel as if the missile had entered my ears and come to rest in them, continuing to explode.”
“And Umm Ali’s bonbons?”
“I don’t know where she bought them, because no matter how I tried to find some like them later on, I couldn’t. They had a different taste—I can still remember it.”
“Don’t you remember the day I slapped you when I was giving you a bath?”
She hesitated, and then said, “I remember. At the time it seemed to me like the worst thing a person could do in her life. Afterward I would wake up from sleep and run to the bathroom terrified, whenever I really needed to pee. Once I woke up horrified because I had wet the bed. I took off my panties and the sheet and washed out the dirty part with a little water. I spread it out on the balcony, and stayed awake until it dried, then I put it back on the bed.”
The conversation stopped. Perhaps Maryam noticed, for she began speaking again, “The second thing I remember is the day I went with three kids from the camp to Mustafa Umda’s shop.”
“Who’s Mustafa Umda?”
“He had a shop in Shatila, a little shop that sold candy and hardware. I bought a chocolate and the other two girls bought sugar-coated almonds. There was a boy with us who asked for marbles. The shop owner brought out a cardboard box, and when he raised the cover I saw those little, transparent crystal balls, with touches of color: blue and green and orange. Some were small and others larger. I was dazzled, and even more so when we left the shop and the boy stopped and crouched down and began to roll them on the ground. He was a little older than we were, maybe he was eight; he seemed old and handsome and amazing, as he rolled one and then aimed the second one at it. Then he changed his position and crouched down again and tried to hit the two with the third marble. I said I would return the chocolate and buy marbles. The boy was very nice—he said, don’t return the chocolate. He gave me one of the three marbles that he had bought. I offered to divide the chocolate bar with him; he smiled and said, ”Thank you, I don’t want it.” Strange. I still remember his smile.”
“And the third thing?”
“The day one of the neighbor women screamed at you and said, ‘You’re the reason, you all are the reason. If it weren’t for the Palestinians, Israel would not have destroyed our country.’ She was screaming at you and your face was a strange yellow color. I expected you to answer her, to slap her face, but you dragged me by the hand and w
ent to the farthest corner of the shelter. You asked for a cigarette from a neighbor and left. I followed you, and you yelled at me: ‘Return to the shelter, I’m going to smoke this cigarette and then come back.’ But I stayed clinging to you. I sat next to you on the stairs and saw you smoking for the first time.”
Umm Ali was amazing. She didn’t speak to me about the matter the whole time we were in the shelter; afterward she came to visit me at home and asked that I make her a cup of coffee. She sipped it with me, and then said, “In war people act different from the way God created them. They go crazy, and become unbalanced; at that point it’s not just their hair or their clothes that are disheveled, but their hearts also. I know she hurt you, but you are kind. Say: God forgive her, and forgive her yourself.”
I did not comment.
Umm Ali said, “I’ll bring her to visit you in the evening and she will apologize to you and we’ll drink coffee together.”
I don’t know what Umm Ali said to the neighbor who insulted me. She didn’t bring her to visit me, because a few hours later we all found ourselves in the shelter. I did not approach the neighbor nor did she approach me, but her son was playing with Maryam near me. Then at a moment when the shelling shook the earth I opened my arms wide and enfolded the two little ones, each one in an arm; I hugged them to my chest and my shoulders curved, my head leaning over them to protect their heads. The woman came and said, “Forgive me.” She cried. I did not say anything.
My aunt also loved Umm Ali, and she liked to talk to her. They might have been the same age but my aunt was small in size and had been affected somewhat by senility; as for Umm Ali, she was tall and plump, in good health and skilled in conversation. She had given birth twelve times, “Ten boys and two girls, no more, and anyone who saw me here in Beirut with only Abbas would think I’m without any family. May God not forgive Israel.” Umm Ali had come to visit her son when Israel occupied the south in 1978. She stayed with her son, Dr. Abbas, and the rest of the children and grandchildren and their families remained in Bint Jbeil. She was also waiting.
At the end of the third month the resistance left Beirut. It seemed that the war had ended; it ended in our defeat, in the occupation of Lebanon and in the departure of the fedayeen, but it had ended. Those who had been forced out returned to their homes in Sabra and Shatila and began to repair the war damage. Hasan went to Cairo, and Amin went back to regular hours in Acre Hospital. He and his colleagues also began to repair the floors that had been damaged in the hospital, because the war was over. That was what we believed.
On Tuesday afternoon news was broadcast of the explosion of the Phalange headquarters in Ashrafiyeh. I was terrified, as if the ones killed had been our own. It’s strange, that instinct, like dogs that scent danger from afar. I knocked on Umm Ali’s door, and told her; she said, “God may grant a reprieve, but he does not forget.” I said, “If Bashir is among the killed, Lebanon will burn.” She said, “It has burned, that’s already happened.” At night the radio broadcast classical music, funereal as it seemed; I assumed that Bashir Gemayel had been killed. A little later the news was confirmed.
On Wednesday we were awakened by intense shelling; it wasn’t yet six in the morning. I carried Maryam, who was half asleep, and woke my aunt and took them down to the shelter. Then I went up another time and brought down the overnight bag and the two shopping bags. The shelling was continuous, as if we were still at the height of the war. By means of the transistor radio we were able to follow the description of Bashir Gemayel’s funeral in Bikfaya; from other stations we learned that the Israeli forces were advancing to occupy West Beirut and that they had encircled the Sabra and Shatila camps, and the adjacent neighborhoods. In the evening Amin returned. He said that the Israeli forces had set up barricades near the Kuwaiti Embassy traffic circle, in front of the hospital. “A number of their soldiers entered the hospital and asked about the “saboteurs”; we told them that there was no one there but patients, doctors, nurses, and workers. They said, ‘Look, pal, if you don’t kharm us we won’t kharm you. We’re coming to protecht you!’ They ate in the hospital cafeteria without permission, and then, to add to the humiliation, they passed out candy to some of the kids. One of the nurses told me that she saw them giving cookies and bonbons and chocolate to the kids near the checkpoints, and allowed them to play near them.” I asked him, “How do you explain it?” He said, “Remember that long meeting that Abu Ammar held in the Gaza hospital. He said, and I quote: ‘Don’t be afraid, I’ll ask for international forces for you at the entrance to the camps, to protect you.’ There are no arms or fighters in the camps now; the weapons depots were confiscated by the Lebanese army, and the fighters have left. The international forces have left, I don’t understand why, maybe to leave the way open for Israel to consolidate its control over Beirut. But I believe that now that the Israelis have occupied the town they don’t need any more violence. They’ve shelled, invaded, and killed enough, and accomplished what they wanted. Abu Ammar and the fedayeen have left and the Israeli army has entered West Beirut, so they’ve reached their goals completely. Now it’s the other face, chocolates and bonbons and chlorophyll smiles and ‘We’ve come to protect you.’”
Amin went to sleep, but I was between sleep and waking all night long. I felt him leave the bed, so I got up. I looked at my watch and it was near to six. He ate a hurried breakfast, and kissed Maryam’s forehead and his mother’s, as they were both deeply asleep. He said as he was taking leave of me at the door, “I don’t think that there will be any more shelling. I’ll be home in the evening.”
An hour after he left I went down to buy bread, but there was none; the street was nearly deserted. I hurried home, and then I remembered the newsman who had moved his counter from the street to the entry of the neighboring building. I passed the house and went to him. I found him, and bought the paper and carried it home.
Strange; I didn’t wait to climb to the apartment. I stood at the bottom of the stairs. The headlines on the first page had nothing new: the attack on Beirut on five axes; the funeral of Bashir Gemayel in Bikfaya; the national forces were preparing for the attack. I had heard the same news the night before on the radio. I moved to the interior pages: pictures of Israeli tanks and military equipment in Bir Hasan; on the Sports City Road; in Ramla al-Bayda; at the lighthouse and the Military Bath. I stopped at the ninth page, at the details of the first item. A declaration from the White House, which I didn’t read. Then: “Subsequently yesterday a spokesman for the Israeli army announced that the Israeli forces are continuing to establish control over vital areas and crossroads in Beirut. He said that the Israeli armed forces are advancing without meeting resistance except in a few areas, where there has been an exchange of gunfire from light weapons between our forces and the saboteurs. The Israeli Defense Forces are taking these steps to prevent the ‘fedayeen’ and the leftist militias from reforming in the Lebanese capital … Israeli Army Radio said that the army had invaded the Fakahani neighborhood … and the Kuwaiti Embassy Square, which was among the most important strongholds where the saboteurs sought shelter.”
Where was Abed?
I sat on a step in the stairway, continuing to read the details as if the question and possible answer were ordinary or reasonable. A marine landing at the Military Bath, and debarkation on land at the airport. The advance of the forces along five axes: the airport road, leading to the Shatila traffic circle; the Kuwaiti Embassy traffic circle, Sports City, the Cola traffic circle, the Fakahani; the road from the sea to Ouzai; the museum; Barbir.
Where was Abed? They wouldn’t give him bonbons or chocolate.
Maybe he was in the house of one of his friends, sleeping, not knowing that the Israeli tank was below the house in which he was sleeping.
I took the newspaper and climbed the stairs. I put the key in the lock, and realized that I had forgotten Naji’s cartoon; I hadn’t seen the last page.
I saw it. I no longer remember what I did.
Did I strik
e my face in despair? Perhaps. Did I open the door and remain standing? I went into the house, turned around in it twice, like a hyena, and then left. Did I lock it and go down the stairs only to discover that I had to go up again? I don’t remember. I only remember that after that I was in Umm Ali’s apartment. Good morning, good morning to you. The Israeli tanks are in the Fakahani. I couldn’t find any bread. The Israelis are giving kids bonbons and chocolate at the barricades. I said it, and didn’t hear what she said. Then the apartment of the next neighbor, then the third neighbor. I repeated the same words like a tape recorder. Then the shelling began to intensify and become continuous, so I carried Maryam and my aunt to the shelter. Where was Umm Ali? I left Maryam with her grandmother and went up to Umm Ali; she was baking bread. I yelled at her, is this any time to bake bread?! She said, I found some flour and said, I’ll make bread. Anyway I’ve almost finished. She insisted on continuing: “Our lives are in God’s hand, Ruqayya.” My voice rose as I tried to convince her; perhaps I scolded her, perhaps I spoke insolently to her. Did I say something harsh, did I quarrel with her? I don’t remember, but she did not come down. After mid-afternoon, as the shelling was becoming insane, Umm Ali came down, carrying the fruits of her labor. She distributed the loaves and gave each of the nine children present in the shelter a pastry the size of a fist, sprinkled with sugar.
A little before sunset the shelling stopped, so we left the shelter. After that the firing of illuminating flares began; they lit the sky in the area suddenly, lighting it brightly, as if we were in broad daylight. What was happening? None of us needed to draw near to the balcony or the window to see the sky; the room we were sitting in, which had been almost black because of the lack of electricity and the shadows cast by two small candles, suddenly lit up as if we were in the middle of the day. I went to the window; these illuminating flares were being fired from the south, toward al-Horsh and Bir Hasan, maybe over Shatila. Was it a new weapon? I didn’t see any thick smoke or fires, as was usual after the shelling. Umm Ali was muttering prayers and my aunt suddenly began to say that maybe it was Judgment Day. The day of accounting is in our favor, our Lord will punish them now for everything they did to us. Maryam seemed excited by the possibility of lights illuminating the night like this, saying, “Mama, the electricity is cut off, maybe this is a new way they’re using to light the houses.” I didn’t understand what was happening. I tried my best to push far away a feeling that a new disaster was on the way. The feeling was overwhelming, like certainty. What kind of disaster was it, what was its nature? I didn’t know, and that disturbed me even more.