My father had bought it two or three months earlier from a weapons merchant. He had brought it home, laughing as he told us how after the seller carefully organised the bills my father had paid him and put them in his pocket, satisfied with such a profitable deal.
‘God willing you’ll only use it on live flesh . . .’ the gun merchant had said to my father wistfully.
My father didn’t tell us why he had bought a revolver he wasn’t going to use. Most probably the time had come when he could no longer say to his family and cousins that he didn’t own a weapon.
On the Feast of Holy Transfiguration, he tested it out but stopped after the third shot because it jammed.
‘Lack of practice!’ shouted one of his friends standing next to him, jokingly. That joke was suited to my father more than anyone else. He wore the gun at his waist for less than a week and then he hid it somewhere in the house. Probably because the gun tired him out, its weight on his waist tired him out. We knew there was a gun in the house, but didn’t know where it was. Every house had a hiding place for guns, because at any time the government might resolve to confiscate all the weapons from people’s houses.
‘You want me to give you my gun?’
The request had surprised him, despite his distaste for weapons.
‘We’ll give it back to you this evening or tomorrow morning . . . We may need it.’
The fellow with the wart on his left cheek added, ‘You can spare it. Nothing bad will happen to you as long you’re staying here with your wife.’
He didn’t say, ‘As long as you’re staying here with your wife and children.’ He seemed to be trying to insult my father that way. We hadn’t noticed that detail but my mother explained it later, on our way to the Grotto of Qadisha. And truly something stirred inside my father, but not in the expected direction.
He passed by us, red in the face, walking steadily towards the kitchen with signs of a difficult decision written in his eyes. We watched him from where we had gathered to wait for him in the living room. He opened the bread bin, reached deep down to its base, and pulled out the gun in its black leather holster. A hiding place so obvious you’d never think of it. If we had ever used up every last loaf of bread, we would have discovered it.
He came back with the same steady walk. We could see him from behind as he stood at the door.
‘Here you go!’
Later, images that we came across – like those officers in World War II movies who’d been stripped of their ranks by the military court, or the picture in our history book of the French general (who we later found out was Jewish) dressed in colourful clothing as he handed over his sword to another officer to be broken over his knee – these images and many others would remind us of our father as he stood there in the doorway handing over his revolver with one hand to the stocky man and the two clips to the man with the tipped hat with the other, while the bright light of day streamed over the three men and flooded into the living room.
But we children won out. We went on our Sunday outing. It was a warm and sunny day. I have no idea where the rain that fell at the time of the incident came from.
My father drove in silence. Every once in a while, and without realising it – as he said when my mother alerted him to it – he would start going too fast, and so my mother would remind him that all the children were in the back seat. He would slow down a little, only to press down on the accelerator again a little later.
At lunch, too, my father barely said a word. He would let out a boisterous laugh for no real reason and then plunge back into a long silence. Later on he told us he had had a bad feeling that day. When we coaxed him, he would laugh or play with one of us, look at his watch, stop eating, only to become distracted once again.
We came home in the evening. But Farid Badwi al-Semaani, the man with the tipped hat, my father’s paternal cousin who we’d seen standing in our doorway that Sunday morning for the first and last time, did not return. They covered him in a shroud and laid him out in the church courtyard, right in front of the main gate to the Girls’ School. His mother stooped over him, grieving. She waved his silk shirt in the air at times and later wore it herself. Having lost her voice, she began opening her mouth and moving her lips without making any sound. Nazha Murad elegised him, calling him the best tailor that ever was, the maker of the finest suits.
The stocky eloquent Ayyoub is still alive today. He had been shot in the mouth and thigh and was counted among the casualties in the Telegraph newspaper that came out the next day. He passed out for a few hours from loss of blood, but then he came round. Ayyoub was also my father’s cousin, but he only dropped by our house from time to time.
At any rate, they all became cousins after the incident.
As for us, the news about us spread quickly. Us, meaning my father. His sin was the outing to Qadisha. And my mother.
We girls – my sister and I – kept the harsh words that were sometimes slung at us to ourselves. My ten-year-old brother couldn’t bear those sharp arrows. He didn’t understand. One day he came home early, before sunset – his usual curfew. He slammed every door to express his anger.
‘Open the door, Munir.’
We gathered in front of the bedroom door. He had locked it with the key from the inside. We could hear nothing but pounding on the walls, either from his fists or his head. We were worried about him. We threatened to break the door down if he didn’t speak.
But in the face of his stubbornness we chose to keep pleading with him and questioning him until he finally came out with a question. ‘I want to know . . .’
We seized the opportunity and encouraged him. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Tell me now, right now. Where is my father’s gun?’
When we weren’t able to answer him, he stamped his feet. ‘Who took it?’
My father’s gun hadn’t returned that day, and no one asked to have it back, out of embarrassment. My father had been told that whoever had been using it tossed it onto the ground when it ran out of bullets, in order to pull out his second gun, and then it got lost. Then later someone came and told him that his gun was not actually lost but was still with one of his relatives. He didn’t think anything of it. Of course, the suspicions surrounding Ayyoub continued, but Ayyoub was immune to questions because of the wounds he suffered: three bullets to the body.
At any rate, my father was willing to forfeit his gun as the price for his absence.
Munir resumed his pounding on the wall. We found out that his friends didn’t want to play with him. They wouldn’t let him play war, the only game they knew and which they played with weapons made out of reeds and gun sounds made with their mouths. They wouldn’t allow him to be a soldier, of course, or even an outlaw, on the basis that his father was scared to shoot his own gun. He even begged them to let him be a guard at the prison they made for outlaws trying to escape justice, but they were adamant. He stamped his feet in anger, burst into tears and hurried home to take it out on us.
We girls, in turn, divulged everything that had happened to us. They had accused my mother of ceasing to wear black mourning clothes after only three months of bereavement and they complained that none of her daughters wore mourning clothes at all, even though we were mature ‘young women’, as they would say.
My father came home a little later. We told him Munir had locked himself in the bedroom. He smiled and went to the door.
‘Munir?’
‘What’s my name?’
My brother’s question surprised us all. My father laughed and answered him pompously, ‘Munir Hamid Jirjis al-Semaani.’
‘No it isn’t . . .’
‘What do you mean, no it isn’t?’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘What’s your name, then?’
‘They say we are not Semaanis . . .’
That particular accusation had not been levelled at Munir that same day. He was unburdening himself of all the insults he’d been subjected to.
�
��Who says that to you?’ my father asked him with the tone of a vanquished man. He quickly understood what was happening.
‘My friends . . .’
‘They said this to you today?’
‘No. They say it every day.’
‘Which children?’
‘The first one is George, my cousin.’
‘And what do you say back?’
‘I don’t know.’
My father got upset, but his anger didn’t last long, as usual.
‘How could you accept that? How could you say nothing? Didn’t you tell them that you were a Semaani before any of them?’
‘They say we follow the milk,’ he said, sobbing and giving up. ‘We’re from Al-Mazraa.’
‘What else do they say?’
Munir was silent. It was as though he’d got enough off of his chest. But my father wasn’t satisfied.
‘What?’
‘They say you’re not a man.’
He pronounced the word rijjaal, the Arabic word for ‘man’, with a double ‘j’ of course. The plural of rijjaal is rjaal, with no vowel after the ‘r’ and a long ‘aa’ vowel after the ‘j’. It takes a common masculine plural form, as opposed to the plural of abadaay (tough guy) which takes the common feminine plural form that ends with ‘aat’, abadaayaat. The word for ‘men’, rjaal, is also pronounced rjayl, again with no vowel after the ‘r’. The word is open to several derivations and has various related verbs, among which are the verbs rajjala (to take on manly characteristics) and tamarjala (to act tough).
Some of those men who enthusiastically accompanied their headmen to the anniversary mass commemorating that ill-omened event were suited to the verb rajjala very well. The sudden and the unexpected have a way of revealing people’s true mettle. However, those men who participated in the Burj al-Hawa incident did not deserve the same title of rjaal (men) that their ancestors who fought with Yusuf Bey Karam against the Turkish Army had earned. Perhaps that was because their ancestors who fought against the Turkish Army had confronted strangers rather than firing their bullets at one another. Or, as people like to boast, ‘Jails were made for men,’ but it should be pointed out that while the incident sent a lot of people to the grave, it sent hardly anyone to jail.
The etymology goes even further. Another plural form, rjaalaat (men), was also used but these men were few and far between. The term referred specifically to the men who had fought for Lebanese Independence fourteen years earlier.
For every man who rajjala (took on manly characteristics) there was one who ajbana (behaved like a coward). That is, he had the opportunity to destroy the enemy but did not. And also, there were men who tahaayadu (remained neutral), meaning they chose not to participate in wielding their weapons and firing them because their familial blood-solidarity was weak, in the sense that they did not belong to the heart and soul of the family but rather to its extremities. It goes without saying that ibn al-‘aa’ila (the true son of the family) cannot be neutral because his neutrality would be interpreted as defeat. The epitome of manliness is expressed in these homonym verses:
Neither behind me nor in front of me nor next to me (hadd-ay)
The dust of horses’ hooves gives me pleasure and so do heroic verses (al-hid-ay)
O saddleback, you are my cradle and my grave (lahd-ay)
Whenever my country is threatened
As for the regression of the era of manliness, that can be summed up by saying that men themselves turn into women, are infected with the feminine ‘adwa al-mu’annath’ when they lose their manliness. Some might say that the era of manliness disappeared with the expansion of the state’s influence and military power which caused the appearance of al-frari, plural frariyyeh, meaning fugitives, also referred to as tuffaar, in nearby areas. These were the clever tough men running from the law. Others say that the revolver, or even the automatic version of it, had not threatened the existence of the rijjaal (real man) even if it had opened the door to attacks from behind and cowardly ambushes, up until the hand-held automatic rifle appeared. No one could act tough around the Kalashnikov with its thirty rounds, and that was the primary cause for the waning of the age of tough guys. The final word now belonged to guns rather than men.
My father smiled bitterly and said, ‘OK, so I’m not a man. It’s OK. Open the door, son. Open it!’ He went on with a muffled voice as if talking to himself, ‘Put your mind at ease. You won’t hear that kind of talk after today . . .’
Exactly two months later, my father picked us up and brought us here. We took every precaution to leave without making any noise or raising any suspicions. To avoid people’s stares, we moved our furniture at night. Getting out of there was my mother’s dream come true and our second betrayal of our relatives. My father rented this house for us because it overlooks the bay. We were able to buy it after a number of years. When we first arrived we used to sit here on an old squeaky porch swing that the former owners had left behind. The four of us would sit on it, side by side, watching the fishing boat lights as the moon glimmered on the surface of the water on those warm summer evenings. And if for some reason we woke up in the middle of the night, we would always find our father standing outside, seemingly counting the stars as he smoked.
We made a lot of friends here, but every time we were asked where we were from and we told them from there, our new friends would open their eyes wide in disbelief. How could we be from there and have such a refined demeanour and hardly any accent?
My father opened a small shop that carried carpentry and painting necessities. He made a lot of friends here and our neighbours were always very nice, but my father continued to pine for his cousins and his hometown. The moment one of them turned up, he rushed up to them. He ran after them. Sometimes he recognised them by their features and would call them by their family names; their blond colouring and tall stature gave them away. He would accompany them to wherever their errands led them – to government offices or the Australian consulate to apply for immigration visas. He would go with them to Beirut, where they would have been lost without him, and he would help them with their transactions. He’d invite them to lunch at the Qubrusli Restaurant where he’d order his favourite meal – kefta, hummus, and two glasses of arak. He’d sit with them, tête-à-tête, and never allowed them to pay for anything from their own pocket. He told them he didn’t want to impose on my mother by inviting them to the house. He warmed up to asking them for news about everyone by name.
My father is dead now. One afternoon, he went into his room to take a nap, taking the newspaper with him, and didn’t wake up. We took him up there in a small procession of cars and after praying over him in the church, buried him under the first cypress tree to the right of the cemetery entrance. They congregated around us – relatives we had stayed in touch with and people we didn’t know who never missed a funeral or reception for condolences. The women were covered in black out of respect for my father. They sat next to us, asked about us, invited us to their homes. I felt we were indebted to them. From that day on, if I came across any of them lost in the city, I would rush after them and do everything to help them and invite them to visit us. I used to say to my mother that I sometimes longed to go to the town. That didn’t surprise her; she felt my feelings were normal. As for her, I think we were her hometown.
We sold our house there, the same house whose door my mother always insisted we close behind us when we came in. But under that first cypress tree to the right of the cemetery’s entrance, we still have a place, a place to which I bring a bouquet of flowers at least once a year, a place I don’t think anyone can buy from us.
Chapter 6
Ever since Muntaha read me your letter, going on and on and getting on my nerves before I cursed her and she finally came out with it – that you were coming to visit me – I’ve been scared to death about your return. Nothing gets past me, Eliyya. I’ve been onto you from the start, from the moment we drove back from Beirut airport and you sat beside me in the back seat
of the car doting on me like a little child, patting my cheeks and wrapping your arms around me the whole way. When I asked you what you were planning to do now that you had come back, you changed the subject. You asked me about the accordion, as if to mock me. But I went along with you and we reminisced about how for three years you had been in love with that instrument of yours and rarely took it off your shoulders, and how you hadn’t wanted anyone to touch it, fearing it would get scratched. And as you see, I kept it for you, hanging on the wall there in the living room, despite my getting fed up with all the stupid neighbours, especially the women, who came in and out of the house asking what that instrument was, of what use was it, why had I hung it on the wall, and was it worth a lot of money . . .
It’s true that I can barely see my hand in front of my face anymore. All I know is that daylight starts flickering from behind the high mountains, and so I make myself a cup of coffee to drink with the morning. I can sense when darkness starts to come from the direction of the sea and envelops the world. But I am not stupid. That’s right, not stupid. People say that you’re smart. You got this from your mother, not from the Kfoury family. Ask about me. If you love your mother, why don’t you ask about her? Ask all the people in town. They all know me and know my story. They’ll tell you as much as you want to know about me. And if you press them, they will fabricate some preposterous stories about me. Any story they can weave together will fit me well, my son. Stories become me. Stories seem to become some people, and I’m one of those people.
My father took me out of school against my will. One day I lifted my head from my Arabic language book, and there he was, all of a sudden, standing in the classroom doorway. I don’t know why he removed his red fez as if entering a church. He called to me, after seeking permission from the teacher, and told me to get my school bag and follow him. Just like that, out of the blue. He put his fez back on his head and started walking, so I walked behind him along the road, my feet reluctant to go forwards as I looked back, crying. When we reached the house, he kissed me. He kissed me maybe for the first time in my life. He kissed me on my forehead and said in a sharp tone, ‘That’s enough. From here on, education becomes harmful to girls. Tomorrow you help your mother with the housework.’
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