My First and Only Love, page 17
Another one said, “As if we do not have enough problems already—fights and shootings, and a return to the stories of Abu Kamal and his men.”
A third one said, with a sarcastic smile and a face as pale as saffron, “We would fall then between a rock and a hard place.”
There was total silence for a few seconds, then whispering spread throughout the place, everyone saying something, while the members of the council discussed the matter among themselves, recalling the events that took place when the commander Abu Kamal and his men visited. The army had surrounded the village with a triple cordon, demolished houses, and arrested the men. Families were devastated, and so was Sanour.
The mayor stood up and said gently, “Listen, Sir, what you say is correct and I acknowledge its wisdom. I swear, by God, that your words are credible and convincing. However, we have tried this approach, and our lands and lives were decimated. We cannot stand up to the British or the Jews, and we cannot handle weapons and patrols. By God, by God, if the British get word of this talk, they would not leave one stone standing; they would demolish even this mosque. Do you want us to ruin our homes and Sanour because of a piece of collective land?”
Amin conceded and asked, “What about the fence?”
The mayor nodded and said, “Yes, the fence is needed.”
“Who will pay for the fence?” al-Zaybaq shouted.
They all fell silent and bowed their heads, each waiting for someone else to say something useful, but they all knew the truth of the matter—they knew that putting a fence around the whole land would cost them a great deal of money. They would be paying for the fence and the poles, plus the salaries of the workers, for a long time, and God only knew how long it would take. There was also the fact that it was communal land for the village of Sanour, and those benefiting from it were mostly poor and miserable, and had lost a great deal during the revolution; they were trying to recuperate some of their losses. Where would they get the money for the iron for a fence, a rare commodity at the time and quite expensive due to the restrictions imposed on imports—not to mention customs, taxes, and transportation permits.
I heard one man say to his companion, “The communal land produces only four months of the year and its produce consists of some mulukhiyeh and eggplants! Not worth the expense.”
Someone else said in a low voice, “Let the village council fence it.”
Others heard him and the word started circulating, until it reached the members of the village council. They whispered, discussed the matter, and insisted that the mayor pronounce the last word on behalf of the council, explaining the restrictions placed on the budget, a budget that did not exist in reality because the British collected the taxes and gave back to the village only a pittance, with conditions attached. This small amount should be used to collect garbage and clean the dirt and dung from the streets, while in reality there were no streets in the village and no asphalt or cement, no water or electricity, and no schools. That meant the council was as poor as the rest of the people of Sanour. How could they ask them to fence the communal land?
The mayor said, “Good people, you know that the council does not have a blazing fire! We have no money and no income.”
Someone said in a loud voice, but did not raise his head, “You have plenty of land, mayor!”
The mayor stammered, blushed, and said sharply, “My land is my personal property. I inherited it from my father and my ancestors. I haven’t even fenced my land. I built a stone wall around it and I reinforced it. If you have the energy, the desire, and the strength, I am ready to pull up my sleeves and build with you a stone wall for the communal land. I am ready. What about you, Abu Haytham, are you ready?”
“Ready.”
“What about you, Abu Jaber? Ready?”
“I am ready!”
“And you, Abu Muhammad, are you ready?”
“I am ready.”
“Do you see? Do you see how all the members of the council are ready to build with you? Who else is ready?”
Laughing, al-Zaybaq shouted, “Who will gather the stones for the wall?”
No one replied because they knew that gathering the stones would require many hands and many weeks that might stretch to months. Who would do it and abandon the work that provided him with an income to feed his family?
As no one answered, the mayor said, “Good people, the council and I are ready to collect the stones and build. Who is ready to build with us?”
Someone said, rejecting the covert accusation pronounced by the mayor, “Abu Ghassan, who has the time to gather stones and build? The land is big, praise be to God, it is probably larger than all of Sanour.”
“The stones of the whole village would not suffice,” someone else commented.
Al-Zaybaq said, mocking, “Get them from the valley and the threshing floors.”
Someone objected, saying, “You want us to spend two years digging and collecting?”
Hasna whispered in my grandmother’s ear, “The tractor could collect the stones in the blink of an eye.”
My grandmother shook her head and whispered, “Oh, by God, that is true. The tractor can collect them in the blink of an eye,” but she did not speak up. How could she stand in this gathering of men and say what neither her older nor her younger son had said?
My mother tried to convince my grandmother to go to Wahid and tell him about the idea of the tractor and its ability to collect the stones. But my grandmother rejected her suggestion and said to her, angrily, “It is shameful, Widad. What would people say?”
Widad slapped her own face and said, her face turning red, “What would people say? What would people say!”
Hasna said in an emotionless voice, “I will say it.” She called out loudly, “The tractor can gather them in the blink of an eye.”
My grandmother looked at her angrily and whispered, “Is this what it has come to, Hasna? A woman interfering in the work of the men?”
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The meeting ended without a decision. The village council announced that it would study the matter carefully and try to find the necessary resources, here and there. When my uncle, Sheikh al-Qahtan, was asked about his opinion, he said, “Godspeed.” As for al-Zaybaq, he said in a daring and mocking tone, “I have men and I have weapons.” But the members of the council ignored his words and ended the meeting with the hope of convening a week later.
The following day, we awoke to the screams of the peasants. They said that the Jewish settlement had gotten closer during the night; the settlers had moved their fences and poles from one spot to another, quickly and skillfully. They had huge capability and knowhow, and their troops were trained to work in patrols. Furthermore, they benefited from the support of the government, and its disregard for any infringement on the communal land, which was located in the middle, between the village and the settlement. The peasants were concerned by the gradual advance of the settlement, which threatened their houses and their gardens, inside and outside the village. Fearful, they rushed to the mayor, requesting an emergency meeting and insisting on the need to make a decision.
Meanwhile, we held a family meeting where we discussed the possibility of raking the stones of the threshing floors and the vegetable gardens, with the help of the tractor. In return, the owners of the raked lands would help build the stone wall around the communal land. Because the work was bound to take a long time and required the help of a large number of men, it would be wise to do the work in stages and ensure the help of patrols. This approach would make it possible for the farmers to pursue their work, to guarantee their livelihood and avoid negligence.
Early the next day, my oldest uncle began the work as planned. He got on his powerful tractor and started working. A few hours later, the whole village was full of energy and hope. My uncle recovered his enthusiasm and his effusiveness, moving with his beautiful tractor between the farms of the village and the vegetable gardens, like a butterfly over a field of flowers. He extracted the rocks from under the soil, and carried them from their location in the blink of an eye. He would pile them in mounds of equal height, in the shape of small pyramids all around the communal land. The farmers would stop collecting the produce and removing the wild grass whenever he came their way. They would greet him and tell him with enthusiasm and optimism, “May God grant you strength, father of the youth. Have a cup of tea. Take a fig or a cucumber!” He would return their greetings with equal enthusiasm, while humming one of Abdel-Wahhab’s songs.
My uncle Amin went to the mayor and asked him to gather the students and the youth to form support groups to help build the stone fence in stages. True to his word, the mayor called his son and his neighbor’s son, who called his friend, and the friend called his friend. It took them only a few hours to gather the number of helpers needed. They organized building teams and started the work from the southern side of the village; in other words, from the side facing the Jewish settlement. When the peasants saw the groups of young people working with energy and zeal, singing anthems, they rushed out and stood on both sides to witness this wonderful event. Then they formed groups to take turns building the stone fence and patrolling.
This beautiful sight was completed with Hasna’s plan to reward the builders. She lit a fire close to their location and placed a huge pot on it to cook a meal of rice and lentils, mjaddara, for them, while we the women got busy preparing a fresh salad with the greens growing in the communal land.
It was something to behold, like a wedding procession. The villagers competed to give us the produce of their farms and goods from their homes. One brought a basket of prunes, another a basket of apricots, a third gave us goat’s milk, and a fourth brought bread cooked on an open fire. We had enough food and fruit to feed the whole village. We heard the sounds of traditional songs and ululations. Seeing all the movement in the village and the optimism, the members of the village council pulled up their sleeves, rolled up their qumbaz, and participated in the building process. They joined the young people, chanting patriotic songs, and invited the passersby to join the work groups and the patrols.
At sunset, when the wall on the side facing the Jewish settlement was almost finished, my uncle stopped his tractor under a tree, mounted the gray mare, and rode her around the place to check the safety and strength of the wall.
There, in the quiet of the evening, near the hearth, I saw Hasna and my uncle in an unusual and touching position. I saw my uncle on top of the gray mare, the shahba, getting close to the hearth where Hasna was standing. He was telling her something I could not hear, but I felt that there was something secretive and intimate between them. I lingered where I was, watching from a distance and trying to listen to what was being said, trying to understand what was happening between the two. I saw my uncle on the horse and Hasna standing near him, listening. He got off the horse and stood close to her, very close, and said something I did not hear, but from the gestures and the movement of the heads, I had the impression that this was not the first encounter between the two, and the conversation was not something new, but had precedents. Was I imagining things? Was Hasna responding to his advances? Was there a love relationship between them? My uncle was talking and Hasna was listening; she would look at him for a long time, then bend her head as if mulling over matters. When she raised her head and faced him, they exchanged a long look that made me shiver. It reminded me of Rabie—the amorous looks and the touch of the hands. I remembered the suppressed desires and the tenderness melting in words; I remembered the yearning and the tears as my uncle raised his hand and removed hers to dry her tears, while she held his hand to guide him.
I started crying. I remembered love and tenderness. I remembered Rabie—everything that was said about lovers or those I assumed were lovers. I composed in my mind a huge story about a suppressed love between a woman who was still hurting, and a man enduring subjection. Now, hope was revived: had Hasna let down her guard and got carried away because of what she had seen today, the activities in which she participated? I do not know, but I saw my uncle raise her hands to his lips as she got closer. Nothing remained for him to do but wrap his arms around her, which he refrained from doing. Instead, he looked south, at the setting sun and the lights of the southern settlement, which were twinkling in the ashes of the universe. I saw him pull her a few steps behind the stone wall, and there they stood together, two black shadows in the dusk.
I saw shadows moving behind the fence of the southern settlement, followed by handheld flashlights projected on the stone wall, then on my uncle, on Hasna, and on the tractor; then they were projected once more on my uncle and the stone wall.
At dawn my uncle woke up, as was his habit, and went to the mosque to pray. He was not alone this time, but was accompanied by Hasna and my uncle Amin. No one noticed their absence except my grandmother. She woke at dawn and went to wake up Amin to catch the village bus. As she could not find him, she woke Widad. I heard the two women whisper and move carefully to avoid waking me up. I covered my head with the comforter and dreamt of Rabie.
When I woke up, I found my grandmother and my mother drinking their coffee in the kitchen, still wondering about the absent group, worried. But the mystery was soon cleared up when my two uncles returned with Hasna. Contrary to his habit, my older uncle said with a bright face, “Get us breakfast.” While eating breakfast, he said, calmly, as if announcing a minor event that did not concern him, “Today Hasna and I got married.” My grandmother sighed deeply and said, “You did it behind my back! What a shame!” But she quickly congratulated them and blessed their union, asking God to give them a boy and an army of children. She wanted to celebrate the arrival of a grandson who would take his grandfather’s name before she died. She wished for many children to increase the progeniture of the Qahtan family.
That was how my uncle got married, quietly and discreetly, without ululations and celebrations, without guests and servers—very different from his first marriage in Haifa. He was married to a woman he loved and with whom he shared the same beliefs and with whom he hoped to fulfill those vows.
Around noon, as the work was going full speed on the stone wall and the smoke was rising from Hasna’s pot, as the songs of the youth filled the air with joy and enthusiasm, and the fresh salad made with vegetables from the communal land was shining in the sun, my uncle announced the news of his marriage, standing on the tractor, laughing quietly. The mayor came to congratulate him, followed by the imam of the mosque. While everybody was congratulating them, I remembered what Hasna had said as we sat on the rock and I asked her, “Did you forget?” She had replied, “We all forget.” As I was watching Hasna’s happy face, bent over the pot, I wondered: what about me? Will I forget? But my heart said no, and I began to cry. When I was asked why I was crying, I said, “It’s the fire. Hasna’s fumes and the fires of love.” My uncle laughed and pinched my cheek, then said, “You’re still young!”
At sunset, my uncle stopped the tractor under the tree, as he always did, and rode the shahba, going around the communal land to check the work of the young men and invite them to celebrate his marriage. In the evening they all gathered in the square, built a huge fire, ate and drank, sang and danced, while we women watched from a distance. At the end of the celebration, my uncle returned home, collected his belongings, and went to the cottage of the farmers where Hasna was staying.
Our happiness did not last long, and my uncle’s marriage did not end well. Two days later, we awoke to the shouting of the villagers, their commotion and confusion, and smelled smoke that was different from woodsmoke. When we stepped out, we saw the tractor burning. Parts of the stone wall had collapsed, and the green grass looked as if it had been mowed with thousands of tractors. The roots were visible on the ground, the red earth smashed under the chains of the tanks, and there was no sign of the patrolling youth.
We went around the village looking for the young men but we could not find them. The mayor said that whoever burned the tractor and mowed the ground was responsible for the disappearance of the young men. Someone said he’d caught a glimpse of al-Zaybaq, but my uncle explained that al-Zaybaq did not own a tractor and tanks and couldn’t have caused all that damage in the communal land. The man swore by his faith that he was innocent, and some believed him, though others did not. The village was divided between those who believed him and those who did not. However, the mayor was convinced that those who caused the devastation were the British. He said that this was not the first time they had desecrated the village and destroyed its property. He listed all their actions the day Abu Kamal and his men died: they demolished houses, broke jars, turned pots upside down, burned the wheat, and did not leave a single green stem in the fields and the village.
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The wall was reduced to rubble, and the hope that had motivated and invigorated them turned to despair and grumbling. The apprehensions of the mayor and the members of the village council came back to haunt them and reminded them of the destruction and the damage that befell them when Abu Kamal sought a policy of confrontation instead of hiding or surrendering.
The mayor said that confronting the British and the Jews was a foolish approach for us, and one we could not sustain. It would be an act of suicide and not an act of bravery. When Abu Kamal confronted the British in Sanour, he committed a grave mistake, for which he paid with his life and that of his men. We, too, paid a price. He could have gone into hiding in a cave or a well; he could have disguised himself in the clothes of a woman or a plowman, the way revolutionaries and leaders everywhere have done on multiple occasions. Abu Kamal turned down all the suggestions and chose confrontation. “And whom did he choose to confront?” asked the mayor angrily, while people listened and shook their heads. “He chose to confront thousands of heavily armed soldiers who had the latest weapons, tanks, and planes. What did he confront them with? A few men, carrying old guns and daggers. That was suicidal. It was criminal. Was that the comportment of a leader?”
