The Inheritance

by Sahar Khalifeh

  She was happy and optimistic and said, “Mazen must be very happy.”

  Contrary to people’s expectations and those of my uncle’s wife, Mazen was not happy or proud, because he had never thought that all those people would come, and such numbers meant overcrowding, suffocation, and chaos. He thought about the dancers, the microphones, the program, and electricity. As he had been busy making contacts with the consulates, the journalists, the unions, the associations, and foreigners, he hadn’t arranged to provide large-scale security for the festivities. He was wondering who would organize the people’s entrance to the theater, and who would guarantee the security of the officials and where they would be seated, especially since the invitations weren’t numbered. No matter how many additional seats they brought, there would never be enough for each guest to sit down or even to stand inside the theater or on the terrace. It occurred to him that the boy scouts accompanying the governor might help to keep order and maintain security. But the boy scouts had brought drums, trumpets, and whistles and insisted on doing what they had come to do: participate in the show and entertain the audience with a song dedicated to the citadel and its past glory. They paraded in the streets of our town the whole morning like soldiers. They played music that everybody liked, exciting the children of the city who followed them everywhere, carrying drums or tin boxes on which they played the tune they liked.

  Despite our happiness with the joyous atmosphere of the festivities, the activities at the market, the balloons, the candy and the ice cream, the overcrowded shops and public places made us extremely anxious. We were concerned about people rushing to the gates of the citadel. It was barely five in the evening and hours before opening time, and the lines already stretched all the way to the hills of Nablus.

  There were checkpoints on the Arab side and on the Israeli side, those of the Authority and those of its authority. On one side we heard “salam,” and on the other side “shalom.” The car drivers were concerned about traffic and wanted to drive through without delays. But the traffic wasn’t moving smoothly. It was blocked between the Arab and the Israeli checkpoints. One was concerned with security and another was preoccupied with ensuring security; in other words, we became the concern of the security, but there was no security for us. The situation created a traffic jam that extended all the way to Hawara, on the east side. We tried in vain to intervene to facilitate the traffic but we failed. The governor said that he had no control over it and the municipal director claimed that he was responsible for the sewers not the traffic. As for the mayors of the nearby villages, they arrived through VIP channels, passed without any problem and sat in the front rows—those reserved for the consuls and the journalists. We had to cajole and flatter them to get back some of the seats they occupied for the sponsoring countries and the priests.

  We didn’t know where to seat the nuns until my uncle intervened. He gave up his seat to make room for them. Futna sat first in the front row claiming that she was keeping the seat for her mother who was arriving from Jerusalem, with the French and the Spanish consuls. But Mazen pursuaded her to give up the seat, upsetting her terribly. She considered the move almost an insult and withdrew with Nahleh and Umm Grace to the backstage area. There, they watched the dancers, the music players, the electrician, and the sound engineer preparing the stage and testing the microphones, saying hello, hello. At this exact moment Futna felt something sticky between her legs, but she didnt pay much attention to it and got carried away with the atmosphere of the festivities.

  When the consuls, the journalists, and the notables arrived, the spectators were present in large numbers but the festivities were delayed due to sudden confusion, shouting, and fighting at the gates. One person was heard saying, “Allahu Akbar,” and another said, “Get out of my way,” while a third one yelled, “Shame on you, it isn’t acceptable to behave this way in public, in front of foreigners.”

  Saadu was shouting loudly and pushing the crowd, followed by Said. He said, “Who deserves to be here, the foreigners or us?”

  Said agreed with him, saying, “Of course, us.”

  He pushed the people on his left and on his right causing them to fall, some were trampled under the feet.

  A young boy was bleeding from the eye and shouting, “My eye, my eye,” but no one stopped to help him. The workers rushed to Mazen and told him that the boy had lost his eye and needed an ambulance. Lying at people’s feet and waiting for an ambulance that was taking its time to arrive, the boy lost consciousness. The ambulance wasn’t allowed to go through without being thoroughly searched, to make sure that no bombs or machine guns were hidden in the midst of glucose and syringes. No one knew whether the delay happened at the Arab or the Israeli checkpoint.

  Mazen stood at the top of the stairs watching the pushing, the shoving, the fighting, saying to himself, “God almighty, what kind of people are they!” He saw Said pushing the crowds, preceded by Saadu who was making his way through the spectators and shouting, “Move, move!”

  Mazen was concerned about this confusion and cried to his brother, “Hey, Said, fear God.”

  But Said pushed a sweaty Saadu and told nun, “We’ve arrived, enter from here, go on, go on.”

  When both arrived at the stage entrance they found no room to stand, so they jumped over people’s shoulders until they reached their seats. When Kamal saw them moving toward the consuls, he thanked God for the plane ticket that was in his pocket for the return trip to Germany. Mazen tried to block their way and whispered to them to stop and move away, but Said squeezed between the nuns and told his brother to leave him alone. His comportment shocked the nuns and made even me appeal to the Virgin Mary for her protection. Saadu moved through the rows and sat directly behind Sitt Amira and beside Abd al-Hadi Bey al-Shayib. He inadvertently hit her in the back with his elbow, making her turn and scold him angrily, saying, “Shame on you young man, respect people.”

  Mazen’s eyes caught Kamal’s eyes from a distance from his location behind the curtain. Kamal smiled spontaneously, either from embarrassment or possibly to encourage Mazen, but his brother misunderstood his intention and interpreted the smile differently, seeing it as his way of gloating. He was sure that Kamal had seen Said and Saadu push their way through the crowds and sit behind the consuls, in the midst of the nuns and the notables. He was boiling inside as he saw Kamal standing near the ticket window, watching people as if they were part of an experiment in his lab. His anger against Saadu and Said was redirected toward Kamal’s perceived arrogance. Mazen wondered whether his brother felt himself above these creatures? They are our people, our family, our friends, and the inhabitants of this land. They are tired of martyrdom and funerals, they’ve come to have fun and forget their worries. The Germans are not our people, what do we get from them, even if they stand in line and are organized! What if their government is the best in the world and their country the most advanced, with the cleanest air! What if their streets are impeccably clean and their garbage divided into five categories in five different barrels! What if their sewage is as sweet as sugar, arc you one of them or one of us?

  Mazen suddenly heard a familiar laugh and turned his head to find Futna with her round belly sitting on the drummer’s seat, beating the drum, while Nahleh was playing the organ and Umm Grace was laughing and clapping. He was mesmerized by the sight and marveled at Wadi al-Rihan and its transformation, amazed by its inhabitants, who had become like children in a wedding party. If he had had security forces and a large army he would have controlled the crowds, but he was alone, how could he impose order! This was the worst and biggest mistake of his life. Was it his luck or this eager milieu, people’s psychology, the lights, the fliers, the programs, and the boy scouts? There were the invitation cards as well, thousands of them. He wondered who had printed so many? Who had distributed them? And the ice cream stands and the sugar candy. Who had excited the inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan? Who had forgotten to include seat numbers on the invitation cards? How could a small mis
take, a simple mistake affect everything? We had been concerned about the weather and had taken a million precautions but how could we have anticipated what was happening now?

  Suddenly, he heard the boy scouts’ drums and the tune of the festival shaking the stage. The words went as follows:

  I am from the Citadel, dear

  Spread the good news and meet me here.

  Doves fly and doves land,

  Peace is at hand,

  Dreams are coming true

  In Wadi al-Rihan, for me and you.

  O God, O God, O God,

  Let the wronged rejoice,

  And in one voice,

  Our efforts applaud.

  The song excited the spectators, who joined in, singing very loudly their voices reaching all the way to the closest police station. It reached the other checkpoint by wireless and ordered it to get ready. In their enthusiasm, they were not aware that the citadel had been isolated from the rest of the world and from Wadi al-Rihan, surrounded by security forces.

  The wind blew in from the west and carried with it the odors we had feared, but the confusion outside, the crowds inside, and the spectators’ happiness with the boy scouts, the music and the stomping of the dabkeh dancers on the stage made it a lesser evil than we had expected. Most people attributed the odor to the crowds, and the summer sweat rather than to the sewage and the station’s malfunction. The show went on, the audience dancing and shouting without anyone inside the citadel noticing the military presence outside, the increased number of security forces, and the invasion of rats brought by the westerly winds.

  We probably had exaggerated when we attributed the agitation of the insects and the rats inside and outside the citadel to the blowing of the wind and the sewage station, because in reality, they were an integral part of the environment. In this wild region the garbage rats were abundant, especially in the quarries, the villages, and the settlement of Kiryat Rahil. They might have been stirred up by the blowing winds, which might have drawn them out of their holes in search of spoils. So, as soon as it was Violet’s turn to sing, she ran out shouting, “A rat in the guitar, a rat in the guitar!”

  The women backstage ran to help her but Futna stumbled, got caught in the electric wires and fell heavily on the floor, causing her water to break and her labor to begin.

  Mazen was shocked by the sight and the sounds he was hearing, he wondered whether it was a celebration or a nightmare, an educational activity, or a silly carnival. He heard the workers calling for an ambulance, but no one approached the woman lying on the floor surrounded by a small pool of water. Nahleh was kneeling beside her, shouting, “This is no time for this kind of behavior, Sitt Futna!”

  The ambulance was waiting behind the checkpoint where it was searched meticulously. But the siege was tightened because the voices coming from the citadel threatened trouble and great excitement that might lead to a confrontation with the police or the security forces or even between the people and the settlers of Tal al-Rihan.

  Tal al-Rihan was not very far away, just a few kilometers. In the past, in the good old days, the days of freedom, the inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan used to go to that hill to celebrate the feast of the Nayruz, the Thursday of the dead, the Thursday of the eggs, and the feast of the Prophet Moses. People during those days still observed traditions and feast rituals, but now, after thirty years of occupation, the confiscation of the hill where the Kiryat Rahil settlement had been established was surrounded by a thick fence, a checkpoint, and guards; people have grown used to the situation. They look beyond the horizon so they can forget that foreigners live on top of this hill, foreigners with sideburns who carry arms and swear that the valley and the hill were originally Wadi Rahil and Solomon’s Hill. Just as they had taken Tal al-Rihan in the seventies, they had hoped to regain the rest of the plateau and the valley in the eighties.

  Years went by however, and the inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan didn’t recover the hill nor did the settlers of Kiryat Rahil seize the wadi. Both groups, however, watch each other hoping to mark a point or win a goal. This explains the violence of the last years, the killings and the looting on both sides. But naturally, the inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan, less favored by circumstances, marked only a few thefts, a stolen car, some cement, old metal pieces, a sack of flour and hay. In return, and due to favorable circumstances, the inhabitants of Tal al-Rihan, whenever an opportunity arose, whether by day or by night, launched armed attacks on the Wadi, with machine guns and bombs, under the watchful eye of the security forces. On this day, the day of the citadel, because of the chaos and the enthusiasm of the people, the security measures were reinforced.

  No one knows exactly why the festivities got out of hand and people rushed out and fought with the police, and the security forces, causing the most violent confrontation that had ever taken place between weapons and stones. Later on, when the press wrote about the event many stories were told, someone stated that the checkpoint had refused to let the ambulance through to transport Futna to Hadassa hospital. The driver and the medics became involved in a very heated discussion with the police, which ended in shouting and calls for help, making the public leave the theater to take part in the fight. Another version of the story reported that the rats became excited and started running among the public and between the chairs, chasing the spectators out. There, they saw what was happening with the medics, went to their rescue and took part in the fight. A third version was reported in the paper Akhbar al-yom, based on an eyewitness account. He said that someone saw men from the Tal al-Rihan settlement carrying lit torches and weapons. He shouted “Fire, fire,” to warn people. Some however, denied that version considering it an inflammatory exaggeration. The panic was the result of the misunderstanding caused by the phonetic similarity between far and nar in Arabic.

  Whatever the cause and the motivation, it was clear that the festivities in Wadi al-Rihan were influenced by various intrinsic factors that predisposed the situation to an explosion. On the one hand, there was the confusion due to poor planning, a large number of tickets, the flyers, and the programs. There was also the growing enthusiasm of hearts discontented with martyrdom and sad stories, who had come to rejoice despite history. When they saw the dabkeh dancing group rumbling, and heard the boy scouts’ drum, they were overwhelmed with nostalgia. They sung for the homeland, the citadel, and finally for sacrifice and martyrdom. The mayhem was caused by a multitude of factors, a situation that went out of hand, the effect of a failed sewage project, the confrontation between the security forces and the medics, and Futna’s delivery behind the stage in front of the workers, the singers, and the dabkeh dancers. Most of the workers were patriotic young men who had spent bitter years in detention, quarries, and vicious chases in the valleys and the narrow alleys. They became emotional and shouted proudly, “Tar, revenge.” What was heard then was certainly either “fire,” or “revenge,” or “rat.” There wasn’t a big difference between the way they sounded in Arabic; as for their impact and their result that was a different matter.

  When the festivities exploded Mazen found himself in an unenviable situation. He had failed to steer the celebration in the right direction and he was responsible for the situation turning upside down. He was responsible for a large number of consuls, journalists, and the governor. What could he do for all those people without security, a police force, or even guards? All he had at his disposal were a group of scouts, dabkeh dancers, and a band of singers. What could those people wearing ribbons, red berets, and gold-trimmed waistcoats do in the face of confrontations with stones, bullets, and bombs?

  A shell hit the window and began emitting tear gas, forcing Mazen to jump to his feet and ask people to close the windows. But nobody moved, their despondency rendered them speechless and motionless. Some stood behind the windows watching what was happening in the streets below the citadel, between the people and the security forces. Others gathered around the governor, who was trying to contact the police and the security forces. Th
ey were busy with more important matters. They feared a collective movement of angry people rushing toward the settlers who were standing watch near the barricade and on top of the hill. This explained why the governor was incessantly shouting, “Hello police, hello security,” but no one from the outside answered him.

  Mazen’s eyes caught the confused look of the governor. He was a man in his sixties who had spent his youth in camps and exile in other people’s countries. He had devoted his whole life to the revolution and had paid a high price, and later, retired. Then, unexpectedly he was told that he had a country, a people, a solution, a peace, and consuls. Placed in a position of responsibility, this bright man knew that he would be walking a tightrope, would never know a moment of peace and quiet. Here he was now, like Mazen and the cithers, surrounded inside the citadel, with consuls, journalists priests, nuns, and a woman who had given birth backstage and was in dire need of medical assistance. But where would he get an ambulance?

  He discussed the matter with Mazen, trying to find a way out of the citadel, out of this trap. He was new to the area although it was his birthplace. Years of occupation and life in exile and an absence that had lasted decades had made him a visitor and a tourist among people who had lived for generations connected to their roots in the land. That’s why they didn’t feel that he was one of them, or in other words, they didn’t know whether he was one of them or one of “them.” One of us, one of them, or us and them, or you and us, and this meant speaking another language, taking a different action, and dealing with a different people and another exile, a new exile he had never heard of or experienced. You are in your country without being in it, you are with your people, but your people are outside and you are here, in this citadel. Inside and outside, there was a police and security force, an Authority, a system, and a government, and a dazed people, an unlucky people who had come to have some fun but for no apparent reason the fun had turned into a funeral in the blink of an eye. There might be multiple reasons, but what mattered now was finding a way out of this trap.