The Woman From Tantoura

by Radwa Ashour

  Hasan had named his daughter after her, years after she died. He never told me about her. His brothers and sister knew, why didn’t he tell me? I recall the details: Hasan’s constant visits to Sidon, his sudden appearance in Lebanon during the invasion, his sudden departure. One morning he said, “I’m going back to Cairo today, Mother.”

  “Today, this very day?” Had Hasan told Amin? I doubt it; if he had, Amin would have told me. He didn’t say anything to his father out of shyness; Hasan was reticent and very shy. Strange; you think you know your son better than any other creature, you don’t miss a single thing that concerns him. You put your trust in the thought that you are holding him under your wing and keeping him safe from all harm, even when he flies away and lands far from you. Strange!

  Is Abed living in a fantasy? These suits that he’s immersed himself in preparing for years, will they reclaim any rights for someone who was killed? Will they bring him back to life, so that he moves in his grave and rises up, shaking the dust from his body, wiping his face and stretching out his hand to his little sister, smiling? Abed is living in a fantasy; but I don’t give him my opinion. He says there are many ways to reclaim rights, and this is one of them. Is he trying to convince me, or is he answering an internal voice that makes him doubt what he’s doing? He works tirelessly; he says, “Today I met the director of the school, I mean the one who was the director in ’82. He said, ‘I was the one who permitted the women and children to spend the night in the school, when they arrived that night from Tyre, on the first day of the invasion, thinking it would be a small incursion that wouldn’t get as far as Sidon. They walked from Tyre, on foot; there were 120, almost all of them women and children. There were a small number of old men and three young men. I brought the keys and opened the school for them, and told them to please go in. I sheltered them—would that I hadn’t! We carried some of them to the mass grave. Have you visited Martyrs’ Square, at the end of Riyad al-Solh Street? Yes, they’re there. No, not all of them; some stayed in the school. To be exact, half of them stayed in the school, buried under the basketball court. Come, I’ll show you. Yes, here, under the basket. We rebuilt the school, we repaired it and repainted it, and we paved the court. I didn’t tell the children; I lied and told them we took them all over there. They’re kids, how would they come to the school or care about it if they knew that kids like them, and mothers like their mothers, are buried under the court they’re playing on? Yes, I lied to them.’”

  Abed says, “I met the official in charge of civil defense. He has files in which he recorded everything, immediately after the shelling. He asserts that the number who disappeared in the Jad Building across from the school was 125. He said that he gathered their bones. ‘I couldn’t specify the number exactly because the corpses were burned and dismembered; but seven residents of the building happened to be outside it when it was shelled, and they helped me ascertain the number. Yes, 125. I suggest you meet them, I mean the seven who were far from the building when the planes shelled it. They all lost their families. You must meet Ahmad Shams al-Din; he lost his wife and four children and his sister and her five children. I’m not sure if he can participate in the suit; maybe he can be a witness. I haven’t seen him for a while, maybe he’s regained some of his balance. He couldn’t believe he had lost them all; for weeks or maybe months he would look for them in the hospitals, asking and repeating their names and descriptions. He would go up to the Israeli soldiers barricaded here and there and ask them, while they were sitting on their tanks eating oranges or standing at the barriers brandishing their arms. He would go to their headquarters and ask them to look for his children. Then he got a permit from them and went to Nahariya, over there; they had taken some Lebanese there for treatment. He went around the Nahariya hospitals. Maybe he’s regained some of his balance now, God help him. You must meet him.

  “‘There’s another man, who isn’t in a position to share in bringing suit or to be a witness. He completely lost his mind. But it would be useful to see him and record his name, and for his condition to be included. He was outside the building when it was shelled, and when he returned and saw what he saw, he began to walk the streets completely naked. He didn’t go either here or there, he didn’t approach the Israelis. Whenever some good person would help him and give him something to cover his body with, we would find him walking naked in the streets.’”

  Abed meets with the residents daily, with the officials and the others, listening to them. He says, “We have plenty of witnesses, we have documents, we have reports that were published at the time in the Arab and foreign newspapers, and we have books documenting what happened. We’re going to sue.

  58

  Across Barbed Wire

  I called Maryam and the boys. “The day after tomorrow,” I said, “I’m going with Karima’s sisters,” I said. Abed and Maryam said, “You’re lucky. I wish we had known about that possibility when we were in Sidon.” Sadiq said, “If you had told me two days ago, I would have made arrangements and gone with you.” Hasan asked, “Where exactly? At what location, at what time?”

  At six in the morning on the appointed day, I was in Ain al-Helwa. I knocked on Karima’s family’s door, I drank coffee with them, and then we went to the collection point. Seven large buses will take us there. The women of the camp have dressed up as if it were the morning of Eid, and the boys and girls as well. Everyone has bathed and put on the best clothes he owns; the women are carrying things, as if they were going on a picnic. I thought, they will put down mats and their woolen wraps and sit with their children, having lunch and drinking coffee and tea. It’s a strange trip. I imagined young men standing near the wire, smoking and maybe thinking about tomorrow and what will happen. I imagined elders in their white head cloths, looking out at the land spread below them and contemplating what was, and what might be. I was anticipating the day in my imagination, but my imagination fell short.

  The buses took us over the hills of the south. If only my uncle Abu Amin were with me, he knows the land in the south as if it were Palestine. He knows the roads and the names and the hill here and the one there, the river and the stream, the villages and the little towns, and for each one he has a story or a memory. God have mercy on you, Uncle Abu Amin. If my father had seen the future, would he have said, “You’ve left my back exposed,” and been so angry with him and shouted at him? He did not leave him exposed, he covered him: he left him two and took care of the other five.

  I become aware of the sound of ahazij singing; young men were standing in the bus leading the singing, and everyone joined in, the elders, men, and women, and the girls, and the boys. The bus driver honked, not because of something on the road; the songs seem to have delighted him, so he joined the passengers in the celebration. He sounds the horn in a regular rhythm, speeding up and slowing down according to the mood. He passes the bus in front of us or lets another bus pass us, and everyone waves to everyone, everyone laughs together. An elderly woman suddenly sprang from her seat and cried, “God protect al-Sayyid Hasan, if it wasn’t for him and for the resistance we wouldn’t be able to set foot on any of this land. Twenty-three years of occupation, and they’re gone for good.” Voices rose praying for al-Sayyid: “God protect him, God keep him for us, he’s brought us good luck, God grant the same for Palestine.” One of the young men standing at the front of the bus cut in: “Our leader is Abu Ammar, pray for Abu Ammar, people.” A moment of tension, that seemed as if it would go on; then it was suddenly broken by the voice of an old woman wearing a long peasant dress. She stood up and let loose a long aweeeha, as if she were in a wedding, followed by trills of joy. Trills rose in the bus and harmony was restored with more songs, dal‘una, ataba, aliyadi, and zarif al-tul.

  It wasn’t yet eight-thirty in the morning when the buses stopped with us; they lined up beside each other and we got off. The young men in charge said, “The road is here, follow us.” We went behind them on a climbing dirt road. “There’s Palestine!” shouted a w
oman who was a little ahead of me. Two steps later I saw what she had seen, the land spreading out beneath us, red in color, with houses like blocks scattered at a little distance from the barbed wire. They looked more like pre-fabricated chalets in tourist resorts, painted white with blue wooden shutters at the windows. Was it a settlement or only a military post? On the other side of the barbed wire were a number of Israeli conscripts, arms on their shoulders and iron helmets on their heads.

  One of the young men said, “Rest a little, they will come.”

  “Who will come?”

  “Our relatives from inside. Also we’ll be joined by some buses coming from Tyre.”

  After less than half an hour seven other buses arrived from Tyre. We saw them line up and the passengers get off, carrying signs and flags. In the flash of an eye it was as if the barbed wire had disappeared from view, covered by the bodies of the residents on both sides. They were greeting each other, shyly at first, and then speaking easily. People were meeting each other:

  “We are from Haifa …”

  “We came from Ain al-Helwa; originally we’re from Saffurya. From al-Zeeb. From Amqa. From Safsaf. From al-Tira. From …”

  “We’re from Umm al-Fahm …”

  “We came from the Mieh Mieh Camp …”

  “We’re from Shafa Amr …”

  “We came from the Rashidiya Camp …”

  “We’re from Acre …”

  “We came from the Burj al-Shamali Camp …”

  “We’re from Arraba …”

  “We came from al-Bass Camp …”

  “We’re from Nazareth …”

  “We came from Sidon …”

  “We’re from al-Bi‘na …”

  “We came from Tyre …”

  “We’re from Jaffa …”

  “We came from Jezzin …”

  “We’re from Sekhnin …”

  “We came from Ghaziya …”

  “We’re from Lid …”

  “We’re from Deir al-Qasi …”

  “We came from al-Bazuriya …”

  “We’re from al-Jdayda. We’re from al-Rama. We’re from …”

  “And the lady is …?”

  “From Tantoura.”

  A young man shouted at the top of his voice: “Here’s a lady from Tantoura. Is there anyone from Tantoura?”

  A girl of maybe ten jumped up. She slipped through the rows and climbed on a rock, and extended her hand to me across the barbed wire: “I’m from Tantoura.”

  “Do you live there?”

  “No, it’s not permitted, I live with my family in al-Furaydis. My name is Maryam. When they occupied our town my grandfather was five years old. They fled to Lebanon and then sneaked back. Don’t move from this spot, I’ll be right back.”

  She disappeared, and I stood waiting. The women were exchanging what they had brought. Stupid Ruqayya, the women of the camp were smarter and had more imagination; they wanted to feed their relatives on the other side with something they had prepared with their own hands. On the other side a woman was laughing and saying, “I’m from Umm al-Fahm, I made you musakhan.”

  “We’re from Ain Ghazal.”

  I looked up at the woman standing near me. I said to her, “Ain Ghazal is on our town’s line. They would walk to it, on foot. I’m from Tantoura.” I laughed. “A young man from Ain Ghazal asked for me before they threw us out of the town. We came to Lebanon and each of us went his own way.”

  The woman said, “From what family?”

  I told her. I added, “His name was Yahya, and his uncle was the sheikh of the village.”

  She said “Dr. Yahya?”

  “He became a doctor?”

  “No, he became a university professor. He lives in Amman. He was late in getting married, then he married his cousin, not the daughter of the sheikh of Ain Ghazal but the daughter of his other uncle, the younger one. He had five children with her.”

  The girl came back with her grandfather. He introduced himself to me, and greeted me, saying, “Welcome, welcome to …”

  I stammered; I said, “Umm Sadiq.”

  Where did all these balloons come from? In the blink of an eye hundreds of balloons were rising, here and there. They were flying from here to there. “Palestine” was written on some of them, and on some were written the names of towns and villages. The flag was drawn on some in color, and some were sets of four balloons whose strings were tied together so they flew together, each in one of the colors of the flag: black, white, green, and red. A woman with more imagination than anyone else had brought a cage of doves; she released them and the doves flew off. The sky above us was flocks of doves and a holiday of colored balloons. I went down to one side and sat on a rock; is joy exhausting? Is it joy or something deeper, coming from afar? I hear Hasan’s voice. Strange, why does my imagination take me to Hasan rather than to the rest of the children? Why don’t I hear Sadiq’s voice, or Abed’s, or Maryam’s? Why hasn’t my imagination brought me Uncle Abu Amin, or his son Amin? I hear the voice again, and jump from my place. It’s not my imagination, this is Hasan’s voice! I run to the barbed wire and call out at the top of my lungs. Have you lost your mind, Ruqayya, have you completely lost your mind?

  What a surprise, what a surprise! Hasan was standing on the other side of the wire, waving and smiling and coming closer, making his way through the crowd. “I’m here, Mother, here, here.” He walks toward me, and I walk toward him; we’re face to face, on either side of the wire. I extend my hand and he extends his, and the hands grasp. He bends down and sticks his head through the wire, to kiss me. I say, “Hasan, oh Hasan, the wire will injure you, it will injure your face.” He doesn’t listen to me, he propels his whole body until he can reach me and put his arms around me, clinging to me. “When did you arrive from Canada, you didn’t tell me?” He laughs and points. I become aware that Fatima is with him, and the children. Mira and Anis are standing next to their mother, and she is carrying the baby she had four months earlier. Hasan takes her from Fatima and lifts her high. A tall man extends his arms and takes her from him. He looks at the little one: “How beautiful, God protect her.” He plants a kiss on her forehead and gives her to me. “Little Ruqayya,” says Hasan, in a loud voice. What will I give Ruqayya? I give the baby to a woman standing next to me, and put my hand to my chest, intending to give her the silver piece that bears her name, made by Abed’s Kurdish friend. I touch the silver and feel it, and then I touch the key. I lift the cord from around my neck, and put it around the little one’s neck. I kiss her forehead, and give her to the tall man to give her back to Hasan across the wire, so her mother can take her from him. I say in a loud voice, “The key to our house, Hasan. It’s my gift to little Ruqayya.”

  I see Hasan’s tears, and I hear the woman next to me trill for joy.

  The buses move off, taking us back. The disc of the sun is gradually falling into the sea, which we smell though it’s hidden from view. Silence enfolds us; I think, the holiday is over, in the blink of an eye. Everyone is going back to where he came from. Strange! It’s as if we were returning from a long trip. The silence is broken by a strong voice, belonging to a young man sitting on the left, in front, and singing a song of Fairuz:

  Back from far deserts, by tents of their own,

  The night fires are happy, and shadows are thrown.

  There’s none to tell them of a wound deep as bone.

  The tents move on, and I’m left alone, alone,

  Yabaa oof, yabaa oof, aoof.

  Where does a young man get all this sadness, from what deep well does he raise it? Who … the thought remains incomplete. The voice is possessed by the end of the mournful mawwal, rising and leaping as if to the sky above. Or as if a demon had possessed him, from among the dabka dancers who shake the earth with the stamp of their feet. The young men join in the singing:

  Strike the mortars, grind coffee for the guests,

  Strike the mortars, and let the south wind blow,

  My love will
hear the pounding of the pestles.

  The black wind rises, strike the mortars now.

  Once again the solo voice rose alone:

  Take down the tents, the bird has flown away,

  The tents’ winds call: let us be on our way!

  The black wind rises, strike the mortars now.

  At the edge of the night the wolf sends forth his cry,

  The night breeze carries our complaints far and wide.

  The black wind rises, strike the mortars now.

  The others answer the singer:

  Al-lala, we-lala, al-lala, we-lala, we-lala

  al-lala, we-lala, we-lala.

  I close my eyes, following the colorings of the voice:

  The noonday sun starts to sink, O my love, my desire,

  They have gone to the heights, gone west in the moonlight,

  While I sit alone, waiting for them by night,

  Waiting by night.

  I look down on the valley, and say to the sun, flee,

  I fear your light will burn, so my love won’t know me.

  I watch from the trees, forcing open my eyes,

  Afraid to sleep lest you leave me, and forget where I lie.

  Was I fighting off sleep, or falling into it without realizing? Did I doze off? Did I see him in a dream, or was the boy sitting beside me and looking up at me? Can a person see what’s around him with his eyes closed? The young man was still singing; the solo voice went back to the sadness of the mawwal, nearing the end:

  They took my love and went north, far away,

  Oh woe, oh woe, oh woe be the day!

  They took my love and went north, far away.

  Where did the woman go who was sitting next to me? When did this boy sit down in her place? He was looking up at me, with his eyes wide. I noticed, and looked at him. He opened a large drawing pad, and said, “I wanted to show you your picture.”

  “A picture of me?”

  “I drew it while we were there.”

  “Are you an artist?”

  “I draw. I’m still in the second year of middle school.” He fell silent, then continued, “I also work.”