Out of It by Selma Dabbagh Page A

any kind: a hand to hold and play with, a forearm to stroke.
    Like everyone else in Gaza they were living the Intifada and it was still going strong. Sabri had had to go underground on more than one occasion, hiding in the camps for long periods. It was a time of smuggling messages across the border in swallowed sealed capsules, of army raids to remove fax machines, of banned flags, songs and school books, classes being held at home with the curtains drawn, of food being grown in back gardens to encourage self-sufficiency, boycotted produce being smashed against the walls in front of cheering crowds. Those were the heady days of resistance. Heady days indeed!
    It was in that first year of their marriage when, buoyed up with international support, the Outside Leadership had made a Declaration of Independence. Sabri, like many, was sure that it would work. Legally and morally (as he kept stressing to his audiences), their position could not be disputed. And even Lana, Sabri assured himself, almost confessed to being in accordance with the Leadership’s position.
    The Occupier’s response to the Declaration was predictable, but harsh: a curfew had been imposed and all lines of communication with the outside world were severed.
    Sabri needed to speak to his leaders, to let them know what the situation was on the inside. He needed to find a phone line that had not been cut.
    ‘We could try the hospitals?’ Lana had suggested.
    ‘I wouldn’t get through the roadblocks. The army’s everywhere.’
    ‘We could come with you. If they stop us we can say Naji’s ill. I’m sure the doctors will let you make a call,’ she replied.
    ‘That’s not what I’m worried about. No, I’d rather you didn’t come.’
    ‘What is it? You want us to stay at home? Do you want me to take up crochet too?’ Naji wailed at his mother’s raised voice.
    ‘The army’s very jumpy at the moment. I don’t think we should take unnecessary risks.’ Sabri said, putting a bent finger into Naji’s mouth for him to chew on.
    ‘You do want us to stay at home, don’t you?’
    ‘That’s not it,’ Sabri said. One year into marriage, he was already getting sloppy about hiding his petulance from his wife.
    ‘How else are you going to talk to them? There’s no other way. Stop arguing about it. We’ll go tonight.’
    The night before, Naji had slept and they had managed to be together in a way that had they had not been for such a long time, and well into the next day he could feel himself inside her. The night had wound itself around them throughout the day, tying them back to each other. He had not wanted it to break. He had not wanted to argue with her.
    Sabri’s car had been parked outside the gate for so long that he was not sure it would start. They had spent a long time deciding what outfit Naji should wear, trying to imagine what would appeal to the soldiers at the checkpoints and had settled on a sailor suit that had been a present when he was born. They were still fussing as they started loading themselves into the car, about whether made-up powdered milk bottles could be reheated and where the spare nappies were. They kept asking each other whether Naji was going to be warm enough and going backwards and forwards on the question as to whether it was better for Naji to be in a car seat in the back or on Lana’s lap in the front. They had been hissing at each other as Naji had been asleep. Lana said it was more convincing for the baby to be with her. And so Sabri had tucked Naji in on his mother’s lap and had put the spare nappies by her feet, the water bottle by her side and the dummy (wrapped in plastic cling film) into the glove compartment. He had walked around in front of the car, irritated, until he looked up and saw his wife through the windscreen, her head bent down to their son, her hair falling forwards and had felt the old pride that they were his. His family.
    They had just exchanged a final ‘All right?’ as he had put