Do not ask the river her.., p.16
Do Not Ask the River Her Name, page 16
A Hundred Stones
Listen, have you ever dwelled in the camps of those without a homeland? Have you experienced the relentless movement, from one tent to another? Have you ever felt terrified of the night lurking to swallow you alive? Have you ever loathed the days that roasted you as in burning ovens? If not, how will you know us, how will you understand us?
From Lydda and Ramle, we were driven out like cattle. We hobbled along, carrying the bundles of our childhood. The hearts of our mamas were at the earthen ovens where pita was cooked, in the kitchens which were gone forever. And the hearts of our babas were still under the vanishing olive trees, on the hill slopes that were inaccessible forever. Even when our parents stood for hours in that sweltering sun, waiting for a piece of bread, utterly fatigued and hungry, they narrated the stories of springs and golden harvests. They spoke of wheat fields which were lost forever.
For Sarah, Gazan and I, no baba or mama existed to tell us stories. Our days reeked with the smell of burning flesh. Our stories were tainted with smoke and dust. We were children who had forgotten to laugh and play; forgotten about washing up and bathing. They had ruthlessly shut away the pathways to the riverside. Beyond the walls, we could hear the churning waters. The roar of the tributaries of River Jordan, where we used to once dive and swim in utter abandonment.
The rivers were lamenting about us …
We—Sarah, Gazan, myself and many other children—grew up due to the compassion showered by kind souls. When the catastrophe struck, we were staying in the Jalazone camp and were enrolled in a school run by the United Nations Relief Agency. The school was faraway from the campsite and we had to walk quite a distance to reach it. The very location of the school was problematic, because it was by the side of a Jewish settlement that had cropped up in the occupied territory. It was under the control of the Israeli army. Intermittently, there would be clashes between Hamas and the Israeli occupation forces. We were equally afraid of both. Periodically, there would be search operations by the security forces. They would enter the school with excuses of suspected Hamas terrorists hiding inside, or illegal arms and ammunitions purportedly stored in the premises. The children would scatter and run for their lives when the tear-gas shells exploded. Whenever a child fell during that mad rush, disaster was imperative, ending in broken bones and wounds. One’s life too was at risk. My Fatima died during such a stampede. She was waiting for me when the pandemonium broke out …The beautiful blue eyes that gazed at me from the front bench went away from my sight forever.
The tear gas played a villainous role in our daily lives. Inhaling it continuously, most of the children became sickly and prone to asthma attacks. Many could not study, or even play. The nights I spent soothing Gazan as he gasped for breath! Ah, those were some of the longest nights of my life. Those were the nights which made me lose hope in the possibility of a dawn. And the longest days were when I carried a dehydrated Sarah, infected by diarrhoea, and waited for the camp doctor who dropped in rarely. Those were the days which made me disbelieve in the possibility of a sunset.
We had the fables of the hare and tortoise too during our childhood days. Our hares would never dare to sleep. And neither would the tortoise ever win. We were the tortoises. By the time we crawled our desperate ways to the destination, the food baskets would always be empty. Hunger, hunger … We, the children were hunger incarnate. But we never cried for sweetmeats, toys or a piece of bread. When batons rained on our backs, that was when we cried.
How shall I forget the day when the army visited our school? Gazan did not return to the camp even after night fell. I tried to believe that he was in some camp with his friends. Or that his kind teacher must have taken him along. Sarah dropped off to sleep after a while; and so did I. I woke up seeing a terrible nightmare. My Gazan was weeping all alone in some dark room! It was not morning yet, but I crept out of the camp. The sky was devoid of stars, it was a very dark night. A bird fluttered from the fig tree and the leaves of the date palm tree swayed like ghosts. I was very scared. The school building could be seen at a distance, shrouded in darkness. I clambered up the hill and crossed the olive groves. Moving past the sleeping buildings, I walked towards the madrasa. The massive gate was closed. What could I do except try to scale it? I fell down and hurt my knees. I called, ‘Gazan, where are you?’ I called many, many times. Amidst the din of night-sounds, my faint voice shattered into smithereens. Utterly helpless, frantic with worry, I started weeping in front of the school gate.
A soldier appeared out of the blue. He glared at me fiercely and started shouting at me for wandering about at night. ‘Scram, go back to the camp!’ he bellowed. How could I return without Gazan? Ignoring that formidable man, I hobbled away. Ah, how can I ever forget that night?
The eastern horizon flickered with light. I had reached the barbed wire fence of the Jewish settlement by then. Allah, that horrid sight! Just beyond the fence, my Gazan lay dead. His white uniform was drenched in blood … the school bag was open … birds were pecking around a few breadcrumbs … I saw the open, staring eyes only once. Those eyes are still following me.
I crawled under the fence with great difficulty. My knees were terribly bruised. The sharp barbs of the fence pierced my back; but I did not notice the pain. I sat numb, with Gazan’s motionless body on my lap, unable to even whimper. Never in my life shall I forget the fear, terror and agony. I can still see the pale, lifeless face of Gazan and the red mud even as I write. In that frozen posture, I became aware of a vehicle of death, with dust billowing behind, screeching to a halt nearby. A bullet could come flying my way any moment! A truncheon could bash me any second. Sarah would be bereft of any family. ‘Gazan, I am leaving’ … as I dropped a kiss on his little forehead, I felt he was warm. My lips still tingle with that last kiss. Somehow, I crawled through the same way I came, and ran helter-skelter for my life; through the blinding light, through brambles and thorns … For a long time afterwards, I continued to run even in my sleep. From death to life …
Someone saw me lying unconscious on the road and got me to the camp. I could not speak for days together. He was my sound, my happiness, my life.
The next day, The Palestine Telegraph published the news: Gazan Al Fadi, age six, missing from Jalazone Camp.
And the day after, in the same newspaper, his picture appeared. The orphan boy who died in a mine explosion while crossing the barbed wire fence near the settlement … He had been caught in the camera of some unknown photographer.
Afterwards, a hundred stones lay waiting for me by the wayside, whenever an army vehicle came in sight.
The Sahal who sat weeping for Gazan outside the school gate, while the frightening ghosts of the night stuck out their blood-red tongues at him, the same Sahal continues to cry inside me even today. Even today, a soldier hails abuses at me for wandering around at night. I clamber over the school gate, calling out to Gazan, even today. As if yesterday, I see the shattered piece of my heart, my very soul, lying broken beyond the barbed wire fence.
Gazan, I long to walk for you all the distances that you should have run and relished. I wish to sing for you Baba’s melodious songs; I yearn to scramble up the trees which you should have climbed, frolicking on swings hanging on their boughs. But Gazan, our ways are not ours any more. Our trees aren’t ours any more, Gazan. They stole our songs, Gazan. Gazan, can you hear me? There will come a time when my drones shall shower olive leaves on the hills of Jerusalem. Undoubtedly, the time will come. Listen, the robot I shall design then, shall be named after you. They took away our soil and our pathways. But Gazan, nobody can steal wisdom, knowledge or the soul.
Postscript: I got to know later that the photographer Basil Abu Assad, who took the photograph of the orphan boy, which made headlines globally, became a suspect in the eyes of the police. Apparently, they seized his camera and destroyed it as he was shooting the iron-fisted retaliations of the army during a protest rally in Gaza Strip. Though relentlessly assaulted, Basil Abu Assad endures every time, with new cameras purchased with the help of human rights activists.
(From one of the notes Sarah discovered in the apple-scented house, later published in Al Jazeera)
However, Sahal did not know that the same Basil Abu Assad would capture a moment of great criticality at the Jordan border, much later. A pickup van was burning due to a drone attack on the Allenby bridge, near the Israeli check post … Next to it, a young man was aiming a gun at the police … Abu Assad would also not know that the picture he caught had anything to do with Sahal Al Fadi.
Ruth was thinking about Sarah, only Sarah, after hearing Sahal’s story. How did an innocent little girl survive those unbearable days? Her baba and mama were scorched lullabies; Gazan, a never-to-be healed wound, lying near the barbed wire fence, drenched in blood. Seated all alone in the cemetery of the holy city, she was screaming, staring at the moist grave—a ceaseless, uninterrupted scream. Her childhood was coloured deep red, and even the light in front was dark in hue. They were building more settlements and army barracks on her childhood’s hills. Slowly, her villages were being saturated with buildings. They were establishing check posts in every nook and cranny. Bulldozers were thundering over her dreams.
Who gave you the right to do that? Who gave you the right?
27
THE HIDEOUT
Mount Zion loomed ahead. A familiar house, hidden by lush apple trees, stood on its slope. Would Sahal be there? Anxiety, unease, fear. The nightbirds were flapping their wings. The sound of a police siren was heard. They were probably patrolling the new road constructed in the Old City. The driveway of the solitary house on the hillside was slanted. While making his way up the roadside shaded by the cypress trees, Asher cast a glance on the narrow, winding path below. A vehicle could be seen, possibly that of the police. He hid behind the fig tree until it whizzed by. Ignoring the driveway, he climbed the steps to the house, from the eastern direction. Twenty-one steps in all. Flowerpots were placed at both ends. The apple trees were resplendent with fruits. A window unobtrusively opened above, then closed quietly. The sound of someone descending the stairs was heard.
An old woman, her head covered in a tichel, scarf, opened the door and stepped out. The illuminated picture of a young man on the wall inside threw light beams on her harried face.
‘Quick, step inside,’ she whispered, casting frantic looks around. ‘Hope nobody saw you coming.’ Her voice was tremulous with concern.
Asher shook his head to reassure her. Someone was leaping down the banister. Asher looked up hopefully. It was a black Pomeranian puppy. As if meeting an eternal favourite, it rubbed its nose against Asher’s feet. In the drawing room there was a full body portrait, the picture frame in coffee brown hue. The smile, that sparkle in his eyes … Jacob Daniel Cohen.
The murderous roar of an armed mob racing through the street in front of Shalom … The flies buzzing around, as Jacob lay near the wall of the Synagogue Church. As if it all happened yesterday … When Asher raised his hands to squat at the flies, did Jacob’s eyes wink at him?
The old woman became melancholic on seeing Asher gaze at the picture.
‘Sahal?’ Asher’s eyes scanned the surroundings eagerly.
‘He was here till evening.’
‘And now?’
‘I don’t know,’ the old lady whispered, while latching the bolt of the front door. ‘Nobody knows when he comes and goes. Why are they following him? Once the Malaysian admission happens, he should just get across the border.’
Asher pitched in hurriedly, ‘Eema, let the scholarship come through. I will help him reach Jordan through the Allenby bridge. That will be safe.’
The old woman called a number. ‘Abram, Asher has arrived. Any news of Sahal?’
Even before she finished, the call was cut from the other side. Her face fell. Peering inside, the old lady called out, ‘Sarah!’
A young woman, draped from head to toe, slowly emerged from a room.
‘I came to take you along,’ Asher spoke softly, so that only she could hear. Sarah felt that it was the most loving, poignant voice on earth. He stood tall and regal like Mount Carmel. The locks of his hair were fluttering in the breeze, captivating the onlooker.
‘Fibber … how did you know that I was here?’ A faint, hesitant smile appeared on her lips.
As the aged woman shambled to the inner rooms, Asher wrote on WhatsApp.
‘Girl who resides in the garden, I await your sweet voice.’
Gazing into Asher’s eyes, with a naughty smile, Sarah messaged him back.
‘You are my holy mountain. The one who eternally entrances me with its secrets.’
They stood motionless for a few moments, looking into each other’s eyes … Like the mist embracing the mountain peak, they held each other.
‘Dearest, please ask Sahal to be inactive for the time being,’ Sarah pleaded, her voice fraught with sadness.
To ask the smouldering volcano to restrain itself? Asher was unaware that Sahal would soon join the El-Kurd siblings, Mohammed and Muna, in their protests against the forced evictions at Sheikh Jarrah, in East Jerusalem. He did not know that it would have unforeseen fallouts. Uprisings happened unexpectedly; and so did the upending of lives.
By the time the old woman returned with grape juice, Asher had vanished in the darkness, without even bidding goodbye. He was an ocean of unspoken words. Asher yearned to confess to Sarah … In front of an ancient temple of worship, in the valley where the sheep grazed amiably, he had been waiting for her arrival … How many nights of such beautiful dreams …
Sarah was a continent of unspoken words too … ‘Asher, I was following the caravan of camels in the desert. In my dream, there was a slender youth swaying atop the camel. He was calling out to the stray ones, one by one. Once, he called out your name! Asher, though I searched high and wide for you, scouring the sand dunes, I could never discover you. Though the camels vanished, I kept waiting for you. In that scorching sun, all alone …’ Sarah’s heart became as heavy as the earth.
‘On the cliff of Masada, two thousand years ago, a princess stood gazing at the Dead Sea, on the turret of the western palace tower. Do you know about her? The one who was waiting for you to sneak inside the palace, making your way through the secretive paths of the east …’ Sarah’s message gleamed dark in Asher’s phone.
Surely, he would return. She lay awake, sleepless.
The birds of the night screeched chillingly. As Asher clambered down the hill, unsure of his next move, he observed three birds roosting on a cypress bough. They seemed to have alighted from yesterday’s smoke-covered camps; they were shrieking as if deeply wounded. The luminosity, radiating from Jacob Daniel Cohen’s portrait, showed him the way forward.
Later, the same house—with Jacob smiling from the wall—would feature in Sahal’s memoirs.
The Apple-Scented House
The house, whose terrace and roof were flooded with apple leaves, had the scent of apples. The days and nights had the same fragrance. But the first few days in the house had the sickening stench of high fever and perspiration. I felt it was the smell of death.
I was staying in a room with a double window, which opened to the view of the street outside. My world was limited to the four walls for almost three months. Whatever poured in through the slightly parted curtains—the sunlight, moonbeams, bird-chirpings and the sweet scent of apples—I cherished them all in my heart. I was afraid that I would never be able to relish these again.
I was burning with a 104-degree temperature when I entered that home. I am alive today only because of the kindness of two good human beings, Rebecca Eema and Dr Yehoshua. After surreptitiously parking his car by the slope of Mount Zion in the shadow of darkness, hiding himself in a black coat, and manoeuvring his way through narrow, winding paths, Dr Yehoshua would reach the backyard of the house, almost like a thief. At the sound of the shuffling shoes, alerted by the coded knocks (two knocks repeated thrice in a row), Rebecca Eema would tentatively open the door. The doctor would leap down the stairs and reach my side. His stethoscope would record my heartbeats. I was aware of everything even in my comatose state. It is a miracle that I survived that tightrope walk between life and death, and made it safely across, albeit clinging to Rebecca Eema’s fingertip. The day when I recovered from the dangerous fever and opened my eyes was redolent with the aroma of apples too.
Though I was out of danger, Rebecca Eema sat by my side, ever watchful. I saw her shudder in terror at every police siren. Eema was deeply afraid of the police discovering me. Perhaps, her fear was more than mine. The dark circles deepened under her eyes and the furrows increased on her cheeks and forehead. Her hand shrivelled up like tender leaves scalded by the sun. I was apprehensive that she was transmitting her own life force to me, and drying up in my stead.
I saw my mama’s love in Eema’s eyes. The love which was looted from me on that childhood day, which smelled of burning flesh. Rebecca Eema was the clever bird which hid her fledgling inside a nest amidst the leaves, far away from the sight of the eagles. While looking at her, I felt as if everything lost was being reclaimed. I started falling in love with life, as I continued to gaze at her. It is always like that. Whenever we get back what we considered lost forever, we would hold them closer to our hearts. They would appear utterly enchanting. We would pray that we don’t lose them ever again. We would feel so grateful to those who returned them to us. Today, Rebecca Eema is everything to me. After decades, I hear melodies of the lullabies again. The lullabies, evocative of scorched flesh.
I want to live. Live undefeated.
28
EREZ CROSSING
Asher descended the hill, forgetting the birds on the cypress branch. Was he caught in a commotion triggered by tear gas? The same turmoil, when Sahal’s little brother Gazan had lost his way. He could not even speak comfortably with Sarah. It was likely that she was upset with him. Regardless of that, Asher’s thoughts were consumed by Sahal alone. The one, who loved the stories about children flying around like birds in a country without walls.
