by Rose Fox
“Listen, it doesn’t work like that. You have to be smarter, use surprise tactics and ambush them. You are only a few and you’re untrained. You should never expose yourselves in indefensible skirmishes.”
“Oh, I’m happy you’re here,” Kahida exclaimed and kissed Abigail on her forehead. Abigail hadn‘t realized that it was almost impossible to teach or train disabled people who won’t permit interference in their actions.
The following day, Abigail went to look around. She was curious to see how the village was run.
She saw that every yard had a well-ordered garden like a nursery, but each household cultivated only one type of plant. Later, she heard that the gardens were organized according to a plan. No one sowed or planted what he wished but followed the plan. The only difference she saw between the yards was the flowers and various flowering shrubs, which were cultivated according to individual taste.
The trails were quiet at this time of the morning and there was no one around. When she reached the outskirts of the village, she stopped in front of small fruit orchards and along the paths between the trees she saw wheelchairs. People sat in them, wielding implements to dig and rake the earth or dragged irrigation pipes. Those trees bore apples and in another grove there was orange-colored fruit. None of the workers paid attention to her.
She heard the whooping and hollering of children behind her and between the two groves she saw structures that looked like a school. The children were outside enjoying their break. Abigail continued to the next road and saw two rows of buildings on either side of it. The noise and clatter of tools were heard everywhere. Small cars and wheelchairs with missing wheels in various states of repair and assembly stood outside.
When she went back through the gate to the house, she found Kahida busy in her garden and joined her. Tiny stalks pushed up out of the planting beds in straight rows.
“This year, I’m cultivating green and red peppers and in the beds, over there, by the fence I planted radishes.”
“Wonderful. Who instructs you or supplies you with seeds for the plants?”
“We have gardeners whose job it is to plan and divide the different vegetables between us.”
They continued working in silence and Abigail told her she had seen the school and heard the children and asked who taught them and organized their activities.
“They are also professionals or volunteers.”
”Are they real teachers?”
“I don’t know, but no one is required to present his qualifications or certificates and, believe me, everything is done with love because they are our children.”
“That’s really impressive,” Abigail said as she continued weeding the beds.
“Kahida, do you know what I haven‘t seen here?” Abigail remarked, “There are no policemen. How do you deal with thieves and criminals in this village?” And Kahida laughed.
“All of us here are criminals, outlaws and law-breakers persecuted by the authorities,” she stood firmly and put her hands on her hips.
“Who will punish us? Are we to punish ourselves?”
That evening, Abigail went out to the entrance to the village, to the waterfall from above that bounced off the rock. She saw that the construction of the walls of the village was ongoing and she noticed that the work never ended.
They explained that the rushing water at the entrance to the village washed away the soil and the wall sank all the time into the constantly muddy earth.
That night, Abigail was woken by screaming and she sat up in fright in her bed. The light turned on in one of the rooms and Abigail heard Kahida limping slowly. She heard the front door open and close again. The screaming continued and even grew louder. Concerned, she got up and went to sit in the living room and heard the cries grow fainter till they disappeared. She almost fell back to sleep in the armchair, when the door opened again and Kahida entered. When she saw Abigail, she said exhaustedly:
“That was Adel. He had a tough time today.”
“What happened to him?”
“Nothing, it’s usual. Now and then he screams when his soul is in pain and he tries to extinguish the burning inside him.”
“Oh, why does it happen to him?”
“Naima, this is our life. Some of us have head injuries and lose their mind. When they get an attack, professionals come to take care of them.”
“Ah, Kahida, are you a professional? I didn’t know.”
“I studied Psychology, but I did not complete my studies and don‘t have a diploma but, I am natural at it and help them when they need me.”
Abigail remained silent, not daring to put her thoughts into words. Kahida drew up a chair and sat down beside her.
“Yes, Naima, speak. What did you want to ask?”
“It’s not important, ah, alright.” She changed her mind. “I asked myself whether there aren’t any healthy people here, I mean to say, people who don‘t have anything wrong with them,” and received the reply:
“Why would healthy people want to live with us?”
“Ah, so that they could do the things you are doing and fight together with you.”
Kahida was exhausted, her face was wan and dark blotches spread under her eyes and she stared at Abigail.
“Here, you are with us and you seem to be healthy,” she said, and she looked at her, saw her exhaustion and wondered whether to answer her, then heard her say:
“Mullah thinks you are exquisite and I agree with him.” And then she laughed.
“What color are your mother’s eyes, Naima?”
Abigail winced and cringed. It was important not to reveal details about her life and she quickly replied with brief answers including answers to questions that had not even been asked.
“My mother’s eyes are as black as a moonless night. A hijab covers her black hair and her face is concealed behind a veil and she raised three exemplary sons.” She replied.
Kahida smiled and straightened up in her chair and appeared to Abigail to have woken up all at once. She spoke about things that interest her and make her feel secure.
“Did she also give birth to daughters?”
“Yes, six, El hamdulila, (Thanks to Allah).”
“And, do all of them have black eyes, or eyes like yours – without any color?” she pressed on with her questions.
“Ah, I understand, you don’t like my eyes,” Abigail responded to the sound of Kahida’s laughter. “But, Kahida, you know that they were also the gift of Allah.”
“Yes, of course, but you must admit that it is strange to see an Arab woman with such light-colored eyes.”
“You’re right, but I must tell you that I’m the only one who was born with eyes like mine and that’s the reason I’m not there. All the others remained beside mother in the tents, with their black eyes.”
Kahida was silent and was still staring at her when she suddenly asked:
“Did you take leave of your own free will or were you chased out?”
Abigail tensed up. This conversation was leading her to places she had not intended reaching. Kahida sensed this and said in a conciliatory tone,
“It doesn’t matter, you are beautiful. I have never seen eyes like yours, and Mullah is absolutely right.”
Kahida whispered to her hesitantly:
“Naima, we know that you are a heroine. We’ve also heard that you can fight unarmed, with your bare hands,” and Abigail wondered whether and how much she really knew about her. Perhaps, it was a way of getting facts about her past and her life out of her and she quickly changed the subject.
”No, I don’t feel like a heroine but I was raised elsewhere because I was different, and I survived.”
To put an end to the questioning that Abigail did not like, she added:
“Now, I think we should go to sleep because we’re both tired and there isn’t much left of the night, ah, what do you say?”
She tossed and turned in bed till it was almost dawn as she went over the conversation of the previous
night in her mind. She wondered whether she should leave the village and return to the Iranian towns and it was morning before she fell asleep only to be awakened by renewed screaming. This time it sounded like terrifying howls of pain and she sat up in her bed, considering whether to get up and offer her help.
The shouting continued for a long time and she blocked her ears. When the cries ceased, she heard the outside door open and shut and she got up to find Kahida limping badly. The light had gone out in her eyes and she was tired as she spoke with great sadness.
“I failed this time. It was so difficult for him.”
“What does your failure mean?”
“He died. He suffered really badly so, perhaps, it’s better this way.”
Abigail bit her lips, unable to comprehend the situation and especially not the reaction she just heard.
That same day Adel was buried and Abigail participated in the funeral procession, which was held quietly and made its way to a cemetery behind the apple orchard. There, among dozens of headstones, a grave was already dug and waiting. One of the villagers gave a short eulogy and Ibrahim and Tommy, the two guards, covered the grave with mounds of earth. Others pulled a rake and a spade and helped them. A half hour later they all returned to their regular activities as if nothing unusual had happened.
The following day, they returned to the burial ground. This time, they buried Reneh, a sixteen-year-old youth, injured in one of their failed sabotage attempts. The boy had not been able to function for many days and was interred beside his partner in the failed attack.
Abigail could not restrain herself and asked Nadia what had happened to him, to this youngster, and why he died. Nadia sighed.
“They went out a few months ago to attack the village below. Someone shot them and killed Saliman, Reneh’s partner. Reneh dragged him for hours on his wheelchair, to the cable car.” She sighed.
The mourners began making their way home after the funeral and they continued walking alongside them.
“We went down to them and saw that Reneh was also wounded and the effort of making his way back worsened his condition.
By the end of that week, Abigail participated in another three funerals and Kahida told her this was the death toll almost every week. Abigail wondered:
“Have you thought of calling in doctors and professionals from outside? Isn’t it a pity not to help the many sick people among you?
Kahida laughed briefly.
“Naima, we would all have died a long time ago had we remained outside. It is only because the injured live among disabled people like ourselves that they manage to survive.”
“I understand,” Abigail said.
“No, you don’t. Not really. All of us, who live here, strengthen and support each other, in spite of our handicaps and, perhaps, because of them.”
When they parted, she added:
“We are meeting today to plan an attack.”
In the afternoon, wheelchairs rolled up the path as many people arrived and filled the house.
After reciting their anthem, Mullah wheeled his chair right beside Abigail so that he could see her from close up. He was fair-haired with large brown eyes and she had already inquired and knew that he had been shot in the back, leaving his legs paralyzed.
“Will you dine with me?” he smiled at her.
“When?”
“Tomorrow evening, at my place, together with my brother, Benjamin.”
“Yes, it’s a date, why not? Who’s cooking?”
“I am. Benjamin says the food tastes good and he seems to be getting big and strong on it. He has no complaints.”
“Well. Sure. Does he have a choice? What if he says he doesn’t like the taste?”
“Just let him dare!” and they both laughed.
The following evening, when she was dressing, she looked in the mirror and noticed that the fair roots of her hair were showing and she wondered how to continue hiding them. At first, she thought to seek advice from Kahida but she didn’t feel like sharing this with her and decided to go to town and have her hair colored. She did not trust them enough yet.
Mullah’s house was on the parallel road to theirs and Kahida explained that she would recognize it by the huge leaves of the eggplant and the small hothouses of marrow plants in his garden. She added quietly:
“Good luck.”
“Thank you, the food will be delicious, I’m sure.”
“Who knows what will follow the meal?”
Abigail stared at her, not fully understanding what she was getting at. She knew that in Muslim society, there was no likelihood of consummating a relationship between couples without the blessing of a Qadi. But when she was about to leave, Kahida whispered to her at the door:
“Mullah isn’t a Muslim. What about you?”
Apparently Mullah had made a great effort and had sought the advice of half the village with regard to the menu. When she saw the beautifully decorated platters of food, she suddenly wondered why he was trying so hard to impress her.
“Amazing! Did you make all this yourself?” Mullah nodded proudly.
“Here, you have a profession. You can prepare meals and sell them to your friends.”
“Sell? We don’t sell anything, we give and receive and are remunerated with everything we require.”
“Is that so? So, how do you earn a living?”
“Well, what would we do with the money we take from one another?”
“You could buy the things you need.”
“But, we have everything we need here.”
Abigail sighed. She looked at Benjamin. From the beginning of the evening, he had been staring at her, large-eyed with curiosity. She laughed when Mullah sent him off to his room with a reprimand and a slap on the back of his neck as he passed him.
“Why did you slap him?” she asked.
“He has to know who’s the boss here and someone has to discipline him, right?”
After they had finished the meal, he suggested that they move to the living room and Mullah told her, without her even asking:
“My parents were killed in an explosion. Benjamin was only seven years old at the time.”
“Were you also injured in that explosion?”
“No, I was a soldier, wounded fighting in the battles between the Iraqi and Iranian armies at about the same time as our house was bombed.” He seemed to be waiting for a remark from her, but she remained silent.
“I received inferior medical care in the hospital. They treated me like a dog and when I was released, I decided to join the organization.”
“Which organization?” she inquired, “Mujahadin or Kaukab?”
“Excellent! How come you’re so well informed?” He was surprised.
“From the media.” She replied and opened her eyes innocently as he moved his hand closer to hers.
“I am a Christian, not a Muslim.” and when she did not react, he continued hesitantly.
“Perhaps it’s not important to you but I wondered if you would agree.”
“To what, to join the organization?”
“No, to live with me.”
“To live with you?!” she almost shouted and the wheels of his chair squeaked,
“I… we don’t yet know one another, haven’t you thought of that?”
“I don’t have enough time and every minute is critical. I am attracted to you.” He stated, and she thought: ‘Actually, why not.’
She agreed. Mullah called his brother, who was told of the decision and embraced her, looking into her pale eyes. The expression of happiness on his face left no doubt about his feelings and she thought that it was worth staying if only for this youngster.
“This room is for you,” he said and began rolling his wheelchair, which squeaked and squealed deafeningly, towards it.
“Doesn’t the noise drive you mad?” She stared at him, “lubricate the springs with a little oil and then they won’t hear when you come to me.”
“Oh, so that’s our only prob
lem?” he said and laughed happily. Till now he had not made any attempt to touch her and she wondered how it was possible to make love to a seated man with paralyzed legs.
He came to her room in the evening. He closed the door but stayed beside her and she glanced at him.
“Today the wheels were quiet,” she remarked, but he did not reply.
Abigail waited; Mullah wheeled the chair up to her and pulled her to him. His grip was strong and she found herself embraced in his arms and seated on his thighs. She tried to extricate herself from his grip.
“Help me undress,” he asked and Abigail began to unbutton his shirt. There was no passion in the way he regarded her and he suddenly said:
“Don’t forget, that we are meeting at Nadia’s house today.”
Abigail stopped and got off his legs.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know Mullah. I’m sorry, but I can't,” she apologized as she sat back down on the bed.
She saw him grow angry and her heart beat wildly. Without a word, Mullah turned his wheelchair around and left the room in silence.
A stormy meeting about the proposed attack took place that evening. For the first time, some of the people were not happy about the decision to act that day, but most of the opponents of the attack were women and their voice was not the decisive one. Abigail did not intervene but observed the proceedings with interest.
“Who will place the explosive?” Abigail heard the question, “and why are only two people going out today?”
She pursed her lips, wondering how decisions were reached here and considered whether to make a remark or intervene.
“May I ask something?” she inquired and, without waiting, she continued in a loud voice.
“How do you plan to secure the site you’re going to attack?”
No one answered.
“Has an escape route been planned?”
The silence continued but, then Qassem spoke:
“Excuse me! We don’t bother with security. We can get past any guards. We will simply plant the device we’ve prepared and get out of there.”
“Ah, would someone like to tell me about the attack planned for today?” she asked.
“As usual,” Ibrahim began, “the plan is to place the bomb in the offices of the Revolutionary Guards.”
