annoying habit of accentuating the obvious.
“I know.”
“She’s wearing her silk scarf.”
“I know.”
“She’s with Um Abdallah.”
I wanted to yell at her, but I knew such callousness, after all she had lived through, was too cruel. In the stupidity of my youth, I did not have the bearings to appreciate Huda’s sensitivity and allowed it, instead, to exasperate me. I wish I had been as good a friend to her as she was to me.
Still standing on the roof, Huda asked, “Is Farook coming too?”
I did not answer. I could not find Baba among the approaching men.
“Do you think he’s naked, too?” She looked at her feet, then at the sky, and answered herself: “Probably. They’re all naked.”
Lamya, the girl whose somersaults I envied and a regular guest at the Warda house, climbed up next to us. “Why are they naked?” she asked.
Huda answered, “The Jews stole their clothes . . .”
I felt crowded. The sun was full in the sky now. Another dawn without Baba made the air sink with a dreadful reality, and I found it difficult to breathe. Baba’s absence since the war had grown as big as the ocean and all its fishes. As big as the sky and earth and all their birds and trees. The hurt in my heart was as big as the universe and all its planets.
The war changed us, Mama most of all. It withered Mama. Her essential fiber unraveled, leaving her body a mere shell that often filled with hallucination. Following the occupation and the disappearance of my brother and father, Mama hardly left her prayer mat. She had no desire for food and refused even the paltry rations that arrived on the charity truck. The cotton of her gown grew dark with the stench of her unbathed body, and her breath soured. She smelled of fermented misery. Her lips hardened into a web of cracks and her body shrank, while she prayed. And prayed. And while her body lost mass, I watched her eyes grow more vacant, betraying a mind that would henceforth slowly forfeit its charge of reality.
Mama’s bravery during the war would later be invoked as the essence of a fellaha’s fortitude. She refused to flee. She had been pushed off her land once when Ismael was lost, and she had resolved not to let it happen again. Everyone agreed that when it mattered, she showed herself to be truly courageous. “A lot of us just talked big, but we ran for our lives while Um Yousef was true to her word. She said she would not let the Jews take away the only home her daughter knew,” is what people said about Mama after the war.
Mama had stayed for me. And I had left her alone to go off with Sister Marianne. I have never forgiven myself for that.
The day Yousef came back was a day when I recall having great affection for Mama. She still had moments of lucidity then, though with a softer disposition, her austerity perhaps conquered by delirium. I saw her that day in the fullness of motherhood, with all the wounds of her shattered life and broken mind momentarily healed. I saw her as the woman who had risked her life to protect me from what she had once endured. Her movements were sincere, as were her tears. But it was fleeting, as she had already begun to lose her mind. I’d have grabbed those tender moments with my bare hands if I could and stored them in a safe place.
“Allaho akbar!” she cried when I told her that Yousef was alive. Rare tears streaked her face as she joined Um Abdallah in the crowd pushing at the edges of the camp, needing to get as close to the approaching boys and men as possible. We were still under military rule, forbidden from stepping outside whatever structure we knew as refuge. But people were overcome with the news that the men were returning, and they poured into the alleyways, perhaps finding safety in large numbers, or perhaps forgetting that there were risks. I think the soldiers were just not sure what to do.
“Allaho akbar,” over and over. Tens of them, hundreds. A cacophony of “Allaho akbars” merging into one
“I know.”
“She’s wearing her silk scarf.”
“I know.”
“She’s with Um Abdallah.”
I wanted to yell at her, but I knew such callousness, after all she had lived through, was too cruel. In the stupidity of my youth, I did not have the bearings to appreciate Huda’s sensitivity and allowed it, instead, to exasperate me. I wish I had been as good a friend to her as she was to me.
Still standing on the roof, Huda asked, “Is Farook coming too?”
I did not answer. I could not find Baba among the approaching men.
“Do you think he’s naked, too?” She looked at her feet, then at the sky, and answered herself: “Probably. They’re all naked.”
Lamya, the girl whose somersaults I envied and a regular guest at the Warda house, climbed up next to us. “Why are they naked?” she asked.
Huda answered, “The Jews stole their clothes . . .”
I felt crowded. The sun was full in the sky now. Another dawn without Baba made the air sink with a dreadful reality, and I found it difficult to breathe. Baba’s absence since the war had grown as big as the ocean and all its fishes. As big as the sky and earth and all their birds and trees. The hurt in my heart was as big as the universe and all its planets.
The war changed us, Mama most of all. It withered Mama. Her essential fiber unraveled, leaving her body a mere shell that often filled with hallucination. Following the occupation and the disappearance of my brother and father, Mama hardly left her prayer mat. She had no desire for food and refused even the paltry rations that arrived on the charity truck. The cotton of her gown grew dark with the stench of her unbathed body, and her breath soured. She smelled of fermented misery. Her lips hardened into a web of cracks and her body shrank, while she prayed. And prayed. And while her body lost mass, I watched her eyes grow more vacant, betraying a mind that would henceforth slowly forfeit its charge of reality.
Mama’s bravery during the war would later be invoked as the essence of a fellaha’s fortitude. She refused to flee. She had been pushed off her land once when Ismael was lost, and she had resolved not to let it happen again. Everyone agreed that when it mattered, she showed herself to be truly courageous. “A lot of us just talked big, but we ran for our lives while Um Yousef was true to her word. She said she would not let the Jews take away the only home her daughter knew,” is what people said about Mama after the war.
Mama had stayed for me. And I had left her alone to go off with Sister Marianne. I have never forgiven myself for that.
The day Yousef came back was a day when I recall having great affection for Mama. She still had moments of lucidity then, though with a softer disposition, her austerity perhaps conquered by delirium. I saw her that day in the fullness of motherhood, with all the wounds of her shattered life and broken mind momentarily healed. I saw her as the woman who had risked her life to protect me from what she had once endured. Her movements were sincere, as were her tears. But it was fleeting, as she had already begun to lose her mind. I’d have grabbed those tender moments with my bare hands if I could and stored them in a safe place.
“Allaho akbar!” she cried when I told her that Yousef was alive. Rare tears streaked her face as she joined Um Abdallah in the crowd pushing at the edges of the camp, needing to get as close to the approaching boys and men as possible. We were still under military rule, forbidden from stepping outside whatever structure we knew as refuge. But people were overcome with the news that the men were returning, and they poured into the alleyways, perhaps finding safety in large numbers, or perhaps forgetting that there were risks. I think the soldiers were just not sure what to do.
“Allaho akbar,” over and over. Tens of them, hundreds. A cacophony of “Allaho akbars” merging into one
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