I said, “This meeting was called by Zahir Bakhit. Everyone here has the right to express himself. However, let me remind you of the ground rules that have to be observed in Mihyan’s meetinghouse: Nobody raises his voice at anybody else, and nobody interrupts anyone who’s talking, no matter how vehemently they happen to disagree. After all, we’re brothers. We’ve been through hard times together, and we’ve faced them. Do you remember the flood? Do you remember the mud houses? The history of the village tells us about problems that are much bigger than the issue we’re meeting to discuss now. This is nothing but a minor dispute. Now, whoever wants to begin can begin.”
Everyone looked at the person beside him, waiting for him to start the discussion. No one spoke. “All right,” I said, “we’ll start with you, Sa‘id Dhab‘a.”
He gulped, then said, “All right. The fact is, the issue here is bigger than you imagine. It’s more than just a matter of annoyance, and somebody shouting in the night, and the Saturnine poet, and the homeland. Everybody in this village has a purpose. A clear purpose that everyone knows. Mihyan is a builder, and a leader that people appeal to for legal decisions. Walad Sulaymi is a merchant. Walad Shamshum is a farmer, who provides us with dates, tomatoes, and mangoes. Suhayl al-Jamra al-Khabitha is a fisherman, who brings us fish. Imam Rashid is a scholar, who rules for us on matters of religion. He organizes celebrations of the Prophet’s birthday and Fatiha ceremonies, and chants the Qur’an over the dead in their graves. Ubayd al-Dik is a muezzin. Excuse me . . . Jam‘an is a muezzin, too. All these people have specific jobs and purposes that serve the village, and that have served it for years. As for Khalid Bakhit, his purpose isn’t clear, and never has been. He lived in the village until he finished secondary school, then went away for eight years. During those eight years we only saw him rarely, for a day or two every month or so. And even during these short visits, he would spend all his time shut up in his room. If it hadn’t been for prayer in the mosque, people wouldn’t even have known he was back. When he passed someone in the street, he wouldn’t bother to say hello. He gave the best he had to the city. Then, all of a sudden, he showed up again. Things developed, and he started meeting with the young men and giving them books with white pages. What’s in these books? Only God knows. One thing that is certain, though, is that their content is a far cry from the kind of knowledge Imam Rashid gives us. Which of you young men these days knows anything about the Prophet’s birthday celebration? Which of you knows the prayer we pray for the deceased during a Fatiha gathering? None of you does. What has Khalid Bakhit taught you? He’s said, ‘The homeland . . . the homeland . . . the homeland,’ and he’s recited poems to you that he says he got from a poet from Saturn. I’ve never visited Saturn. However, I know it’s a town located north of the big city. My father, may he rest in peace, told me so. I also know that I could go to Saturn and ask about this poet. I could even bring him here and have him confess that he has nothing to do with these poems, which are just schemes hatched by Khalid Bakhit to poison boys’ minds. But I’m not going to do that. After all, we all agree with what I’m saying, so what need is there to prove it? And now things have gotten to the point where he wakes us up in the middle of the night to cry over his lost homeland. I won’t tire you with more details. Walad Shamshum will take it from here, since I can see from the look in his eye that he has a lot to say. Go ahead, Walad Shamshum.” Sa‘id Dhab‘a sat down, licking his lips.
Walad Shamshum cleared his throat and stroked his thick beard. Casting a glance around the room, he said, “What does Khalid Bakhit want from us? This is the most important question. We all agree that no one, no matter who he is, has the right to disturb the rest of the people in the village. We’ve lived our whole lives respecting each other, and what Khalid is doing is an assault on his neighbors’ rights and our families’ well-being. There’s no disagreement on this point. The issue is: What does Khalid Bakhit want? It’s really quite baffling. What do we lack now that he needs to bring us? If we posed this question to him, how would he answer us? He might say, for example, ‘Development.’ And we would say, ‘We don’t want development that destroys the goodwill among us and makes us like city folk. It’s enough for us to have electricity and the things that come with it, like refrigerators and television sets. The more developed we get, the more we grow apart. Where are the young people these days? Mihyan’s meetinghouse used to be the place where every man in the village would come. But after televisions came along, the only times we saw the meetinghouse full were when there was a disaster or a problem. Like tonight, for example: the young men are only here because there’s a problem. The rest of the time, we don’t see them. And why is that? Because of development, right? So we don’t want it, Khalid. You can have the city if you want, but leave this village to us.”
He got his breath back, then said no more. All eyes were now on Walad Sulaymi, who was looking at the floor. He raised his head. “Whoever was born in the village and lived here for seventeen years can’t be considered a stranger. He belongs to the village even if he did go to live somewhere else for eight years. What matters is that he’s spent his whole life between the ravine and the sea! So don’t fool yourselves and don’t go to extremes by denying him his rights. He’s one of you. A member of your family. From your village. The city will never be a mother to him. Maybe he was wrong to wake you up so late at night for no reason. But I don’t think something like this calls for all the things you’re doing now. Lots of people have wronged you far worse than Khalid has, so why all this fuss? The mistake he made doesn’t call for him to be banished from the village or to have curses called down on him. Whether before or since Khalid came back, do you think you’ve been angels that are too perfect to make a mistake, and that when you die you’ll be ushered straight into heaven? He woke you up at night because he was grieving over his homeland. As for you, you’ve got plenty of black marks on your record. If you need examples, just search your memories. I won’t remind you. But I will say this: He made a mistake, but don’t go overboard in settling accounts. Instead, compare his mistakes with the mistakes all of us have made.”
Walad Sulaymi fell silent. Then Hamid Dahana said, “We aren’t going overboard in settling accounts. No accounts have even been settled yet, so it can’t be said we’ve gone overboard. All we want from this young man is for him to make a commitment that will guarantee our rights as his neighbors and protect our children from bad ideas and books with white pages. It’s a simple matter. We don’t want to banish him from the village.” Many nodded their heads in agreement.
Zahir Bakhit raised his bowed head. Those gathered discovered that every one of them had been waiting the entire time for a move from this old man. Now, at the first move he had made since the conversation had begun, not a breath could be heard. The grandfather said, “Have you said everything you have to say? If so, then let’s talk about Alam al-Din.”
Everyone was taken aback, and looks of incredulity appeared on their faces. As for me, I was enraged. Who was this Alam al-Din, anyway? Zahir Bakhit continued, “I met with Shaykh Faraj, and he told me that he was going to send us a man by the name of Alam al-Din from the land of Bangladesh. He’s a God-fearing, restrained young man who studied in his country, and has come to serve the religion here and to educate the expatriate Bengali community. Shaykh Faraj has met with him and gotten to know him well. Your shaykh thinks Alam al-Din would be a great help to Imam Rashid, who has complained for some time now about the children’s lack of interest in religion. Young people don’t participate much in celebrations of the Prophet’s birthday and the ceremonies for reciting the Fatiha over the dead, and he’s started to worry that knowledge of the religion might be lost. So he proposed the idea to Alam al-Din, and he accepted. He’ll be arriving the day after tomorrow, and the shaykh is hoping you’ll cooperate by providing room, board, and clothing for him. As for his monthly stipend, the shaykh will cover that.”
I swear to God, that old man is some sly dog. He’s a r
eal trickster, and he knows how to get people to do whatever he wants them to. He turned a meeting that had been charged with rage into a calm discussion of the subject of Alam al-Din and how they would provide him with clothing, food, and shelter. Imam Rashid was the only one who refused to join in. Sa‘id Dhab‘a tried to steer the conversation back to the subject of Khalid by asking, “So, where’s your response to what was said about Khalid? Why didn’t you offer your defense of him?” But all Zahir Bakhit said was, “I asked you to come and say what you have to say in the meetinghouse instead of polluting the house of God with unseemly conversation. But did any of you hear me say I would respond or defend? I made no such promise. And now you’ve had your say.”
It was time to go, so the gathering dispersed, and the only thing that stuck in our minds was the discussion of Alam al-Din. Khalid Bakhit left, still laughing. Khadim washed the coffee cups and the dalla, then put out the fire. I went into my house and found loneliness waiting for me.
AYDA
Passing before the Lovesick Balconies
Pass by here, you mad lover, and keep my breaths with you. Mix me with the flavor of the light and dip me in your arteries. Take me to you, since I don’t want to live without you any longer. My longing heart was afraid for you before you went to the council meeting. I’d heard my mother say they were going to banish you from the village forever. In spite of myself I got teary-eyed right in front of her. Clearly upset, she gasped, “What’s making you cry? Damn you, what are you hiding from me?”
I couldn’t answer. I hid my face and sat down.
She grabbed my hand angrily. “What’s making you cry? Is there something between the two of you?”’
“No! I swear to you, we haven’t talked for years.”
“So what made you cry when I mentioned that they were going to banish him?”
“It pained me to think of his situation. I imagined myself in his place. Wouldn’t it be hard to be driven out wherever you go, and not to find a homeland?”
“Damn you! So now you’re talking about the ‘homeland’ too? Don’t you dare go repeating the crazy things he says in this house, or I won’t let you go to the university.”
She withdrew, still looking angry. When my mother is angry or worried, her walk completely changes. Her steps get shorter and faster, and she puts a lot less pressure on the ground than she normally would. I often know she’s angry before I’ve seen her face or talked to her. She was going down the stairs to the living room in a huff my ears couldn’t miss. The word ‘university’ came to my hearing again. At one time I’d been quite happy to be the only female student at the university from this village. But as time passed, I discovered how difficult it is to be in this position. Sometimes, when she gets angry, my mother claims that the reason I’ve gone downhill is that I’ve been “studying at that good-for-nothing university,” as she puts it. I heard her go into the kitchen and start banging the cabinet doors ferociously. From that moment on I started talking to the sky and the stars and the little angels while I waited for you, Khalid.
I wished I had a disappearing cap I could put on, so that I could attend the meeting myself and make sure you were all right. I would have sat near you and indulged in the pleasure of caressing your eyelashes. If only I could kiss those beautiful, placid eyes of yours. I would have been prepared to take off the cap and appear at the right moment if they had decided to exile you, saying, “No! He won’t leave alone! I’ll leave with him! And all of us who love freedom and progress will leave, too. You ignorant people don’t know who Khalid Bakhit really is. He’s the one who set the university on fire with his rebellion, who was unfazed by all the threats he received from the administration and the professors who tried to pressure him by changing his results and depriving him of the chance to go on to graduate school. This is the lofty-minded Khalid who wouldn’t allow himself to be humiliated, the one who said to the president of the university, ‘If there’s something we need from God, all we have to do is perform ablutions and perform two rak‘as in the middle of the night. Great and awesome as He is, He responds to us just like that, whereas you, a puny little human being, made me wait an entire month at your doorstep before I could meet with you for five minutes, after which you told me, “I won’t help you.” So I say: To hell with you and your university. One of these days you’ll regret what you did to me.’ It was Khalid who led the university’s first student demonstration. In a thoroughly intelligent move, he led the students from the campus to the poor neighborhood that surrounded the university. In this way he brought together two fires: the fire of rebellious students living stifled in their dormitories, and the fire of the poor people living in exile on their own soil, searching for enough food to keep them alive from one day to the next. The poor were stifled, too. On that day the two fires merged, sparking a huge popular demonstration. He was unfazed by the beatings he endured at the hands of the riot police, and he refused to go to the emergency room at the university hospital, saying, ‘I don’t need anything from them.’ This is who Khalid is, you cowards, you people who give in to your weakness, who think about nothing but your own petty dreams!”
I swear I’ll be with you if they send you away, with you, my beautiful dream. After that we’ll travel together and go all over the world. I know this is what you’ve hoped for. I read it in your lovely handwriting in the register of the university’s Arabic Script Society. You wrote, “O God, grant me the health I need to roam this earth with a peaceful heart and a satisfied mind.”
Beautiful dream of mine, come over to this balcony. You seem so happy and confident. No doubt you brought them into your verbal mazes and your crazy worlds so that they ran away, just wanting to ensure their own well-being, and gave up all their ambitions of bringing you down. Pass under my balcony. If only I could come down to you now to ask, “How did you get the better of them this time?” I adore all your adventures and stunts. If only I could be with you always. This has been my wish for years. But we’ve never met.
How I wished we would meet in school so that I could remind you of the days of our childhood. I was obsessed with pursuing you. There was something that attracted me to you, and at the same time filled me with rage. If I saw you with a toy, I’d go crying to my mother, then refuse to eat or drink until they’d bought me the same toy. If I saw you wearing a new pair of shoes, I would do the same thing: I wouldn’t rest till I’d managed to buy the same kind of boys’ shoes. Do you remember that? What kinds of memories do you have of me? You always had an aversion to me, while the other boys were always running after me. I kept hoping for some happenstance moment that would bring us together at the school entrance so that I could talk to you, but the moment never came. Every night I would say, “Tomorrow I’ll see you and talk to you.” Days and days passed, but that tomorrow never came!
I hoped to meet up with you at the university, but my luck was bad. I was accepted into the Faculty of Arts, and then you graduated, as though I’d always be destined to go running after you. I would try to catch up with you as you went running through a distant darkness. Your clothes would be spattered with blood, and you would be crying. I would call out to you, but you wouldn’t turn around or stop. It was as though you were running away from me alone. We would run till we were exhausted, and when I caught up with you, our breathing would stop, and the nightmare that was constantly robbing me of sleep would be cut off.
You’re passing through my spirit now, taking all my breaths along with you. You’re surrounded by an extraordinary halo of light that draws me. You’re humming that song of yours that sums me up so perfectly. Pass by here, you rebellious, nonchalant lover. I’ve given you a home in my every blood vessel from the time when we were children. So take me to yourself, and cast care to the wind. Why don’t you stop for a while and look up at the moon? You’re bound to see me, and you’ll realize that I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. When you pass by, your steps are quick as though you were running away. Don’t be in such a hurry, please!
I’m burning with fear and anticipation, and you come rushing by as though you were afraid this lovesick balcony might fall on you. Slow down, please. Slow down!
You rushed into your house and left me alone. Are you going to turn on the lights, then open your balcony in a little while to gaze out at the expanse over the minaret? Even if I can’t see you, I enjoy seeing the same sky that you see. I find myself floating with you through space. I spread my hair and take off running so that you’ll run after me. I laugh as you pant after me. I won’t sleep tonight in celebration of your victory over them. I’m going to check on my father now. Then I’ll be back. . . .
I crossed the narrow hallway and headed for the room opposite mine. I knocked on the door.
“Come in,” came my father’s voice softly. I opened the door and went in. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling. I ran over to him happily and kissed him.
“See how handsome you are, Abu Ayda! You look marvelous tonight. Your laugh is beautiful.”
“It’s no more beautiful than your smile, you naughty girl.”
I brought the chair and sat across from him. As usual, my father took me in with his eyes before starting to talk to me. This is what I was thinking about as I sat down. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. He started out by saying, “I thought I was going to die, and that I wouldn’t get the chance to see your children. The fever wore me out.”
Earth Weeps, Saturn Laughs Page 4
