spared my embarrassment by not waiting for me to answer. She continued, telling me about it and about the two massacres that occurred there. She said, “I lost a daughter in the first massacre, in February. She was five years old. We buried her there, in the village. In October, five months after the Jews had declared their state, they attacked us again. It was another massacre. They took over the village and threw us out.”
Umm Ibrahim put her hand to her breast and showed me the key suspended on a cord around her neck. She said, “The key to our house.”
Later on I would learn that most of the women of the camp carried the keys to their houses, just as my mother did. Some would show them to me as they told me about the villages they came from, and sometimes I would glimpse the end of the cord aroundtheir necks, even if I didn’t see the key. Sometimes I would not see it and the lady would not refer to it, but I would know that it was there, under her dress.
My uncle Abu Amin laughed and said, “Congratulations to you both, for … Sadiq .”
The infant was beside me on the bed. I looked up at my uncle and it seemed to me that I was going to say something. I did not speak. I was weak after a long night that seemed like forever. Sounds had escaped from me, driven by that axe that was hitting me mercilessly in my lower back. It shook the body. No, it did not shake it, it convulsed it. It split apart and seemed about to scatter in splinters, or else to collapse and cave in, turning into ruins. Then the pain subsided a bit, as if it was dissipating, almost. Two minutes and then the axe began striking again—is this what a tree feels like when the woodman’s axe strikes it? There was no axe and no tree, it was my body, convulsed in labor. My aunt held my hand and said, “The first birth is like this. You and the baby will be fine, God willing, and it will be easier the next time.” If she would only stop speaking. I couldn’t stand the sound, I couldn’t stand the axe. I clung to her hand and squeezed, maybe the pressure would stop the blow that cut my body in two. I shouted, calling for my father. I shouted his name aloud until it seemed as if all Sidon would hear the name and bring him to me, and he would stop the axe and carry me to safety. Suddenly it stopped. It seemed the baby had slipped out. I closed my eyes, or perhaps my eyes and ears closed of themselves. It was as if I had gone to sleep, or fallen into a coma. I didn’t hear the baby’s cry. I didn’t see him when the midwife held him by his feet and lifted him, smiling, announcing that it was a boy, thank God, and then began to cut the umbilical cord and to wipe off the amniotic fluid that remained in his hair and on his body. She must have put him beside me as I was unconscious. I was aware only of my body, tense under the pressure of a pain that was no longer completely there, as if it had slipped from waking to sleep. Theyall saw the boy before I did. In later years when I had Hasan and then when Abd al-Rahman came, I was conscious, I saw and heard, and I stretched out my hand to hold the new boy. But as for Sadiq, I found him wrapped in white diapers on the bed beside me, when I was roused by my uncle’s voice saying, “Thank God for the safe delivery! Congratulations to you both, for … Sadiq .” I opened my eyes and saw Amin’s face, pale and exhausted as if he had spent the night in labor. He gave me a bashful smile, and kissed my head. He didn’t say anything.
For a moment I wanted to turn my face to the wall, because I was tired and wanted to sleep, or to go far away, alone. I found myself looking at the boy, enjoying him: his hair was black and smooth, his locks covering the top of his forehead. He had a small face and features, a long face, and his eyes were shut. His hands appeared from the swaddling, looking like two rounded, soft pieces of dough; it looked as if some hand had pressed on each of them several times, forming
Umm Ibrahim put her hand to her breast and showed me the key suspended on a cord around her neck. She said, “The key to our house.”
Later on I would learn that most of the women of the camp carried the keys to their houses, just as my mother did. Some would show them to me as they told me about the villages they came from, and sometimes I would glimpse the end of the cord aroundtheir necks, even if I didn’t see the key. Sometimes I would not see it and the lady would not refer to it, but I would know that it was there, under her dress.
My uncle Abu Amin laughed and said, “Congratulations to you both, for … Sadiq .”
The infant was beside me on the bed. I looked up at my uncle and it seemed to me that I was going to say something. I did not speak. I was weak after a long night that seemed like forever. Sounds had escaped from me, driven by that axe that was hitting me mercilessly in my lower back. It shook the body. No, it did not shake it, it convulsed it. It split apart and seemed about to scatter in splinters, or else to collapse and cave in, turning into ruins. Then the pain subsided a bit, as if it was dissipating, almost. Two minutes and then the axe began striking again—is this what a tree feels like when the woodman’s axe strikes it? There was no axe and no tree, it was my body, convulsed in labor. My aunt held my hand and said, “The first birth is like this. You and the baby will be fine, God willing, and it will be easier the next time.” If she would only stop speaking. I couldn’t stand the sound, I couldn’t stand the axe. I clung to her hand and squeezed, maybe the pressure would stop the blow that cut my body in two. I shouted, calling for my father. I shouted his name aloud until it seemed as if all Sidon would hear the name and bring him to me, and he would stop the axe and carry me to safety. Suddenly it stopped. It seemed the baby had slipped out. I closed my eyes, or perhaps my eyes and ears closed of themselves. It was as if I had gone to sleep, or fallen into a coma. I didn’t hear the baby’s cry. I didn’t see him when the midwife held him by his feet and lifted him, smiling, announcing that it was a boy, thank God, and then began to cut the umbilical cord and to wipe off the amniotic fluid that remained in his hair and on his body. She must have put him beside me as I was unconscious. I was aware only of my body, tense under the pressure of a pain that was no longer completely there, as if it had slipped from waking to sleep. Theyall saw the boy before I did. In later years when I had Hasan and then when Abd al-Rahman came, I was conscious, I saw and heard, and I stretched out my hand to hold the new boy. But as for Sadiq, I found him wrapped in white diapers on the bed beside me, when I was roused by my uncle’s voice saying, “Thank God for the safe delivery! Congratulations to you both, for … Sadiq .” I opened my eyes and saw Amin’s face, pale and exhausted as if he had spent the night in labor. He gave me a bashful smile, and kissed my head. He didn’t say anything.
For a moment I wanted to turn my face to the wall, because I was tired and wanted to sleep, or to go far away, alone. I found myself looking at the boy, enjoying him: his hair was black and smooth, his locks covering the top of his forehead. He had a small face and features, a long face, and his eyes were shut. His hands appeared from the swaddling, looking like two rounded, soft pieces of dough; it looked as if some hand had pressed on each of them several times, forming
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