An FWA Story by Nussaïbah Raja and Denny Reeder
---
“Sabah, don’t come to the main house today. Stay with mom today. Okay, love?”
At that time the 6-year old girl hadn’t known the true meaning of what her father had been trying to say. Her innocence had protected her back then, but it had been so long since she hadn’t been daddy’s little girl. She was not even sure she would want to be daddy’s girl, not that she would be able to if she wanted to; it had been years since he died and she didn’t particularly want to remember the moment her older cousin had come to tell her that he was no more. She had hugged her little doll and cried herself to sleep, even though she hadn’t understood the meaning of death at that time. Somehow she wished she had stayed that way, but of course people change and she did as well. For the best or for the worst, she had no idea.
Her story was similar to one of those soap operas old women were addicted to: dramatic and unbelievable. Nevertheless it was true, not that she would ever admit it to anyone. She wanted to forget that part of her life that tainted her, though it had been that situation that had brought her here. Everything had just built up and she was about to explode. She looked at her mother who was crying in front of her, she couldn’t believe she was about to leave her alone with that abusive husband of hers. Nor could she believe she was about to leave her younger sister behind, but it was all for the best; one of them needed to take a step forward and it was just fate that she was the chosen one.
“Where would you go?” her mother asked.
“At Mikkel’s,” she had simply replied, without realising the irony of the situation. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, her cousin would have said. Despite trying to escape from the repulsive race that men were, she was still going to her boyfriend’s for the night. Right now, he was the only person she could trust and she could use any help she could get. If her step-father knew what she was about to do, they would all die for sure. She had witnessed how violent he could get; he would go to any extent just to make his point clear. She still had no idea how her mother had ended up with him; she would have preferred her unfaithful father rather than this cruel bastard. At least, even if he had been married to two women, two sisters at the same time and had had dozen of mistresses, he had made sure his women always had what they needed. He hadn’t mistreated them like Audric did, though that didn’t forgive him for being such a womaniser.
Sabah laughed at her chain of thoughts, she had been thinking too much of father today, the very one who had been ashamed of her. He had told her in clear words that he hadn’t wanted her around when her half-brother’s fiancé’s family were coming over. He hadn’t wanted to justify why he had an illegitimate daughter, not that his other kids were different. He had never been legally married to any of his wives; all that bonded them was the religious ceremony that had been carried out, not that it had any real significance. He had already slept with each of them before and the only reason he had agreed to ‘get married’ to them was because they had been pregnant. The funny thing about all this was that the only woman to whom he had actually been legally married hadn’t given him any child and had divorced him in less than 3 months.
Considering how messy her family was, it was no surprise that she was a wreck herself. But if there was one thing she was sure about, she wasn’t prepared to let Audric ruin her Rihana’s life as well. Her sister was her little baby and she wasn’t about to let her go through the same experiences as herself. Somehow, unintentionally, Rii had avoided all the pain that she had endured by being her father’s daughter for he had died when her mother had been pregnant and nobody had cared about the baby. On the other hand, everybody had kept reminding Sabah that she had been an unwanted child; even her half-brothers who had been in the same situation as her. The only one who had actually been nice to her had been Azra Mom who was her aunt and also, her father’s wife. She had brought her up as her own child when her own mother hadn’t been able to and had defended her against everyone who dared say anything about her. But even she wasn’t here anymore; it really seemed like everyone who truly loved her and didn’t keep tormenting her left her. Life wasn’t fair. Nor was God, if he ever existed.
“Do you have everything with you?”
Her mother’s question snapped her out of her reverie. She had been standing there, staring blankly at a table for the last five minutes. She was about to take the most important decision of her life, and here she was, wasting time daydreaming.
“Yeah. I’ve packed everything. The note is on my bed. Let him find it first. I don’t want him to think you helped me.”
“Do you have to go?”
This time, she ignored her. She didn’t want to go back on her decision at this crucial moment. She simply hugged her mother and whispered, “I love you”. She knew she wouldn’t see her for a long time and hence lingered for a moment in her arms. How she would miss them... The coming weeks or even years would be hell, but what awaited them afterwards was worth it. She couldn’t wait to be released from everything and finally live her life the way she wanted to, with no people to judge her or her family and no step-father to make their lives miserable. They were finally going to be happy, just like she had seen in her dreams. She really wished that the day Rii would smile again would come soon.
Funnily enough, she no longer felt like an outcast, a rejected marfud, now she’d begun to walk away. She’d slung her light bag over her shoulders. There wasn’t much she wanted to take away from this place, not that she had that much to take anyway. If she could have left some of the memories behind too then she would have done so willingly.
The dust rose around her feet. The land was as dry and parched of water as she had been parched of love.
Would Mikkel be there? Would he wait for her as arranged?
Sabah had known him since her childhood. For many years she had watched him drive his lorry into the enclave, his strong bare arms tanned and powerful.
Arms that had recently reached out for her.
“But Sabah, he is twice your age be careful,” her cousin had warned. “He is playing with you. Can’t you see the signs?”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“Are you sure about that? He’s waited like a wolf for you to become a woman, Sabah. I don’t trust him.”
Trust!
Sabah thought back to that terrible day of her half-brother’s wedding. She had trusted her father that day. He had said that this time it would be all right. That this time she would be welcomed at the family gathering.
The music had signalled the end of the religious service, and Sabah had waited near the gnarled old olive tree until the other guests had been introduced to the bride and groom before she dared to make her approach.
But she had hesitated too long, for the music had now quickened in pace, and Sabah knew they had already started to dance the el debka.
The drum rhythm from the al tabla was beating strongly, as Sabah approached from the shadows like a leper.
“Trust me, this time it will be all right,” her father had said.
It had been a warm evening. The guests were laughing and had joined hands to encircle her half-brother and his new wife. They were stepping around them, as one, in time with the hypnotic quickening heartbeat of the drum.
The circle had suddenly broken and Sabah, caught up with the rhythm herself, saw her chance. She’d run forward offering up her hands to those on either side of her.
“Aaaaaiiiigghhhh!” the terrible screech came from her half-brother’s new bride.
“Hadi ismitna, this is our bad luck,” she was screaming, as she pointed towards Sabah.
There was consternation amongst the guests. The drummers missed a couple of beats, and the dancers instantly swirled away from Sabah, shunning her outstretched hands.
Then there were more loud shouts as the drums beat angrily and the circle closed up tight, leaving her in the dust that their heels kicked up. Sabah had backed away, before turning to run.
“There was a terrible fight, Sabah, after you’d left,” her cousin had whispered to her later that night, his fingers reaching up to touch the dirty edge of her window sill. “Many people were angry. That was when your father got knocked down to the ground. He got hurt very badly. I’m so sorry, Sabah. There was nothing anyone could do for him.”
Sabah had known nothing about the trouble that had flared up as she’d run away.
She’d run until she found herself standing breathlessly on top of the stinking rubbish dump, amidst the heap of other worthless and discarded things.
“They are nothing more to me than this under my feet,” she’d yelled, practising her hatred, even at that tender age.
“So angry little one? Why is that?” Mikkel had asked sardonically, as he’d sidled up to her.
She’d spun around.
He was smoking a cigarette and looking at her as if measuring her worth. She was half-conscious of his eyes searching the hidden contours of her body in the pretty dress that Azra Mom had made especially for her.
Sabah was used to looks of disgust, but Mikkel’s eyes seemed to see something else in the young girl standing before him. Something of value. Something that he liked.
She had bitten her lip drawing blood before saying, “I hate this place.”
He had laughed at her fierce anger.
“Give me a treasure, and I will take you away from here, little one.”
Puzzled she’d picked up a lilac umbrella with a broken spoke and offered it to him.
“This?”
He’d spat into the earth.
“You buy your freedom from this place with gold.”
She never forgot his next words.
“Find gold, little one.”
Something though in her pained expression softened his heart.
“Here.”
He tossed a doll still in its box towards her. She’d looked at it in surprise. Some spoilt rich child somewhere had thrown this away?
“For me?”
But Mikkel had already lost interest, and had walked away.
That night, cradling the doll, she had edged back into the darkened village, avoiding the place of the wedding dance where low fires still burned dismally.
From somewhere there were the sounds of male voices which were fracturing the night with their machine gun anger; and from somewhere else came the sound of women weeping.
Sabah had slipped into her bed clutching her doll when her cousin’s fingers had appeared on the edge of the unglazed window sill.
“Sabah,” he had whispered. “Your father. I’m so sorry.”
Afterwards she’d lain awake, clutching her doll closely, listening to the bitter lullaby of the keening women.
That night she named the doll, but kept its name a secret, even from her cousin.
She was to become good at keeping secrets.
Her father was dead and it was her fault.
She became marfud, outcast. The one who was to be shunned.
Sabah’s closed her eyes at the memory from so long ago. Her decision now to leave would inevitably bring anguish and sorrow to her mother; but what else could she do? She was a woman now. A woman who was still spat upon as she went to the well. She was still a marfud. Perhaps it was her presence in the house that caused some of Audric’s violence towards her mother. Perhaps once she’d gone, taking the taint of her shame with her, Audric would gain respect in the village from the elders once more and would then treat her mother with more kindness.
Yes leaving, despite the sorrow it would cause, would in the long run be for the best.
The sun was beginning to cast low purple shadows over the distant hills as she stepped away from the village, but the coming darkness held no fears for her. She knew these paths well, even though they were little more than goats’ tracks.
She paused upon reaching the top of a bluff and looked back. The houses of her village were set like grey rough teeth in the mouth of the parched valley. Some were pitted with ugly broken black satellite dishes, fixtures which had never worked. Others were braced with thin antennas that pointed towards a world that simply did not want to know: a world that they could never reach.
Except for a few fires that burned away that day’s rubbish, there were no twinkling lights in Ad Deirat. The village had no electricity.
Somewhere distantly a lone dog barked.
Sabah knew that later before a thicker darkness fell, the men would leave the fields. Becoming the dark shadows that haunted doorways and terrified their wives; unless they were strong women like Azra Mom.
The goat trail led Sabah towards the dump, which had once been run by the Hebron municipality. It was set in the rocky, dusty hills above the village. This dump was used by the Palestinian cities of Hebron and Yatta, and also by the Israeli settlements that scarred the area, from Kiryat Arba all the way to down to Karmel and Maon. These cities spewed their waste onto the land above Sabah’s village.
Sabah’s heart missed a beat. The refuse truck was there waiting. Mikkel was standing by the back wheel.
The last scavenging child passed her as she approached the stinking heap. He was clutching a half empty box of what were probably damp crackers, and a magazine.
Though few could read, magazines were prized and pored over in the village, their pictures seared into memory as they passed from hand to hand.
Sabah smiled at the child, but he muttered something under his breath and spat at her sandals as he ran by.
Sabah closed her eyes hoping that Mikkel had not noticed.
“Mikkel!” she whispered breathlessly. “I’m here.”
He barely glanced at her.
“Got something for me?”
“These.”
She dropped, as if they were tokens of love, a necklace and two rings into his grubby hands. All that she had left of Azra Mom.
“Get in.”
“Mikkel?”
“Now!”
“Where?” she looked around in confusion.
“There,” he shrugged.
She balked at the stench emanating from the back of the lorry.
“Get in.” he hissed. “Quickly! The soldiers will be getting impatient.
He didn’t help her up into the foul interior, instead he walked away towards his cab casually lighting a cigarette as he did so, and examining Azra Mom’s gold in the half light.
“Mikkel!”
But his back was turned. He was not going to help. Gasping she struggled up onto the back of the lorry tearing her dress as she did so. Then she fell heavily into its dark interior, losing her bag with her few remaining possessions somewhere within its stinking blackness.
She felt around for it touching hideous things that made her recoil in horror as the truck started up and exhaust fumes began to leak inside the vehicle.
Mikkel was driving at speed over the rough dirt road towards the Israeli checkpoint.
“Sabah, your name means morning.”
The stink of rotting food was nauseating, as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Above her were the innards of animals festooned like sticky Christmas decorations. She shut her eyes.
“Sabah, you are from the proud race of Canaanites.”
Something wet was now seeping between her toes.
“Sabah, your ancestors were always here. This is your land.”
Something hard rattled and then rolled against her, dislodged by the lorry’s rapid ascent; the lorry was swaying violently from side to side as if teetering upon the lip of a precipice.
“You are bright Sabah. Like the morning sun,” Azra Mom had said.
Sabah fought the urge to retch.
Something slimy was dripping from the roof and onto her cheeks.
Something was crawling over her clasped hands.
Sabah buried her head and clutched her knees.
“Mikkel?” She wailed.
The lorry shook roughly in negation.”
Azra Mom had taught her all she knew.
“This place is very ancient. That is why the four families here are so very proud, despite their poverty. Perhaps this is why they shun you so. They can trace their lineage back to a Ba'al Hadad himself, though they won’t dare now to speak his name aloud; the mosque has such power over them.”
“And men hold power over women.”
“It wasn’t always so,” Azra Mom replied. “I can teach you about a time when there was once a balance in the land.”
Sabah had been a good pupil.
A can rattled across floor pounding into Sabah’s side as the lorry bounced heavily on the dirt track.
Something wet was now soaking through her clothes.
“Anat, goddess of strife,” Sabah called aloud in anguish. “What have I done to deserve this? Why is Mikkel treating me so?”
She had imagined her escape often enough, but it had been the stuff of enchantment such as she heard from the Bedouin storytellers on their rare visits into the village.
She had thought she would have been by Mikkel’s side, hidden under scented blankets. She’d imagined he would have smiled sweetly and sung to her.
Not this.
She tentatively reached out for her bag, caught its strap, and hugged it to her.
“There was once a proud race of women who could freely walk the land and hold their faces unveiled towards the sun,” Azra Mom had taught her.
Something foul nearby was making it hard for Sabah to breath.
The lorry lurched suddenly into a deeper rut sending Sabah sliding painfully across its metal floor carpeted with wet scraps of paper.
“Qadeshtu, goddess of love, protect me,” Sabah screamed, over the noisy whine of the engine.
Instantly, the vehicle’s brakes hissed, and the lorry skittered to a stop.
Astonished, at the power of her words, Sabah held her breath. Mikkel? Was he about to ask her to ride by his side?
She listened for his footsteps, but instead heard raised voices.
The checkpoint.
The checkpoint had been there since the time of the second intifada.
The Israeli soldiers, long accustomed to their position of power, were treating Mikkel with contempt.
Sabah could not understand Hebrew but knew that the guttural sounds were offensive.
It was an ugly language to her ears, quite unlike the soft cadences of the language Azra Mom had taught her.
“These words are ancient. They have been passed down from mother to daughter. We are the custodians. The men know nothing of this,” Azra Mom had told Sabah. “They think this language is dead, but that is not so. The women of the priesthood teach it to their chosen daughters. I’ve chosen you to be my daughter.”
Sabah had smiled.
Years after, she recalled how a man called Wilson had visited the village in order to learn of the ways of its people. The researcher had spoken only to the men, interviewing them as they sat lazily on their doorsteps, flapping away at the biting evening flies.
This man had briefly glanced at Azra Mom as she’d walked by, and Sabah saw his look that told her that he’d thought Azra Mom was not worthy of his notice. Sabah saw that Wilson believed he could learn everything there was to know about such a woman by simply observing the shift of her hips as she crossed the road.
And Sabah had laughed.
“Why is she laughing?” Wilson had asked.
“Take no notice of her. She is mad,” the men had replied. “She is marfud, outcast.”
And Wilson had taken them at their word.
Sabah learnt that day that there is great power in silence.
Mikkel was silent now also as the soldiers taunted him.
She was shocked. How many times had he passed through this check point and heard such words? Was this how men treated other men? Was that why they then turned upon their women and treated them like dogs?
Steps approached the rear of the lorry. Sabah crouching low in her corner hoped that in the falling dusk her presence would seem little more than a shadow.
They stood close, but the soldiers had become careless. The reek from inside the lorry was too strong to encourage too close an inspection. The soldiers turned away after a cursory glance, bored and disinterested.
When the engine eventually fired into life, Sabah knew that Mikkel had fooled them.
Exhaust fumes again seeped into the lorry making her feel sick and light-headed.
“You can choose your own name once you’re free. Become your own person. You can then bring your own proud name back to the village,” Azra Mom had said, smiling at the girl who’d sat crossed-legged in front of her.
Sabah had become restless.
Gold was her passport. But how? The Bedouin had gold but they rarely passed through the village except for the few who lived on the edge of the village offering their camels for a fee.
Some said that there was gold at Khirbet Ad Deirat, and Sabah’s hungry fingers had raked the dust of those ruins sifting through the sands in search of it, like thousands of rapacious hands had done before her.
To come by gold in Ad Deirat was an impossibility.
Then Azra Mom had become sick and had died moments after pressing something into Sabah’s hands. Sabah had looked down to see two rings and a necklace.
Gold.
The lorry roared triumphantly down the smooth metalled road as Mikkel drove deeper into Israel.
“Kotharat, goddess of women, what should I do? Please give me a sign.”
The lorry sighed, and slowed down, juddering as it did so as if to throw its innards out onto the road in a fearful birth.
As it slowed once more to negotiate a series of tight hairpin bends Sabah grabbed her bag and jumped out into the night.
The lorry continued to wind noisily down the hill, as Sabah rolled to a bruising halt against a myrtle bush, catching its oily scent as her body crushed its leaves.
She lay as still as newborn, before gulping the fresh air hungrily.
Overhead swallows were flying, and a crescent moon was appearing against a darkening sky.
Sabah understood such signs.
All sound of the lorry had gone.
She strained her ears.
Nothing.
Struggling to her feet she walked through the gloom towards a rocky outcrop where the swallows were flicking back and forth. There in the cleft of the rock was a deep pool fed by a trickle of water.
The water felt warm upon her skin as she washed away the horrors of Mikkel’s refuse lorry. She scrubbed hard at her skin and hair before washing her clothes.
One day she would tell Rii the story of how she’d escaped from Ad Deirat in the back of a filthy refuse lorry. How Rii would smile, but that would have to wait for a few more years yet.
“‘Al-hijab’ is the veil which separates man and his world from God. Her cousin had once whispered to her. “If only he could sweep it aside.”
Sabah knew that men in her village were too lazy to attempt such a thing; but she had. With Azra Mom’s help she had swept aside the veil that had separated her from the Canaanite goddesses of her ancestors.
Sabah knew as the swallows circled in the hills around her that she had the protection now of the greatest of all the deities.
All she had to do now was to make her way in the world, and to make a name for herself.
She had already chosen her last name, it would be Aliha. It meant goddess
Thus it was on a scrape of land that Sabah Aliha, the Goddess of the New Dawn, the woman who would one day bring peace to the Middle East, slept soundly. She was tightly curled around a tiny doll: the one she had named Amala, hope.
0 comments:
Post a Comment