There you are again. With that self-centered, self-assured
walk. Like the world belongs to you. That jumpiness when you walk tells it all.
The way you carry the kanun – bare, without a cover to protect it. But I can
tell you have great respect for it, though you try to be casual about it.
Again, you’re unshaven today. The same jeans, with that imprint of a thick
wallet on the left back pocket. And you’re always either rolling a cigarette or
smoking one. You must smell like an ashtray. But I see you take care of your
body. In that white tank top o can clearly see the well-defined muscles of your
dark shoulders and arms. Full of contradictions, aren’t you?
Oh yes, I see the way you look at me, like a hungry animal
lurking for prey. And I don’t like it. you want to devour me in one piece.
At the same time, you probably think I’m too much of an
intellectual for you. Or too proud to even talk to someone like you. Or too
sophisticated with my leather briefcase.
Mother always told me I need to marry someone who would
challenge me intellectually and let me grow. And I listened to her. Married a
real intellectual. Dr. of Political Science, no less. Head of the department.
And oh did he challenge me. Heated discussions into the night about the nature
of the nation-state, the political identity of a people, what defines a nation,
why democracy has failed, and what not.
I don’t deny it, they were indeed very challenging
discussions. Intriguing even. I learned from him, and he even enriched my
thought. Often, I found his ideas spilling into the lectures I was preparing,
reflected in a different way in class discussions with my students.
Sometimes I miss these talks of ours. He was a good friend.
A close one, even. There was mutual respect between us. We cared for each other
deeply. When my migraines would completely disable me for several days, he
always made sure the blinds were drawn all day long, and even kept my father
away with his loud chatter. He made me shai three times a day and brought me my
favorite fruit in the summer – khokh abu wabar.
Yes, we lived like good friends. We shared household chores,
spent relaxed evenings in the garden reading through each other’s notes for the
upcoming lectures, giving feedback and constructive comments.
I could tell from the way he was settling comfortably into
this life that he was happy. Content that he reached his destination – the
final end point.
But not me. I wanted more. Looking back, I sometimes wonder
if I weren’t selfish for wanting more than that for myself – for us.
But still, I wanted more. Oh yes, much more. My insides were
burning, my throat dry, thirsty. I was yearning for something greater. But I
didn’t know yet what it was I was in search of.
I wanted the ground to be swept from underneath me. I wanted
to experience something so intense it would leave me filled with so much energy
enough to set me on fire. Leave an eternal mark on me like a hot iron sizzling
on the skin.
I wanted to be set on fire and burn like the phoenix. To die
an intense death and be reborn all fresh and new all over.
I thought at first there must be something wrong with me for
wanting this fire intensity.
But there was something in me craving to experience the
utter opposite of intellectuality. Raw, unhinged savageness.
At that time, I was immersed in teaching a course on the
erotic works of D. H. Lawrence.
***
And just when I made the decision to break free, all hell
came undone. Well, not exactly, but it sure did feel like it when I hit the
ground. I don’t remember much of that day, only fragments. I remember walking
to Um Tayseer’s house. I remember the ground shaking under my feet. And something
burning my flesh. Then, just half a second before everything turned into
blackness, the smell of the earth.
I woke up in a hospital bed. Baba was sitting next to my bed
in a black vinyl reclining chair, snoring softly. In the white light of the
hospital room, I remember thinking that he somehow aged overnight. He was
unshaven, the short bristles snow white. He slept with his mouth slightly open,
Darweesh’s Diwan open on his lap. I studied him, moving through all his body
with my eyes. I needed to concentrate hard, because I didn’t want yet to move my
attention to the burning pain in my right shoulder, going all the way to the
tips of my fingers. His right leg jerked and the book fell off his lap. He opened
his eyes wide and was surprised to see me glaring at him, with a screwed up
smile.
“Susu… you’re awake, habibti.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but only a croak came
out, which at first I didn’t recognize as my own voice.
I saw he was struggling not to let the tears out, but his
lips were quivering.
“Ba… baba, ween… Hi… sham…?” I looked around the room in
search of white roses, for he always brought me only white roses.
Baba’s face wrinkled up in anger. “You just had to wake up
on my shift. Couldn’t you wake up two hours ago when mama was still here?”
My mind started racing. Something bad happened to Hisham. I squeezed
my brain, but couldn’t remember where he was when the ground shook. Was he hurt
really bad? I looked at baba with pleading eyes, my mouth dry, “Hisham?” Baba
realized what I must have been thinking, and he put his hand on my good arm. “He’s
fine, Susu. It’s just that… he left. This morning. For London.”
Wonderful. The ground shakes under his wife’s feet, and he
flies to London!
***
Three weeks later, he came back to an empty house. I had
baba pack my library and move the eight boxes of books back into my old room. Mama
packed my clothes and my art pieces. Nothing else was mine in that house.
Hisham didn’t even call. Our marriage dissolved without words.
It’s been four years now, and I can still feel the dead
flesh on my arm burning every now and then.
I’ve seen his since – in the souk, meticulously picking his
fruits. Parking his can close to the bakery on Khoury street, while I waited
for the bus. I had made up my mind to see right through him. Nevertheless,
every time I glimpse him, I get all worked up and become all self-conscious
about my disfigured arm. It starts burning all over again, and all I want to do
is run. Run away from this burnt flesh. So I focus really hard on the soles of
my feet, planting them more solidly on the ground, so that they don’t take off.
And I wince from the pain.
Neighbors tell me he’s always and obsessively asking about
me. Even now – four years later. He holds on to every piece of information. When
he sees me, I feel his eyes piercing my body. He watches every movement I make,
until I’m out of his sight. Yet he never makes a move in my direction. He knows
he’s made his choices and now has to live with them. There is no forgiving his
abandonment.
Teta made me the most beautiful glove to wear on my
disfigured arm in the summer. People who don’t know I’ve been burnt think it’s
a weird way to make a political statement. The colors of our heritage – black with
the small hand-stitched designs that adorn traditional Palestinian dress. Yahud
think it’s a fashion statement. One glove, all the way up to my shoulder, in
the smoldering hear of Haifa’s Tammuz. I smile for their stupidity.
***
So, ultimately, in some distorted way, it was Hisham who made
it possible for our marriage to end. Or maybe it was my burnt arm. Or the
University of London for inviting him to give a course on geopolitical changes
in the Middle East over the last decade. It’s not important. What is important
is that I was weak and didn’t dare leave the prison of that marriage when it
became suffocating.
My students think I’m a hero. For learning to write with my
left hand. For being too proud to ask for any help. For struggling with the
coffee machine with my one good arm. Every simple task has become a challenge
during that first year, but I refused to give up.
Mama thinks I’m stupid. For refusing compensation money for “victims
of terrorism.” But I could never compromise my values. How can I be categorized
as victim of terrorism when I can’t accept the mere fact my arm was burnt by
terrorists? It doesn’t make any logical sense. Therefore, I simply cannot
accept the money. Medical care – yes. But nothing beyond that.
Um Maysara doesn’t think I’m a hero. Nor does she think I’m
stupid. These superficialities don’t concern her. she is concerned only about
me continuing with my life “after” in the same way as “before.”
“Society needs to acknowledge that people come in different
colors and shapes.” At first, I didn’t quite understand her obsessiveness about
this notion. But she opened up when I asked her about it straight out. It had
been a slow day.
(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh, 2012.
