by Jo Glanville
***
I sat all day preparing the calm, measured speech I would deliver to him when he returned. Night had hardly arrived bringing with it the roar of explosions when I heard the sound of keys in the door. Despite efforts to calm myself I still looked furious. Amin looked into my face:
‘You have discovered what is in the chest, haven’t you?’ he said.
Before I could answer he began: ‘I know what you’re thinking. I know what you suspect … But trust me, I didn’t want to use you or drag you into a war you refuse to be a part of … The war is out of anyone’s control. It has become as complicated as a ball of tangled, coloured thread and we cannot but get involved and join the fight. It has entered a new phase and you will not be able to watch and mull it over from the sidelines anymore. You may deny it but the fact is you belong to a place, the region in which you live, to the party line of the newspaper where you work, your particular culture and education, your religious identity, and your friends.’ He pointed to himself. ‘Armed men from the Second Division may invade your life and, whether you acknowledge or deny it, they will see you as an opponent even if you aren’t. How will you protect yourself? How will you sustain the noble-mindedness I know in you so well? Can this building hold weapons levelled at women and children?’
‘If you don’t uphold your politics and refuse, as you do, to acknowledge them, do you not also betray your people? What remains of you then? A man who watches life in dismay from the window of his house. Time passes, the civil war drags on. He grows old along with it and becomes as sick and disfigured as it does. Your inner soul would be its mirror image …’
Amin stood up sharply. He opened his chest, took out a machine gun and loaded it with bullets. He approached me and said quietly, trying hard to be compassionate:
‘I owe you a lot. Before I leave with my chest I must ensure your safety. Keep this machine gun. I want to give you my personal revolver too. You can’t say when you will need it. You don’t know how they will force you into this war … He who refuses to acknowledge, take notice and engage in practical reality is not a “dreamer” but a fool …’
Amin left the machine gun and revolver on the table and sat back down.
‘The organisation has arranged somewhere for me to live,’ he mumbled. ‘There is a car waiting to take me and the chest. I’ll come back this evening – we can drink araq together. I have left some papers. I will collect them this evening and we can talk. If you still want to be friends …’
He came up and hugged me tightly. He squeezed my hand and I knew I wanted nothing more than for him to remain there with me … But he quickly disappeared.
I returned to the spot where he left his machine gun, revolver and cigarette ends and where the smell of his breath and echo of his resounding laughter lingered …
The sight of the machine gun stirred disgust in me. What is the use of an instrument I cannot work properly – you may as well give a car to someone who cannot drive … I would never get involved. If armed men came here I would flee to my family in the mountains, even though I had lost touch with them … Once, when Amin was trying to convince me to join his organisation, my only defence was my hatred of politics and its perils … and my desire to be free and independent in my convictions and allegiances. That day, possibly for the first time, he flew into a rage at me.
‘Escapism may be enough for you,’ he shouted. ‘We were born into oppression. Our salvation lies in getting rid of it. Your escapism is a delusive means of keeping yourself happy. You use it to reduce your problems – exploitation at the hands of the newspaper editor who soaks up your talents daily in return for a measly salary, confusion between the principles of your relatives who have got rich in Africa and your more progressive ideas, inability to complete your film-directing studies even though when I saw the one documentary film you’ve made I thought it was exceptional. These problems are not poetic – they are political … The newspaper editor would not squeeze you so hard if you didn’t work in his corrupt organisation. Your relatives would not have emigrated to Africa if their native country could provide their daily bread. You could be the next Visconti if the city offered its children the same opportunities.’
When he had calmed down he looked at me. I went and got a glass of araq and began gulping it down. My tongue let loose all the wrongs I had suffered, my gifts, my rotten opportunities. I cast off the veils protecting ‘my illusory happiness’ and fell asleep, repeating to myself, ‘Why does man analyse himself? To arrive at one conviction? How wretched this life is.’
Amin, Amin. His words, opinions, presence, absence had come to populate me. He was in my bloodstream, circulating round and round my heart and arteries. Connections with people are like snares laid to hurt you and leave you torn in two. His departure from the house was better than his staying. I had to break free of his ghost. He was stronger than me. His convictions were more fixed. But he knew nothing of real struggle, and this meant I could not but follow him …
I hid the machine gun and revolver. I saw the revolver was loaded too. The sound of bombs going off all over the place suddenly made me aware night had come. The doorbell rang. It was Amin, wrecked with exhaustion. He came in and threw himself down on the chair. ‘Fetch us a glass of araq,’ he faltered.
Amin began gulping down the araq in a manner quite unlike him. I heard him sigh deeply from time to time. He remained silent for a long while, so I did too. I concentrated on the roar of explosions. The bombs grew louder. I interrupted his silence, ‘It is really flaring up tonight. Do you have news about what is happening?’
With enormous difficulty, in a deep voice that seemed to belong to someone else he said: ‘They are bombing al-Naba’a. My family is there. My mother, father, sister and little brother.’
I knew nothing of his family. ‘They left their village in the south after enemies from the village and from outside started bombing it.’
‘Are you sure they are in al-Naba’a?’
‘Yes. I visited them the day before yesterday, and arranged a place for them there two weeks ago.’
‘Is the battle going on in their neighbourhood?’
‘Yes.’
He fell silent. He went on swigging araq, his lips moving as though he was counting. His silence weighed heavily on me so I spoke up again: ‘Can’t you do anything?’
‘The battle came as a surprise to our allies. Our organisation is not involved.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I’m forced, by military command, to wait until the fighting has died down. Then I can go and search for them.’
‘Let’s both go.’
‘I don’t want to force my problems on you.’
The explosions got louder. Every bomb that dropped was a stab in the heart.
After a little while Amin took off his shoes, stretched himself out on the sofa and closed his eyes. I did the same on the other sofa and soon fell asleep … I woke up a little later to a nightmare. I looked in Amin’s direction but he had disappeared. His shoes were where he had left them, as was his packet of cigarettes. I called his name but he did not answer. I understood. I looked at the clock. It was four-fifteen in the morning. The explosions were still rumbling outside. I realised where he had gone … I had to reach Fu’ad! I went out and headed for his house nearby. I climbed the stairs panting with thirst … Amin could not wait. The araq had clouded his judgment and he had raced off without his shoes. But how …? I looked at the clock and saw it was almost five … I pricked up my ears to hear the paperboy. His yelling voice arrived with the break of dawn and I hurried to him and bought a copy of the day’s paper. The headlines read: ‘Fierce battle in al-Naba’a. Dozens killed and injured.’ I devoured the words on the page. His name was not there. Only the houses that had collapsed on their owners were mentioned … After a few minutes I heard footsteps on the stairs. Fu’ad’s weary face came into view.
‘Where were you?’
‘At the organisation’s headquarters.’
‘Where’s Amin?’
He did not answer. Instead, he got his keys out of his pocket and entered in a trance. I followed him in …
‘Where’s Amin?’
‘He dived into the battle in al-Naba’a to look for his family. The allies thought he was from the other side and killed him …’
‘He was killed by one of his own comrades’ bullets?’
‘Yes.’
I screamed and burst into floods of tears. Fu’ad stroked my shoulders as I wailed like a woman. My sobs grew louder and louder. He tried to calm me down: ‘He died a martyr … He is not the first and won’t be the last. The path of martyrdom is long … You love him don’t you? We all loved him … he died a martyr … There is still a long way to go …’
I left Fu’ad mourning his friend and himself … words … words … I raced to my house: the chairs and tables were in the same place; his shoes, cigarette box, cigarette ends, the echo of his resounding laughter were all still there! But … he… wasn’t!
I went to the drawer of the desk where he kept his important papers. It was locked. I broke it open and took out a list of collaborators wanted by Amin’s organisation. I read the list and memorised the names of two people whose addresses I knew from working at the newspaper…
I took the revolver Amin had given me, recalling his words: ‘You can’t isolate yourself from this war.’ I hurried out. I felt an oppressive need to kill. Anger shook me like a bird in pursuit of its prey. My heart was beating like a drum. I arrived at the house of the first man in question, tidied my messy hair and rang the bell. A young woman opened the door. I asked her politely:
‘Is Mr … at home? Can you inform him I have come on an important matter …’
I had not finished my sentence before his shadow appeared in the hall. I pointed the revolver at him. The shadow fell to the ground covered in blood. I rushed off trying to get ahead of the young woman’s shrieks. I started raving like a lunatic … I stopped at the entrance to a building and entered it to gather my breath … After a few minutes I had recovered. The second man’s house was miles away. I would have to take a taxi …
I walked back out, glancing around frightened … The pedestrians were frightened too … A city gripped with fear. I stopped a taxi. The driver said the house was far and lay in the line of fire but he would take me there for twenty-five lira … I accepted and the car sped off to its destination …
Translated by Christina Phillips
JEAN SAID MAKDISI
Pietà
This is a fictional non-fiction story. Or, if you like, a non-fiction fictional story. The outline and some details of it are true, others are invented to fill in the blank spaces created by forgetfulness or oblivion, or both. If you were to ask me which is which, which detail true and which invented, I would not know. It is so easy to make a fictional person true, or turn a real person into a fiction. What is truth anyway, in a story, and what is fiction? Is not fiction the ordering of an episode in life, giving it a beginning, a middle and an end, when in fact it begins at a beginning far before itself, and never ends? This story, in any case, is real. It is part of a truth that is undeniable and demonstrable.
I thought a lot about Samia during the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in the summer of 1982. Well, to be more truthful, I thought about her when I had time to think about something other than our own survival and the latest difficulties: no water, no electricity, constant bombardment by air, sea, and land, and a large family to deal with. I thought about her especially when they bombed the refugee camps, or when, for one reason or another, the camps were in the news. In fact, now that I think back on it, they were in the news a great deal of the time, the war being, of course, precisely about the camps and those in them.
Anyway, the first time I saw her after that dreadful summer was a few months later, after the ceasefire, after the PLO had withdrawn from Lebanon, after the Israelis had entered West Beirut and then left it, following the great massacre at Sabra and Chatila and after the first wave of resistance began to take its toll on them.
I did not recognise her at first, and only glanced in her direction as I walked by the front entrance of the bank near my home in Beirut. She was wearing a long black raincoat, under which I could see a black, high-necked rolled collar. Her head was covered, in the new ‘Islamic’ style, with a black scarf pulled low over her forehead and tied under her chin. She was wearing thick dark stockings and low chunky heels. I had become quite used to seeing women dressed like that in the last few years and had, like everyone else in my circle, given the subject some thought. It was, among other things, the sign of the growing poverty in the city, because, after all, if you wore this costume you did not have to bother with fashion or variety any more. Of course there were other reasons for donning this costume, including religious piety, rebellious rejection of the old order, sympathy with the growing resistance. Who knows why each one wore it?
In any case, whatever the reason, so many women had taken to this form of attire that on this particular occasion I did no more than note her standing there. As I passed her, however, I felt her gaze on me and turned slightly. You know what it is like, when someone is staring at you as you walk by and wills you to look at them. Now, as though in obedience to her will, my eyes met hers, and I recognised her at last.
Her costume was so severe and gloomy, and gave her an air of detachment and distance so different from her usual appearance, that my first thought was to note how strange she looked. Because she often wore the cast-off clothing given to her by my elegant and worldly cousin Nadia, through whom I had first met Samia, I had always seen her almost fashionably dressed. She had been blessed with fine features, large eyes under thick, gracefully arched eyebrows, an aquiline nose, wide round forehead, high cheekbones, and a clear, transparent complexion that would have been the envy of any fashion model. All of this refinement was now rather disguised by the scarf she wore so close over her face that it created a different set of proportions. Her nose seemed larger, her eyes smaller, and I could barely see her forehead.
When at last I recognised her, and recovered from the shock of her strange appearance, I rushed to embrace her, greeting her with the usual ‘Hamdillah ala salamtik’, ‘Thank God for your safety’. Then I took a little step backwards and, contemplating her clothes, asked, tentatively, almost afraid of my own question: ‘But Samia, why are you wearing black?’
As long as I live, I shall not forget her answer. Nor shall I ever forget the manner of it: ‘lil awlad,’ she answered. ‘For the children.’
She said the phrase softly, but there was a musicality to it, a gentle cadence, that put me immediately in mind of a mother singing a lullaby to her babies. ‘For the children.’ It was as though in a search for consolation she was embracing the words instead of the persons, as though in uttering the word ‘al awlad’, ‘the children’, as though she was singing it, sweet memories would overcome bitter ones, and she could undo the dreadful fact. I stared dumbly at her, and, as the shock waves rolled over me, I noted that she was certainly younger than I had remembered her to be, that her face was still beautiful, and that today it seemed as reposed as any I had ever seen. A gentle, mild, barely discernible smile seemed to … what? Light through it. Yes, light: that is the word I have been searching for. There was a light in her face, or a light emanating from her face, from behind that grim black scarf, and altogether I had the impression of composure, almost an other-worldliness I found totally bewildering. Perhaps she had repeated her statement so often that she had grown numb to its meaning, or perhaps, in the endless sorrow of her life, now deepened by the death of her children, she had found a kind of solace in the telling.
I struggled for words, and of course could find none except the banal question I fumbled toward. ‘What happened?’ I asked her, trying not to show my emotions, trying desperately not to upstage hers with mine.
Someone pushed me a bit to the side, and I realised that we were partially blocking the entra
nce to the bank. I took her hand and led her a few steps away so we could talk without interruption. She told me her story in very few words with no elaboration, no sign of emotion, merely a brief recitation of the facts, which took her only a few seconds to communicate.
‘Mohammed died when the Israelis attacked the airport. He was one of the young men,’ she used the customary appellation for the resistance fighters, ‘al shabab,’ ‘who held up the Israeli advance there.’ A moment’s pause. ‘Khalid died in the sports stadium.’ Another brief pause.
It was perhaps those short pauses between each doleful sentence, together with that gentle, musical cadence of her soft voice that I have already mentioned, that brought to my mind the image of a mother tucking her children into bed, one by one, as she said their names.
‘Fawwaz died at home. He was only fifteen and was not fighting, but there was an air-raid and …’
Her voice, though not faltering, seemed to fade away, and I could not tell whether it was because my mind could absorb no more, or because she was unable to complete her sentence. But she took a breath and continued.
‘Husni was wounded. He lost a leg and a lot of blood. They took him to Romania for treatment. I have had no news of him. I do not know if he is alive.’
I could not bring myself to utter the usual words of condolence. In the face of this they would sound banal, hollow, and they did not enter my mind until now, when I am writing about that meeting, rethinking it, remembering what she said and what I said. And what I did not say.
‘What about your daughters?’ I asked, dazed, my voice sounding to me as though it were coming from far away. ‘How are they?’
‘Hamdillah. Thank God. I think they are well. I have had no news of them since they left.’ Noting my puzzlement she added quickly: ‘They are in Tunis. They followed their husbands.’ I knew that she had two married daughters, and that their husbands were in the resistance. When the PLO fighters were evacuated from Lebanon and sent to Tunis, some of their women were allowed to follow later.
