The Homeland

by Hamida Na'na

  Soon afterwards we landed at Nicosia and told the passengers to keep their safety-belts fastened and not to move from their seats.

  I stared blindly at the control panels while Abu Mashour stood behind the pilot with the revolver.

  Despair. Again the enemy government refuses to comply with our demands. It was simple then. Somehow I had to get us to the airport at Arum. I looked at the pilot. I could see from his expression that the stress was beginning to have an effect on him. I considered asking Saleh to take his place at the controls, but then decided not to for fear of upsetting the balance of the operation.

  It was getting hotter inside the plane and the noise coming from the passengers increased. There were cries coming up from all corners asking us to allow them to get out of the plane. But we were all prisoners at that moment: the four of us, the passengers, the pilot and cabin-crew. I told the pilot to take us to Arum. Something inside me told me that the authorities at Arum would not allow us to land and doubt was eating away at my insides. Would they allow their land to be used as the stage in this first and strangest airline hijacking operation undertaken by the Palestinian resistance movement. Up until a few days before, we had been nothing but a historical joke which the world thinks will not continue – and we would have ended where we began, like so many other similar revolts between the years 1936 and 1948 in the Occupied Land.

  “Fly us over the Occupied Land.”

  He hesitated for a moment. I told him again more forcefully. He taxied the aircraft round and we were off again. Nicosia Airport looked hardly bigger than the palm of my hand under the sunshine. Beautifully ordered rows of houses and gardens stretching down towards the sea, which looked hot and clear as it lapped at the feet of the town. I thought of the Arab towns just over the horizon. The sound of the voices died down and all was quiet again inside the cabin. Expectation and a wish for deliverance could be felt in the air.

  Soon we saw the houses of the Occupied Land, small and strung together in lines. A green strip which marked the coast was calmly bathed in the waters. Down there Abu Mashour was born. Down there my friend Mahmoud was writing poetry on every surface he could find, on the trees, on the mountains of Carmel, on the sea …

  “Haifa,” said the pilot, totally unmoved by what we saw below. I thought of Mahmoud’s face at the Youth Conference in Belgrade when I criticized him for agreeing to be a delegate in the official Israeli group. I was filled with pain and frustration. I lowered my face so that the pilot could not see the waves of sorrow which were passing over me at that moment. Mahmoud, it is ordained that we must pass you with death by our sides.

  I saw him again in Paris in 1973 on his way back from Moscow. I reminded him of our meeting in Belgrade. Light spots of rain were falling on my cheeks and anxiety overcame me, just as it always does when the rain falls. We walked across the Place Saint Michel together and sat down at the first café table which we could find. I did not tell him about the silent message which I sent down to him in the Occupied Land that day, as I was passing overhead in a plane carrying us to the heart of the sorrows of the Arabs.

  Shortly after we had crossed the coastline, I heard the pilot speaking to the ground in Hebrew. There were two specks behind us on the radar screen. Abu Mashour translated what the pilot had said then told him, also in fluent Hebrew, to warn the control towers of the airfields which we were going to pass that any plane following us would put the passengers in great danger.

  “If any aircraft comes close to us we will blow up this plane and everyone on it.”

  It was clear that the pilot did not expect anyone to be able to speak Hebrew. I heard him repeat in English what Abu Mashour had said to him. At that moment two Mirage jet-fighters, which had been shadowing us, dived back down towards the ground. When I realised the game which the pilot had been trying to play, I said to him:

  “Listen. If you try to trick us, we’ll kill you. I don’t want to blow up this plane, but I shan’t hesitate to do so if I have to. I hope you are clear on this point. Fly us to Arum and tell your airfields what will happen if they send anything to follow us or to get in our way.”

  A moment of eternity. A moment of death. The songs that soldiers sing as they are marching to war are the most heartwarming and rousing songs there are. But fighters like us cannot sing. They can’t even whisper. They are bound to silence and secrecy.

  The sea seemed to be like many different seas which have come together over time. I saw, or thought I saw, the waves pounding down into the shore. How Arab I feel at that moment. I see the face of Mahmoud Darwish on the face of the sea and in the trees. The air in the cabin was cheerless, a strange, unavoidable gloom. The notion of death came to me once again. I was reminded that revolutionaries do what they do because of their love of life. However, because they love life they have to expose themselves to death. Abstractions take on corporeal forms because death can come to us at any time and so celibacy is impossible for us. In fact, we are the opposite of the Nazarene when he rejects the kiss of Mary Magdalene on his feet. As far as I was concerned, to volunteer to go to your death was an irrational act. That is why our reasons for doing so are also irrational.

  The plane gets to the sky over Arum and I see her beauty behind the clouds and the trees. I see her eyes being opened and her arms spread out to hug me to her breast. I, who had left her without so much as a goodbye. I send a message to the control tower asking them to allow us to land. When the reply comes it is in the negative.

  Again I was refused permission but we had no choice: we were almost out of fuel and the passengers were in no condition to fly on to another destination. Added to this was the fact that one of our strategic goals since the beginning of this operation was to land at Arum. We wanted them to sit up and take notice of us. This Arab state had talked about the liberation of Palestine for the last quarter of a century but in truth they did nothing. They turned a noble and tragic cause into something to distract their people with, a bartering piece to use against their enemies. Not one of those leaders forgets to mention the old cliché in every speech he delivers whatever the occasion: “It is our sacred duty to support Palestinian resistance by every means and we are doing everything possible in the service of liberation.” But we know the extent of hollow rhetoric, lies and delusion that is in those words. And we well know the number of our comrades who are imprisoned in their gaols, and we know the truth of their attitude to the struggle. But here we were in the sky over Arum. The dispute between ourselves and the airport authorities was still going on. Ever since we had entered their airspace we had been receiving warnings that we would not be able to land at Arum Airport. We held a quick and heated discussion and made some inevitable decisions. We would have to land under any circumstances even if it led us all to our deaths. My voice was a mixture of the cold, hard tones of the guerilla tinged with a desperate hope that they would see things our way. I spoke to the airport authorities:

  “We are unable to continue flying to another location. If you decide not to let us land, we couldn’t make it anywhere. This aircraft will drop out of the sky.”

  Hard tense moments passed, like those rare moments in which time becomes more dense, when the stages of life, and of personal and social history become shortened. The answer came from the control tower – permission had been refused for a second time. The reason was clear, the implications of allowing this capital to be used as the stage for this hijack were as obvious to the authorities as they were to us. I asked to talk to a government representative, one was at hand, as I had expected, because his voice came to me straight away. I told him that the matter was crystal clear and that there were very few choices, we either landed the plane or we would blow it out of the sky. If they forced us to take the suicide solution then the responsibility would be their’s alone. I told him that Israel would not be very grateful, nor would its powerful friends, for this bloody decision they would be forcing us to take.

  While this conversation was going on between me and the
government representative, Abu Mashour noticed that the runway above which we were circling was occupied by army Jeeps to prevent us from landing. I repeated my demand that we be allowed to land, the tension in the official’s voice was clear, as he made the biggest decision of his life and granted permission for our landing. I requested that the vehicles be removed immediately. As the Jeeps withdrew the pilot slowly entered into his descent on the runway. A free empty stretch appeared before us, enough for us to execute a safe, calm landing on the tarmac of Arum airport. As we touched down the runway soon became a jungle of police and security vehicles.

  Did it all happen very quickly or were things going on outside the normal measures of time? In those moments caught between sky and earth my comrades and I lived a strange mixture of moments of anxiety and self-doubt coupled with seconds of conviction and absolute faith in a goal and a cause. I looked at the passengers, they stared out of the window their eyes full of the demons of terror and mounting hysteria. Some of them sat in a state of near-catatonia, others let out strangled sobs, while some talked frantically to each other.

  The jet engines stopped turning and that deep silence which comes after a violent storm took control of the plane. I was back in contact with the government representative:

  “We have allowed you to land on condition that the plane is vacated peacefully and that no one is hurt. The plane must also be left intact.”

  I told him that we were preparing to do that and asked him to order the airport authorities to bring the stairways necessary for the passengers to descend, on the condition that no one tried to board the aircraft. A few minutes later airport workmen had fixed the stairs to the fore and aft doors. I still held the bomb with my finger on the safety catch as Saleh and Farhan helped the passengers to leave the plane in an orderly and calm manner, ensuring that there was no panic. Abu Mashour stayed in the cockpit keeping an eye on the pilot and co-pilot.

  I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw the passengers put their feet on the tarmac. I was overtaken by an indomitable cool-headedness which I had not known for a long time. Our task was now less complicated. The instructions were clear, it was necessary, to show that we were serious, for us to blow up the plane. I returned to talking to the government official:

  “We have carried out the first part of our agreement, which was to let the passengers leave plane safely. We shall not, however, be complying with the second condition. The instructions from our commanders require that we blow up this plane. Please withdraw all security vehicles from the proximity of the plane or we will kill our remaining hostages ”

  The government official was astonished and tried to reason with me. The time for reasoning was past. We had kept the pilot and co-pilot with us, we needed some bargaining counter to prevent the authorities taking action against us. Abu Mashour came out of the cockpit behind the two pilots, whose hands were tied and resting on their heads. Quickly we went down the steps one after another, Saleh, Farhan, the pilot, the co-pilot, Abu Mashour and myself. I had left the explosive device, primed to go off, at the front of the aircraft. When we reached the bottom of the stairs we sprinted and caught up with the other passengers, mingling with them in the confusion. A few metres before we reached the airport buildings the explosion we were expecting ripped through the air. We were all thrown to the ground by the force of the blast.

  My breath hit the cold tarmac and bounced back up into my face. My eyes were fixed on the body of the burning aeroplane, plumes of black smoke, the colour of the depths of the ocean rose into the sky. Memories tugged at me … The memory of the operation … The memory of time … The memory of the struggle … The roar of the explosion was still ringing around the plain where the airport stood. Thick smoke enveloped everything as it billowed into the sky. My breath came back to me off the tarmac. But inside me, at the very core of my being, I felt a strange sense of calm, an inexplicable tranquility.

  Oh for a return to the time of cherries.

  I feel tired. It is the last part of the night. The café is closing its doors. Old Paris has slept through another long night. All her doors and windows are shut tight. The solitude of the pavements is my homeland. All my friends are tucked up in their beds next to the warm bodies of their pampered wives. Yesterday I met Muhammad, the rancorous Ambassador of Hate, in a café on the Champs Elysées. He chatted to me about his home country, snoring away in blissful sleep, about the trials and tribulations of being an intellectual in that country, about exile and homelessness, and, most of all, and this is the hardest thing for us, we spoke about the reality of Arabs like ourselves whom our fellow countrymen have begun to disown. I joked with Muhammad:

  “What would you think of being crowned the king of the Sa’alik. You’d be able to say that your blood was halal in every country in the Arab world.”

  He responded with complete seriousness:

  “And when they set a date for my execution, you can be my heir!” “Do you think they would finish you off in one go? On the contrary, they would make the most of it, cutting you up slowly into little pieces and then throwing a party to celebrate their victory.” Muhammad laughed and changed the subject.

  “Where are you now?”

  I stood up and said to him:

  “As you can see, I am on one of the pavements of exile.”

  I felt the need to cry at that moment, and I was afraid that I might put my head on his chest and we would cry together.

  Frank … I can feel death.

  Frank … I can feel exhaustion creeping all through my body.

  Frank … Paris is so beautiful in the shadow of silence, but you are far away. I remember you, Frank, at the moment we said goodbye at the airport, just before you flew to another continent. You inclined your head over me and whispered:

  “Please wait for me, Nadia. You don’t have to be faithful to me, but please wait. If you feel the need to forget, go down to the River Seine and bathe your body in the waters.”

  Can we forget? Can we really do that? I hear the roar of explosions in the silence of the night. I shiver. The town suddenly becomes an airport and the skies are filled with mist. I see shiny new aeroplanes being flown by women like myself in the middle of the night. I hear explosions. I see your face. I see the face of Abu Mashour, submerged in sorrow and depression. I am tortured by the cold. How I long for you! How I long for your eyes which seem like two oceans. Your face. Why must we see the faces of those we love at times like these? Isn’t our losing them hard enough in itself?

  My hand touches the place where the bullet went into me during that last operation I was involved in. One of them managed to get me and I was put in irons in a prison in West Germany. I was there for three months. They tortured me. They put so much electricity through my body they practically made my eyes light up. They grabbed my hair and banged my head against the wall, to try to make me confess the names of those responsible for the organization of the operations which I took part in. At that time I pleaded to all of the martyrs to give me strength. In my mind I held a picture of Ammar bin Yasir, the first martyr of Islam, and father to all martyrs who came after him. I pictured him lying there on the sands of Mekkah, pinned down by a huge boulder, but still refusing to renounce his faith. It was this noble picture of humanity which helped me to bear the pain with fortitude, allowing my comrades to carry on raising international awareness in our cause, and giving them a chance to attempt to rescue me from behind prison bars.

  You tell me to forget, but you, of all people, know how hard it is to forget.

  Let us not change the subject, though. I love you. But time has changed. I say that I love you, but my voice comes back to me alone without an echo. After him, I couldn’t love anyone else. All I was doing, when I gave myself up to the bodies of other men, was looking for peace.

  Abu Mashour …

  All is darkness on the Northern Plains. He kissed me and then left, and he never came back. There is no one who can tell me whether he is alive or dead. I am still waiting, a wid
ow of forbearance and affection. Tell his dark eyes and his broad shoulders that I am still waiting for them. His hands caked in the earth. His rugged features … His blood… I am still waiting.

  Here I am a bullet weakened by grief. I am still alive only because I am unable to find my death. I eat. I drink. I sleep … I love you. I try to love you, but I am waiting for him to come back. I pass through stations on long journeys. I live with expectation, and, wherever I am, Irepeat his name over and over again.

  Your flat on the Place Dauphine. We are fighting against the cold. We become one body which counters the face of the cold. You lift your head to me and say:

  “Were you married?”

  I smile as I put the picture of your daughter back in its place on the table. I do not reply to your question.

  “Why don’t you answer me? Remember what you said to me once? That day we went to the Café Saint Claude.”

  March was moaning outside. The morning rays of the sun stream in through the window. They carry with them the smell of the river. It was the day of my birthday.

  “Yes, I was once. But I don’t really remember anything about it.”

  “What? How can you forget something like that? Did you love him?”

  “I just used to live with him while I was trying to forget.”

  “What were you trying to forget? It wasn’t one of those arranged marriages was it? You weren’t in a harem or something, were you?”

  “Don’t be silly. It was just an ordinary marriage. I chose him really. It was like an escape for me. Although it turned into my prison.”

  You are silent. The moment is wasted. You go back to your questions.

  “You must have been pretty young when you got married. Come here and tell me a little about your life. You know, I still hardly know anything about you.”