forbid! I take refuge with God from you and your thoughts!” For the next three weeks in a row my mother’s face was pale, and it became paler if she was forced to speak with her sister or be present with her in the same room.
The wait was not long for my mother. She waited until I married Amin. She sang, she trilled for joy, she joined the women’s rhythmic clapping the day the contract was written and the day of the wedding, and on the morning of the following day she and my auntvisited me in my new house in Sidon. They came carrying the usual provisions for a newly married couple. One week later my aunt found her dead in her bed. My aunt said, “Last night she said to me ‘Halima, Sister, thank God I’ve married Ruqayya and she has moved safely and soundly to live in her husband’s house. Now it’s possible for me to travel to Egypt to look for Sadiq and Hasan.’ When I said to her that Egypt is large and that we don’t know where they are in it, she said, ‘Tell Abu Amin, and if he agrees we’ll go together, and if he doesn’t agree I’ll go alone. I won’t come back without them.’ Then she went to sleep.” My aunt wiped away her tears and got up. She went into my mother’s room and returned, extending her hand to me with a large iron key. She said, “The key to your house, Ruqayya.”
“Strange. I haven’t seen it since we left the house. Where was she hiding it?”
“She hung it around her neck. She didn’t take it off even when she slept or bathed. I would say to her, ‘Zeinab, Sister, the cord will wear out. Take it off when you bathe and then put it on again.’ She wouldn’t accept it. The cord came apart as I expected and she got a new cord to hang it on, and continued her habit of sleeping with it and bathing with it.”
I took the key. After the three days of mourning I returned to my house. I thought I would give the key to Amin to keep with the papers, his birth certificate, his diploma, and his work permit. I became aware that I had no papers other than the identity card issued by Lebanese security, and I changed my mind. I thought, I’ll return it to my uncle Abu Amin because it’s the key to his house also, since it’s the same house. He’ll put it in the deep pocket of his long-sleeved qumbaz and will finger it from time to time and feel … and feel what? I put it on the palm of my left hand and contemplated it. An old iron key, dark in color and polished. It filled the hand; it had heft. I felt it with the fingers of my right hand, acquainting myself with it by touch after getting to know it by sight. Suddenly I smiled and decided that I was stupid, looking farand wide when the clear and simple thing was right in front of my eyes. I grasped the thin cord with both of my hands, raised it, and put my head into it. The key was now hanging on my neck. I held it and began to look at it again, then I put it under my dress, feeling the touch of the iron on the flesh of my breast. As with my mother, the key would remain suspended on my neck, in waking and sleeping. I do not take it off, even in the bathroom, and whenever the cord wears out I replace it with a new one.
Years later when we moved to Beirut and I participated in the campaign for literacy among women in Shatila, and I had to visit the women of the camp to convince them of the importance of literacy, I discovered that what I had inherited from my mother was common. I found it strange—how could the women all do the same thing, without any prior agreement? I remember my first visit. Since it was my first time I was shy and confused, not knowing if the visit would seem intrusive or if it would be welcome. I was met by Umm Ibrahim, an elderly woman in her sixties who lived with her son, her daughter-in-law, and her grandchildren. She introduced herself to me, and I said that I was from Tantoura, and that I was the wife of Dr. Amin in the Palestinian Red Crescent. She said, “We’re from Saasaa, do you know it?” She
The wait was not long for my mother. She waited until I married Amin. She sang, she trilled for joy, she joined the women’s rhythmic clapping the day the contract was written and the day of the wedding, and on the morning of the following day she and my auntvisited me in my new house in Sidon. They came carrying the usual provisions for a newly married couple. One week later my aunt found her dead in her bed. My aunt said, “Last night she said to me ‘Halima, Sister, thank God I’ve married Ruqayya and she has moved safely and soundly to live in her husband’s house. Now it’s possible for me to travel to Egypt to look for Sadiq and Hasan.’ When I said to her that Egypt is large and that we don’t know where they are in it, she said, ‘Tell Abu Amin, and if he agrees we’ll go together, and if he doesn’t agree I’ll go alone. I won’t come back without them.’ Then she went to sleep.” My aunt wiped away her tears and got up. She went into my mother’s room and returned, extending her hand to me with a large iron key. She said, “The key to your house, Ruqayya.”
“Strange. I haven’t seen it since we left the house. Where was she hiding it?”
“She hung it around her neck. She didn’t take it off even when she slept or bathed. I would say to her, ‘Zeinab, Sister, the cord will wear out. Take it off when you bathe and then put it on again.’ She wouldn’t accept it. The cord came apart as I expected and she got a new cord to hang it on, and continued her habit of sleeping with it and bathing with it.”
I took the key. After the three days of mourning I returned to my house. I thought I would give the key to Amin to keep with the papers, his birth certificate, his diploma, and his work permit. I became aware that I had no papers other than the identity card issued by Lebanese security, and I changed my mind. I thought, I’ll return it to my uncle Abu Amin because it’s the key to his house also, since it’s the same house. He’ll put it in the deep pocket of his long-sleeved qumbaz and will finger it from time to time and feel … and feel what? I put it on the palm of my left hand and contemplated it. An old iron key, dark in color and polished. It filled the hand; it had heft. I felt it with the fingers of my right hand, acquainting myself with it by touch after getting to know it by sight. Suddenly I smiled and decided that I was stupid, looking farand wide when the clear and simple thing was right in front of my eyes. I grasped the thin cord with both of my hands, raised it, and put my head into it. The key was now hanging on my neck. I held it and began to look at it again, then I put it under my dress, feeling the touch of the iron on the flesh of my breast. As with my mother, the key would remain suspended on my neck, in waking and sleeping. I do not take it off, even in the bathroom, and whenever the cord wears out I replace it with a new one.
Years later when we moved to Beirut and I participated in the campaign for literacy among women in Shatila, and I had to visit the women of the camp to convince them of the importance of literacy, I discovered that what I had inherited from my mother was common. I found it strange—how could the women all do the same thing, without any prior agreement? I remember my first visit. Since it was my first time I was shy and confused, not knowing if the visit would seem intrusive or if it would be welcome. I was met by Umm Ibrahim, an elderly woman in her sixties who lived with her son, her daughter-in-law, and her grandchildren. She introduced herself to me, and I said that I was from Tantoura, and that I was the wife of Dr. Amin in the Palestinian Red Crescent. She said, “We’re from Saasaa, do you know it?” She
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