by Sayed Kashua
International Praise for Dancing Arabs:
“A beautiful and moving novel … The great innovation in Sayed Kashua’s book is the sense that every line is the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
—Ha’aretz (Israel)
“An astonishing book … without self-righteousness [Kashua] illuminates the hell of anguished cohabitation and the prejudices that foment fear.”
—La Liberte (France)
“Mixing slapstick and desperation, war and daily life, grand political scenarios and individual tragedy … Dancing Arabs captures the double bind of Arab-Israelis.”
—Panorama (Italy)
“Dancing Arabs is a delight despite its bitter truth. Kashua and his anti-hero laugh, and in that is more heroism than in any explosive belt.”
—Neue Zuricher Zeitung (Switzerland)
“[Kashua’s] hero does not have a God. He does not threaten with violence, nor does he ask for pity. … His life is a masquerade ball, and though he betrays himself, disguises himself, and pours himself from one character to another, he is always honest. And no reader, foreign or local, can remain indifferent to his truth.”
—Dorit Rabinyan, author of Persian Brides
“Anyone who wants to understand what is happening to the Arab society in Israel has to read this excellent first novel. … It is difficult to imagine an empathy greater than the one displayed by this writer towards his family, his childhood landscape and his people.”
—Ma’ariv (Israel)
“A striking satire.”
—Die Welt (Germany)
DANCING ARABS
DANCING ARABS
SAYED KASHUA
Translated from the Hebrew
by
Miriam Shlesinger
Copyright © 2002 by Sayed Kashua
Translation copyright © 2004 by Miriam Shlesinger
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.
First published in the Hebrew language by Modan Publishing House, Ltd.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Qashu, Sayed, 1975–
[’Arvim rokdim. English]
Dancing Arabs / by Sayed Kashua ; translated from the Hebrew by Miriam Shlesinger.
p. cm.
eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-5558-4661-9
1. Children, Palestinian Arab—Fiction. I. Shlesinger, Miriam, 1947– II. Title.
PJ5055.38.A84A8713 2004
892.4′37—dc22 2003067765
Grove Press
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
DANCING
ARABS
PART ONE
Grandma’s Death Equipment
The Keys to the Cupboard
I was always looking for the keys to the cupboard. I looked for them every time Grandma went to visit the home of another old woman in the village who had died. The old brown cupboard was like a locked trunk with a treasure inside—diamonds and royal jewels. One morning, after another night when I’d sneaked into her bed because I was too scared to fall asleep, I saw her take the key out of a hidden pocket she’d sewn in one of her pillows. Grandma handed me the key and asked me to take her prayer rug out of the cupboard for her. I leaped out of bed at once. What had come over her? Was she really letting me open the cupboard? I took the key, and as soon as I put it in the lock, Grandma said, “Turn it gently. Everything is rusty by now.”
White dresses were hanging in one section, and in the other were shelves with towels, folded sharwals, and stockings. No underpants. Grandma didn’t wear underwear, just sharwals. The sheepskin prayer rug was on the bottom shelf. She’d made it herself: bought the sheep on ‘id el-fitr, skinned it, salted it, and dried it in the sun. On the top shelf she’d put an enormous blue suitcase, the one she’d taken on her hajj a few years earlier. What’s she got in there? I wondered. Maybe a few more of those policemen’s outfits, like the ones she brought back to us from Mecca.
I pulled the rug off the shelf and spread it out on the spot where Grandma always said her prayers. She would pray sitting down, because by then it was hard for her to kneel for so long.
Grandma lives with us. Actually, we live with her. She has her own room, with her own bathroom and a basin for washing her hands before saying her prayers, and she never passes through the living room or the kitchen. The way she sees it, anyone who wants her has to go into her room. She would never dream of invading Mother’s territory. And if my parents would rather not talk to her, that’s fine too; she has no intention of striking up a conversation. It used to be her house once, until my father, her only son, took it over, added a few rooms, got married, and had kids of his own. Of Grandma’s four grandsons, I was the only one who would crawl into bed with her. I almost never slept in the room I shared with my brothers. I’d always wait for my parents to fall asleep, and then, very very quietly, I’d sneak into Grandma’s room, into her bed. She knew I was afraid—of thieves, of the dark, of monsters. She knew that with her I felt protected, and she never told me not to come, never said, Don’t crawl into bed with me anymore, even though it was a twin bed and more than thirty years old. Every morning I’d wake at dawn, when Grandma would be saying her prayers. I’d never seen the key. She’d never asked me to bring her anything from the cupboard.
When she finished praying that morning, she turned to me. “Did you see where I hide the key? You’re the only one I’m telling, and I want you to promise me not to tell anyone else till the day I die. Then you’ll open the cupboard and tell your aunts—they’re bound to come here when I’m dead—that all the equipment is in the blue bag. You understand? They mustn’t use anything except that equipment. Promise?”
I promised.
“And it’s time you stopped being afraid. Such a smart boy, what are you afraid of? Hurry up, off to your room before your parents wake up.”
Now I’m the one in charge of Grandma’s death. She must know something I don’t. Otherwise, what would she need death equipment for? And what is death equipment anyway?
After that morning when Grandma told me where the key was hidden, I started racing home every recess. I only had five minutes, but we lived really close to the school. When the bell rang, I could hear it from our house, and I always made it back to class before the teacher had covered the distance from the teachers’ room. I was never late. I was the best student in the class, the best in the whole fourth grade. Every time I ran home, I imagined my grandmother lying in her twin bed with her four daughters standing over her, weeping and singing the very same songs they sang when Uncle Bashir, Aunt Fahten’s husband, died or when Uncle Shakker, Aunt Ibtissam’s husband, died. I knew I mustn’t miss Grandma’s death, and I always prayed that I’d make it back before they buried her. I had to get there in time to tell them about the blue suitcase. I had to tell them about the death equipment. Nobody knew where the key was, not even my father, her only male offspring.
At night, I continued sneaking off to Grandma’s bed and sleeping beside her. But instead of being afraid of the dark, of thieves, and of dogs, I started being afraid that the woman next to me would die. Her large body no longer gave me a feeling of security. From that point on, I started sleeping with her to protect
her. I would wake up very often, holding my breath and putting the back of my hand to her mouth. So long as I could feel the warm air, I knew—Not yet; death hasn’t come yet.
Grandma didn’t mention the blue bag of death equipment again, as if she’d forgotten all about it, as if her death wasn’t on her mind anymore. Then, at some point in fifth grade, between winter break and spring break, when I dashed home during recess as usual, Grandma wasn’t there. Grandma rarely left her room unless someone had died. And when she did, it took her a long time to return.
Without thinking twice I walked over to the pillow. Gently, without moving it, I pushed my hand into the secret pocket and pulled out the key. I remembered Grandma saying that everything was rusty, so I turned the key slowly and carefully. That’s all I needed—for it to break off in the lock.
The things in the cupboard were just as they had been, as if nothing had changed: the rug, the white dresses, the sharwals. No underpants, only stockings. I couldn’t reach the top shelf. I took off my shoes, placed one foot on the shelf with the rug and the other one on the sharwal shelf, and managed to open the metal locks of the blue suitcase with one hand.
I could hardly see what it held, but I could feel towels. What, only towels? Is that the death equipment: towels? But the whole house is full of towels. Since when are there special death towels?
I ran to the kitchen to get a chair and stood on it. Just then I heard the bell. Another lesson was starting, but I was not going to run straight back this time. Let them mark me absent. I’d say I had a stomachache. They’d believe me because I’m a good student. I forgot about the bell and focused on the suitcase. Up on the chair I could reach it much more easily. I mustered all my strength before lifting it, but the suitcase was much lighter than I’d imagined. For some reason, I’d expected the death equipment to be heavy.
I put the suitcase down on Grandma’s bed and studied its contents. The towels on top were meticulously folded. I took them out, one by one, making a mental note of the position of each one so I could replace it exactly. There were five of them. Underneath was a large piece of white fabric with the word Mecca written on it. My grandma must want them to use this cloth for her shroud. Underneath, there were dozens of bars of soap, all made in Mecca. There were perfume and hand cream too, a pair of tweezers still in its wrapping, scissors, and a new hairbrush. I didn’t know that the death equipment was toiletries. I was very disappointed. Is this what I was missing agriculture class for—soaps and towels?
Now that all the equipment was out of the suitcase, I saw it was lined with newspapers. I was sure they were just there to protect the equipment from humidity, but before I had a chance to put the toiletries back inside, my eyes fell on a picture in one of the papers. It was all written in Hebrew, and I hadn’t learned Hebrew well enough yet to read a paper, but in the newsprint I saw a small faded passport photo of a young man looking at me.
My hands froze. It was a picture of my father. True, he looked much younger. I’d never seen a picture of him at that age, but I could swear it was my father.
I lifted the paper, and underneath it were many more newspapers using that old passport photo. All of them were in Hebrew, and in class we were still plodding through “Who is this? This is Father. Who is this? This is Mother.” I made up my mind: I’ve got to learn Hebrew. I’ve got to be able to read a Hebrew newspaper.
I rummaged some more and found dozens of postcards hidden underneath. These were in Arabic. I recognized my father’s handwriting right away: beautiful and rounded, like a drawing. My father had been the best student in Tira. I’d always wanted to be like him.
I pulled out a postcard and read:
Dear Bashir,
How is my sister Fahten? I hope everything is well with you. I am fine, thank goodness. Tell Mother to stop crying. I will be released soon. Give my love to Sharifa, Fahten, Ibtissam, Shuruk, and the children.
P.S. There are a few things I would like Mother to bring on her next visit: a notebook, two pencils, a pair of socks, and two pair of underpants.
Yours,
Your brother Darwish
There were many red triangles on the postcard, with some Hebrew writing inside them, and on the back was a black-and-white picture of a girl soldier eating a falafel. Another bell went off. They were breaking for recess, and class would be starting again soon.
I quickly arranged the postcards and the papers the way they were before, put all the equipment back in the suitcase, and placed the suitcase back on the top shelf. After locking the cupboard, I pushed the key into the hidden pocket, and within two minutes I had returned the chair to the kitchen, put my shoes on, locked the front door, and was running back to class.
On my way, I saw a funeral. I spotted my grandmother. It was Abu Ziad who had died, our neighbor, whose grandson Ibrahim was in my class. My grandmother couldn’t stand the sight of Abu Ziad. As for me, I couldn’t stand the sight of Ibrahim.
The Best-looking, the Smartest
One day when my father was a young man, he was sitting on the bed and listening to the radio.
“I don’t know what he was listening to,” Grandma says, “but all of a sudden he gave out a Yes! and jumped to the ceiling. Where did he take the strength from? He literally flew through the air. It gave me a fright, and I said, ‘In the name of Allah the Merciful, what happened to you, yamma?’”
My father didn’t answer. Grandma says he had a smile on his face, the likes of which she’d never seen before, and he packed a bag at once, kissed her, and said he was returning to Jerusalem.
A few hours later, the A-Daula—the State—arrived at our door. There must have been a hundred soldiers and policemen. Grandma was alone in the house. My four aunts were married already. “They searched every corner of the house. They had instruments that beeped, and they ran them over every stone. They turned the cupboards upside down, and the beds too. I said to them, ‘Tell me what you’re looking for, and maybe I can help you,’ but they didn’t answer. They went through every page in your father’s books, took some of them, and left others behind. They went through his papers too. Then they started on the garden, digging up every inch.” They’d been searching for weapons, of course, but she didn’t figure that out until after they’d left. “I knew something had happened to him. I begged them to tell me if my son was all right, to tell me what had happened, but they didn’t answer.”
Grandma says my father never gave her so much as a single moment of peace. Ever. Grandma loves him very much. She says she loves him more than she loves herself. She was so keen for him to study at the university, she did everything she could to get him the tuition, the rent, and the spending money. She worked like two men, and everything she earned was for him. He lacked for nothing. Nobody would have guessed he was fatherless. He was the cleanest child in the class, the best-looking in the school. His clothes were always neat and ironed.
My grandma says he would go to school like a prince. Everyone envied him. Lots of kids beat up on him, and Grandma would head straight for their homes and shout at them and their parents. Anyone who tried to pull anything with my father knew he’d have my grandma to answer to. He was the best student. He studied a lot. Every night he’d sit up and study by candlelight, and when our neighbor would start singing—she loved to do that right in the middle of the night—he would light the kerosene heater so the noise would drown out her voice. He paced the fields with his books in hand and got the highest grades.
On graduation day my Uncle Bashir, Allah yerakhamu, waited for him at the gate, and as soon as the ceremony was over he lifted my father up high, seated him on his shoulders, and danced all the way home. Uncle Bashir was a hero. He was broad as a camel. Barely made it through the door.
You couldn’t tell that my father had no brothers and no father to take care of him. Even when she had no money for food, Grandma would buy him any book he asked for. She also bought him an expensive bike. She didn’t want anyone thinking she was poor. She’d always tell me
how she used to stuff plastic bags into the quilts, so her neighbors would think there was money rustling inside. No one could figure out how a widow who worked as a fruit picker could have money, but she just always said, God provides.
And then everything came tumbling down around her: her son, her investment, his studies. Even Grandma didn’t know where he was. They said he was with the army. She couldn’t sleep till she saw him. Uncle Bashir and Uncle Shakker—Aunt Ibtissam’s husband—helped her comb every prison in the country. They didn’t have a car, so they had to take buses. First they were told he was in Maskubieh, then in Ramla, then in Shatta, in Damon, in Beersheba.
Only two weeks later did she see him being taken to the detention center. She says she cried and screamed. He seemed smaller than usual, and he looked hungry. She always used the same words to describe what had happened there, and she’d always hold her white handkerchief in her hand, lifting it and lowering it at a mourner’s pace, as if she’d filled it with sand and was pouring the sand over her head. “They’re killing you, yamma. Did they beat you? What have they done to you, yamma, ya habibi?”
Grandma says that was just the beginning. She didn’t have money for bus fare, so she started borrowing from my aunts to make the weekly trip, every Friday. She didn’t miss a single visit, and she went for every remand. She didn’t understand what they were saying. She just wanted to see him again, to know he was all right. She would never forgive herself if she missed even a single opportunity to see him. And she never went empty-handed. Always took him something to eat or something to wear, so he wouldn’t get the idea that she was lacking for anything.
Her legs grew weaker. Her joints turned to soap, and she began using a cane. My father had been remanded yet again, without any evidence being produced. It was the Shabak, the General Security Service, that had demanded those remands, and the material was classified. All they said was “Dangerous, dangerous.” It’s known as administrative detention. They took him to a different detention center each time and never bothered to let Grandma know. She would have to go to great lengths to find out he’d been transferred, for example, from Shatta prison to Damon prison.
