The Inheritance

by Sahar Khalifeh

  Mazen told the governor that the usual road was not passable because of checkpoints and confrontations. The longer road behind the citadel was not practicable or safe because it ran through Kiryat Rahil, in the middle of the settlement of Tal al-Rihan. He wondered whether the governor would be willing to be seen by the inhabitants of Wadi al-Rihan and the journalists driving through an Israeli settlement. It was a major question, a loaded question for a government official. His choice would not be interpreted casually or as necessity of the moment. It was bound to be judged in the context of history, politics, and a semblance of a government and streets that the Authority does not control. They were roundabout roads imposed on people by force and impacting their livelihood. Those were lands they had inherited with deeds from the time of Moses and even Muhammad. And here there was this solution, this occupation that took whatever it wanted without accountability, as the people were told this was liberation, it was the way to peace, a way around the past to reach the future. They were told that the present was not theirs. That explained its name, eltifafiyyeh, wrapping around.

  People wondered about the eltifafiyyeh concept. They understood it, however, and they even interpreted it this way: it was a noun derived from the verb laffa, and laffa did not mean to move in circles, but it meant to wrap something up and take it away, in other words, it meant to swallow something or sleep on it. This was, naturally, an exaggeration because the intermediary was not the person gulping, but was gulped himself. They drew their conclusion in those words, “Then, did he come to gulp, to wrap?” They wondered, shouted, threw stones and said, “Go away.”

  The governor had a bright idea. He thought of asking people in power about their position in the matter. He would tell them, This is our position: we are responsible for unarmed guests, a woman who has just given birth, a citadel isolated from the rest of the world, surrounded by a confrontation between the people and the security forces. We are trapped, caught between bullets, stones, and gas bombs, what should we do?”

  Mazen would say that we had a bus and a way around the citadel. The road went through Kiryat Rahil, which presented a problem. The governor would wonder if that meant boarding a bus that would drive through the settlement of Tal al-Rihan? But wasn’t Tal al-Rihan ours, after all, and what belongs to us does not belong to them; was there any doubt about it? If someone says, “There is doubt,” he would say, “Wrong!” If they approved, he would say, “You’re right, let’s board.” Where was Mazen?

  Mazen’s father looked at his son in disbelief, and said, “Kiryat Rahil? Did you say Kiryat Rahil?”

  Mazen replied quickly and determinedly, “We need to maneuver, maneuver, maneuver. Do you want us to die in this citadel?”

  His father responded sullenly, “Is that it, you’ve lost patience? Let’s wait until things calm down and take the regular road like everybody else.”

  Mazen pointed to the stage and asked, “Dad, what about Futna?”

  The father turned back and said disgusted, “Take Futna and go, I’m not leaving.”

  He then walked slowly toward the window, mumbling, “Kiryat Rahil! By God, Kiryat Rahil, is this what we’ve come to?”

  Mazen was watching Amira busy with her daughter and her grandson. She was surrounded by the boy scouts who were eager to help. One was asking, “Aunt, what do you want?”

  Another told her, “I got you a pillow.”

  And a third scout brought her water. Amira answered each one of them calmly, saying, “May God bless you. You are the best men in the world, give me, give me.”

  Mazen felt somewhat guilty and embarrassed vis-à-vis those youngsters who stayed with Futna and her mother all the time and paid no attention to the others, die consuls, the journalists, the priests, and the nuns. Their only concern was this baby. At this age a person is still pure and innocent, at this age the birth of a baby is the secret of the universe and its miracle and other things do not matter. At this age a baby is more important than all the consuls, the journalists, the clerics, and the politicians.

  He was in a position of responsibility, however, trusted with important people; what would happen if any one of them were hurt? What if a consul, a priest, or a even a journalist were hurt? Would the situation in Wadi al-Rihan be compared to life in Algeria in the nineties?

  He overheard the words Kiryat Rahil in a conversation between the governor and one of the consuls. A journalist asked, “Kiryat Rahil?”

  Then the governor asked, nervously, “Tell me what should I do? It is Kiryat Rahil despite you and me. If you were the man in charge, what would you do?”

  The journalist was dumfounded and stared at him from behind his eye glasses, repeating, “Kiryat Rahil?”

  “Yes sir, Kiryat Rahil,” reiterated the governor, with controlled anger, as if the journalist was responsible for the situation and its complications, He went on cornering him with his questions, “Do you have any objection? Do you have an alternative?”

  The journalist was trying to get out of the situation repeating the name Kiryat Rahil. The governor became even angrier and shouted at him, “What do you suggest? Do you have an alternative?”

  The journalist turned around and left, mumbling, “Why should I interfere, you’re the one in a position of responsibility.”

  The governor shouted, trying to stop him, “Listen brother, what J say is not to be published, do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  The journalist muttered as he moved away, “Of course I understand.”

  He stood near the window watching the action.

  Futna said smiling, but exhausted, “I was afraid he would be a Mongoloid.”

  Her mother said comfortingly, ‘Your son is normal, but he weighs so little. He’s very thin and needs an ambulance, he does.”

  Amira looked left and right and saw Mazen. She begged him for assistance, “Mazen, isn’t there an ambulance?”

  He looked at her, then at her daughter, then at the child and said confused, “What do you want me to say? You know the situation.”

  She saw his confusion and hesitation, and said to encourage him, “This difficulty will pass, we’ve seen worse.”

  She smiled to herself then to him, and said whispering, “At least it’s not in Hadassa.”

  Not in Hadassa? He wondered what she meant with those words. What if he had mentioned Kiryat Rahil, what would she have said? He was peeking behind the curtain as if looking for something, but that thing was in his head or in his heart or in both—what was it?

  He saw Kamal standing near the window and joined him, seeking an explanation. Kamal made no reply as if he hadn’t heard him. Mazen repeated the word Kiryat Rahil, provoking Kamal to respond in a loud whisper, “The problem is not with Kiryat Rahil but with you, Mazen Hamdan, boarding a bus alone and leaving the people waiting for a way out of here.”

  His words upset Mazen, who asked him, “What do you mean?”

  He turned to him and pointed at the outside, saying, “You were always there, all your Life, what brought you here? What changed you?”

  His eyes bulged, his heart sank as a result of this attack, and he prepared to defend himself. He said angrily, “You were there all your life as well and you didn’t care.”

  Then he left quickly to get away from his brother. He felt his legs give way due to a very sharp pain like a knife stab. He turned to Kamal and shouted under the effect of pain, “Stay there and never come back.”

  He took a few more steps, his head buzzing with questions and reactions, his father’s questions, Amira’s questions, and those of his brother. He moved in circles looking for something, when suddenly a question popped into his mind, a new question, born at this instant. He stood still, turned back again and shouted to his brother, “Which is better, a bus or a plane?”

  But his question remained unanswered.

  Sitt Amira refused to board the bus which carried the consuls and the journalists. She objected strongly and categorically to the very idea of crossing Kiryat Rahil
to reach the hospital in Nablus. The governor changed his mind as well and felt that staying in the citadel with the people in these circumstances was a must. It was a matter of duty, for history and for people’s judgement. What would they have said had he left, that he had followed the consuls and the paying purses, leaving them alone? What would the journalists have said? And the Hamdan and Shayib families? Would they have said that he had left a woman bleeding on the floor and run for his life? He wouldn’t run away, he would stay with them to the last man and the last breath.

  Mazen came begging the governor to board the ambulance with them to cross the two checkpoints, the Arab and the Israeli. Futna was bleeding and she could well die, while the child was weak and needed medical assistance quickly. Mazen sat in the front and Amira stayed with her daughter and the grandson in the back of the car. They crossed the Arab checkpoint without delay or complications, but the disaster was the required stop in the main street in front of the Kiryat Rahil checkpoint. While they were enduring the long and tiring wait, Mazen noticed the Bey in his Mercedes, with the yellow license plate of Jerusalem. He crossed the checkpoint without stopping and without being searched. He went by like lightning. Mazen was surprised and turned his head to confirm what he had seen but his position between the governor and the driver blocked his view. The governor asked him whether something was the matter with him. He explained, still surprised and dazed:

  “Was Abd al-Hadi Bey al-Shayib at the party?”

  The governor said, casually, “He was sitting behind his sister and I greeted him”.

  Mazen asked, “Behind what sister?”

  The governor explained casually, as he was watching the soldiers dragging their feet while a long line of cars was forming each waiting its turn, patiently and apprehensively, “The sister sitting in the back of the ambulance.”

  “Do you mean Amira?”

  The governor didn’t answer him and continued to watch the soldiers, the cars, and two young men standing against the wall, as if in a punishment position. They faced the wall, holding their hands above their heads. He whispered, “By God, what have we done to be treated like this?” wondered the governor.

  Mazen, who had become accustomed to this sight, wasn’t moved or scared, or even surprised. He didn’t comment on the governor’s words or pay attention to him; he was thinking instead of the Bey and how he had passed through the checkpoint thanks to his Jerusalem license plate. He wondered how he had arrived at the checkpoint and whether he truly had been at the festivities? Why had no one seen him? Was it because of the crowds and the chaos, or had he arrived with the consuls and left with them? Why had no one seen him? He turned to look back from the small window and saw Amira carrying the baby, while Futna was lying on the stretcher holding a glucose bottle in her hand. He shouted to them, “The Bey passed through the checkpoint in his car without stopping.”

  Amira looked at him with her big eyes but didn’t comment. He repeated, “He crossed the checkpoint with his Jerusalem license plate.”

  She didn’t say a thing and continued to state without uttering a word, but Futna said in a weak voice, “He went and left us? That’s not possible, you’re certainly mistaken, it can’t have been him.”

  The mother continued to stare without saying a word. Mazen turned his head and continued to watch the action around him.

  The governor stepped out of the car and tried to approach one of the soldiers, but one of them shouted at him in a thundering voice, “Stop, stop!”

  The governor stretched his hand to explain to him that he meant well, and wanted only to talk to him. But the soldier repeated, “Stop, stop.”

  But the governor insisted and raised his voice saying, “Just a word, one word.”

  The soldier thundered, “Not even half a word, go back.”

  When the soldier felt that the governor was dragging his feet and unwilling to obey immediately and quickly, he raised his weapon and pointed it at him, saying sharply, “Return to your place.”

  The governor returned to the ambulance and sat in his place.

  Futna said in a weak voice, “Maybe if you say that we’re going to Hadassa they would let us go.”

  The mother didn’t answer her and kept staring through the small window, her arms unconsciously squeezing the baby, repeating: Hadassa, Hadassa, son of Hadassa, the ticket to cross the checkpoint, by God! She continued to stare through the small window.

  The governor said, pensive, “I used to dream, I often dreamed, but for what!”

  He stopped suddenly and turned his eyes toward the hill on which Kiryat Rahil was built. He saw the red brick, the barbed wire, various buildings, the playgrounds, strange stairs, and huge water pipes cutting through the rocks and the ground. The homeland had become strange, it has become an exile, he thought to himself. The land of dreams was devoid of dreams. The liberation dream has become a mere slogan that doesn’t relate to the land, a nightmare. How much had he dreamed while in Dhahran, and in Lebanon and Tunisia? He used to dream of a genie coming out of a bottle, offering him his services, saying, “Shubbayk, lubbayk.” He would ask the genie to carry him and throw him under an olive tree, give him a loaf of bread, olives, an onion, and salt. Here he was now, in front of an olive tree, on a road filled with checkpoints and facing a high fence. This is where the dream ended.

  Mazen said with painful embarrassment, “The festivities were a scandal, all our work and efforts were for nothing.”

  The governor shook his head without commenting and recalled the past, the long years, the many martyrs and sacrifices. Then came Madrid and Oslo, then Tal al-Rihan and Kiryat Rahil.

  Mazen was watching a familiar sight, a checkpoint, soldiers, young men with their hands raised above their heads, a long line of cars, while whistling bullets were heard in the distance. The wind carried the smoke of bombs and gases, he said, “I sometimes feel my head is like a barrel full of gun powder. What’s wrong with us, brother? What have we done and how can we face the tragedies and protect ourselves? Our people aren’t up to the challenge and neither are we up to the plan. No small spot in the world would give us hope or even the flicker of a light, what have we done?”

  He then remembered Kamal, what he had said and how he was running away from these circumstances. Did he blame him? In the depth of his heart he did but in a remote corner of his mind a question kept nagging him, “Had Wadi al-Rihan embraced him? Even we, his family, had we embraced him, had we understood him, had we listened to him, had we given to him so that he would give back to us?” Mazen had told him that leadership was giving, but Kamal had yelled back, “I’m not a leader and I don’t have leadership qualities. I’m only a scientist, ready to work, give me work.”

  But the work moved away from him and was picked up by Said, who changed the purification station into a pollution station.

  Mazen suddenly remembered his brother and said, “Kamal is leaving tonight I wonder how he’ll manage.”

  The governor asked him casually, while taking in the sight of the growing number of young people lined against the wall and the street full of cars, “Who are you talking about?”

  Mazen replied, saddened, “My eldest brother, he’s a scientist who works for the Germans.”

  The governor said in a monotonous tone, “For the Germans? What Germans? He must return and work with us. The country needs its sons’ brains, he must come back.”

  Mazen muttered, feeling twice as depressed as before he had heard the empty reply of the governor who spoke meaningless words, “It’s difficult for him to return.”

  But the governor repeated thoughtlessly, “He must come back.”

  Mazen repeated somewhat angrily, “It’s difficult for him to return.”

  The governor repeated the usual words, “Give me his papers and I’ll bring him back.”

  But Mazen didn’t reply and remained silent. The governor turned to him and said, sincerely, “I can bring him back. I can get him an identity card and a national number.”

&
nbsp; Mazen wanted to take a deep breath, to shout, to beat his cheeks, to rip his shirt and get out of his clothes. He wanted to tell him: is Kamal a national number? Is that what we are, just numbers? Is that the difficulty? Is that the secret of his refusal to return? Doesn’t this man understand that the most difficult thing in this case was not the number, but numbers? We are the difficult part because we are the numbers, we are the leaders, we are the environment, we are the street. He then remembered the conversation they had had about Kamal and Nahleh’s experience in old Nablus, and the ordeal with the Black Tigers. They had been held at a national detention center, and it was therefore more dangerous. It wouldn’t have been so frightening had Kamal been detained by the Israelis. What could Mazen say? He had asked his brother vigorously to be patient, to understand, and to make sacrifices because the true leader must be generous. Kamal had shouted at him, having lost all patience, “I am neither a leader nor an administrator, just give me work.” But the work had disappeared and Said had caught it.

  Futna said in a weak voice, “Mother why do you always react like this, what would happen if we said Hadassa? They might let us go through if we say that we’re going to Hadassa.”

  The mother didn’t reply and continued to stare at the sight from the small window behind Mazen’s head. Although the window was too small to reveal the whole scene, she knew what was happening there. She had memorized the events, as familiar to her as the various districts of Jerusalem, all its corners and its paths. She was a young woman in her thirties when they had entered the city with their machine guns, and she was over sixty now. She was a mother, Nasser’s mother then and she was a grandmother now, for this one!