(c) photo by khulud kh, Haifa (2012)
It seems that I’ve been out of touch with the politics of television for quite some time, since I don’t own a television and only get to watch it sporadically when I’m at my parents’. I remember when I was young, there were always subtitles in Arabic on the Israeli channels. Or am I imagining things? I’m quite sure there were. In my memory, they ran in two black lines on a yellowish background – one line in Hebrew and the other in Arabic.
In recent years, I’ve noticed the Arabic disappeared, to be replaced by Russian. I think it’s very important to add Russian subtitles, as there are is a large Russian-speaking immigrant community here, and many of this community’s members do not speak or understand Hebrew. Making television programs accessible to this community is of course of great significance to facilitate their integration and their sense of belonging.
But why replace? Why not add? Why delete the Arabic? Replacing it by the Russian is an extremely strong political statement. Our language is being deleted. Television programs are not accessible anymore to many Palestinians who do not speak or understand the Hebrew language. It’s yet another step in making us feel unwanted here. Another step in this systematic deletion of our language. And language is one component of history and culture.
One wouldn’t even pay attention to such a “trivial” issue as replacing one language by another in the subtitles. Not if you understand the language being spoken. But in some cases, it gets really ridiculous – ironically sad I would even say. I noticed this on a cooking program, where the hosting woman is a Palestinian, and she was hosting a Palestinian chef, Haitham from Taybeh. They are both Arabic speakers, yet the program was in Hebrew, so they spoke in Hebrew. They cooked in Hebrew and they laughed in Hebrew. The subtitles ran in Hebrew and Russian.
The Arabic language, an official language in Israel – was completely absent.
On the same issue of deleting languages, I remember an incident several years ago, which also made an unforgettable impression on me. I had been waiting with my mom for an X-Ray examination. Forgetting to bring a book along, I studied the walls. There was quite a big sign with a cigarette in a red crossed circle, and below it written in both Arabic and Hebrew that smoking is prohibited in this building. A few meters away, a sign in Hebrew for pregnant mothers. It said that if you’re pregnant, you should inform the technician before having the examination. Realization was slow to come. How come the sign was only in Hebrew? What about the Ethiopian, Russian and Arab women who can’t read Hebrew?! Is the protection of their unborn babies less important than that of Jewish women’s?! The very least one could expect is that the sign be written in at least the official state languages, since the hospital is a state institution.
The sign prohibiting smoking struck me as ironic. That this sign, which clearly doesn’t need any words to accompany the image of the cigarette, was in both languages. It is also ironic that this is something prohibited by the hospital, so they want to make sure everybody understands it, whereas the sign about pregnant women is there to protect the women, so it’s perceived as less important.
These are but two very insignificant examples. But this is done systematically and strategically. The most prominent and known example is probably the deletion of the Arabic from signs of city names. The deletion of language is symbolic. It is not something solid like the deletion and destruction of whole villages. But it is fundamental in its symbolism. Language roots us and binds us, makes us feel we belong. It is the means for human communication. Deletion of a language is an undoable act.
Yet another lynch of a young Palestinian man in Jerusalem. Only about three weeks ago, in the impossible heat of mid-August in this forsaken place, three young Palestinians were brutally attacked. And now, another young man. In both instances, the attackers were young Jewish boys. Very young. In both instances, they were attacked because they are Palestinian. The media jumped on the hot news like vultures on prey and screamed “Lynch.” Actually almost everyone did: politicians, the president, educators, parents. They all rushed to criticize, to emphasize and to remove themselves from this raw hatred. They were surprised.
I am not surprised at all. A society that breeds blind hatred towards a whole people is bound to such extreme actions. But I am not here to write any “op-ed” article. As a writer of political fiction, among other genres, I had a strong sense of responsibility in writing down another story. Not the story of the attack. Not the story of the attackers, and not that of a society that has lost its way. No.
When I read about the lynch of Ibraheem AbuTa’ah on the night of September 5th, I felt an urge to write his story. Of before the lynch. Of a young man finishing his morning shift at the hotel, going home, taking a nap, preparing for the party. Was he going alone to the party or was he taking a partner? What were his hopes? What was going on through his mind when his friend told him she wasn’t feeling well and if he could help her get home? Was he disappointed to leave the party early? Did the lynch that occurred there three weeks earlier pass through his mind at all? Did he walk with full confidence or did he feel insecure? And then – and then, when she called his name, disclosing his nationality, and he saw the pure hatred in his attackers’ eyes? Yes, this is the story I feel the urge to write. Gone writing.
it seems that – after all
the impossible is real.
to miss you before I even met you.
for you – also – to miss me before meeting me.
to hold long conversations with you in my head before seeing you.
to feel the explosion of energies when my fingers touched yours for the first time.
But how can it be possible to miss you before meeting you?
Even when I’m with you – I already miss you.
My phoenix –
That’s what you are.
and I will burn in your fire
and live in your fire
shhhh – no need to say it –
I know exactly what.
Because –
we both already know
that what you feel is exactly what I feel.
and we both have no – explanation
no need for words.
By the end of nine minutes – which haven’t started yet,
you will have a truckload of sand.
It was the first time for you in 45 years
the sound of the waves, the carpet that waited just for us
the stars – the wine.
all this, after the car sunk down – took us almost two hours
(and we forgot the jack, which remained there
and we picked it up – two nights later, at the same spot)
you, me – drunk not from wine.
there were stars in the sky – I didn’t see any
and yes – I have to admit: it is the first time for me in 37 years.
Because I am reborn in your fire – my phoenix.
And all of this – is forbidden
Not to me – but to you.
At the end of these – nine minutes
(which haven’t started yet, just to remind you)
I will burn – for the last time
and turn into the ashes of the khulud (no, not the name – the eternal)
but I knew this from the moment I heard the words “I miss you” from you
before you met me.
and I am ready to burn that last time.
Why? Why chose death by burning?
Because – I want to live within your fire.
We walk into a shoe store. Although I am her daughter, she insists on calling me "Mama." People look surprised, as she pronounces "Mama" in a loud yet childish voice. She drags her right foot. Her right arm is bent at an angle, fingers curled into a soft half a fist. She sees a shoe and points to it - "tis, tis." I take it in my hands and show it to her. She studies it, especially the front part, to see if it's broad enough for her tightly-curled toes on her right foot. "Ne, ne, ne." I put the shoe back. Using her body, she tries to explain something to me. She points at another shoe and starts talking in a language no one can understand. Loudly. I get some words, "good, pain, three hundred, pretty, give me." I try to make structured sentences from the words and her body. These might be good. If they're not good, they will cause pain to my foot. They cost three hundred. They are pretty. Let me try them on. But then, I don't always succeed in building logical sentences of her fragmented speech. When I fail, she gets upset. Loses patience. Her voice becomes louder, and she reprimands me, saying "Mama" in an even louder voice. People look now again - we've become a freak show.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes, we find a shoe that may be suitable. I look around for the saleswoman. She stands with her back to us. "Excuse me, can we have this one in size 37 please?" She looks at my mother with a frown. We're really annoying and making the place less pleasant for the other customers. She tells me with her eyes that we are not really wanted here. That we better hurry up and get out of the store.
While she goes to the back room to get the shoes, my mom sits down and I bend over to help her take off her shoes. She squirms as I take off the right shoe and try to straighten her toes. "Ouch! Mama! Pain! Ne ne ne!" I tell her I'm sorry and massage her toes while we wait for the saleswoman. When she comes with the shoes in the box, she takes out the left shoe. I ask for the right one, explaining to her that my mom needs to try on the right one. She frowns, but hands me the other shoe. I unlace the shoelaces, and the struggle starts. I try to push mom's foot into the shoe. It's not easy with the way her toes curls downwards. "Ouch!! Ne, ne, ne. Pain. Wait!" I wait until the pain passes and try again. The shoe isn't cooperating, and the saleswoman is standing over me; she doesn't like the way I'm handling the shoe. Another attempt. "Ne ne ne!!! Mama!!! Pain!" It's not working. I can't get the foot into the shoe. I feel beads of sweat tickling my back. I sit on the floor and look at mom. "No?" I ask in a resigned tone. She has tears in her eyes, but she doesn't look at me. She looks down and to the side. Disappointed. I give the shoe back to the saleswoman and thank her. Then the struggle to put mom's shoe back on.
As we walk out of the store, I see the saleswoman letting out a breath. “The freaks are out of here.” She sees me look at her, and she gives me a look that is liquid with pity.
We walk out of the store, silently. She has tears in her eyes and her lips quiver. I feel sadness.
Yes, it is always like this. Instead of treating us with patience for being a bit different, we are treated like freaks.
As I wrote recently in two of my posts, Women with Disabilities – Thoughts, and Women with Disabilities – more Thoughts, I’ve been pondering about writing on this issue. And now, with my second novel being in its initial stages, this has trickled into my fiction.
But what bothers me is the fact that I only now realized that throughout my years of reading and studying literature, I cannot remember one character with any kind of physical disability. Mental, yes. One character stands out: Jonathan Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn, with Lionel who suffers from Tourrette Syndrome. Other than that, of course we have all the mad women in the attic during the nineteenth century, but these are by no means disabled women, Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper being the most prominent of these. So, essentially, having a Master’s degree in literature, I’m quite familiar with classical, modern and contemporary literature. But try as I might, I cannot remember any other disabled characters.
Throughout my literature studies, we touched upon different issues – race, identity, sexuality, gender roles, economy, politics, geography, slavery, madness, religion, wars, mythology, technology, industrialization, culture, social issues, health, and what not. But again, I cannot remember any lecture or any discussion on disabilities. Women’s mental instability? Sure. Lots of that. But where are all the women and men with disabilities? How come there are no deaf main characters? No main characters on wheelchairs? No main characters with aphasia (impairment of language ability)?
I think this is really outrageous! Not only do we as society not include individuals with disability in the public spaces, we deliberately exclude them from literature as well. And doesn’t literature in fact reflect reality? We exclude them from literature because they are not perfect. They are the “other.” They taint our “beautiful” art. They pose challenges to the narrative. Everything is slower because of them, and we need to go out of our way because of their disability. The artist has to make extra effort to make room for these characters in her/his writing.
To me, literature is not merely a form of the “higher arts.” It is, in addition, a vessel for political and social massages; a means – if used correctly and consciously – to initiate public discourse, to criticize, and to bring public attention to crucial issues society should engage in. All this, of course, through providing deep analysis and a critical perspective. No, I’m not talking about academic articles. I am talking about quality literary fiction.
And so the absence of round characters with disabilities is all the more striking, taken into consideration the role of literature. The degree to which characters with disabilities can enrich and inform literature is invaluable. It has the potential to enrich multiple layers: on the literary side, it has the potential to enrich the complexity of narrative, depth of characters, the range of issues the novel deals with, and the style of writing and structure, among others. Alongside this, it has the power to effect change among readers, thus impacting society. It has the power to bring the social, political and economic participation of people with disabilities in public life to the forefront of public discourse. It has the power to bring the voices and needs of individuals with disabilities from the margins to the center, thereby, contributing to making them equal partners and participants in society.
Dealing with disabilities in writing for me is a conscious effort. A direct result of coming face to face with my own prejudices and preconceptions. But I have admitted my ignorance and am moving forward with processing and learning. I am making a space for characters with disabilities to enter my writing – consciously. Yes, it is challenging both intellectually as well as creatively. The narrative isn’t flowing as with a character without a disability. But this doesn’t pose a barrier. It is a challenge I am working through.
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.
to be continued...
Don’t know your name yet, but it doesn’t matter. We’re not close friends yet. Your name will reveal itself to me in due time.
You’re a vague image. Tall, lean, nicely built. But you carry your body bent forward in an arch, like a stooped tree. Maybe it’s because you’re so tall, and you try to diminish your appearance. But don’t you know it has the opposite effect?
You’re wearing faded jeans. Too long for your legs. They’re fraying at the bottom. The back pocket has an imprint of your wallet on it, and a small hole in the bottom left corner.
You have a jumpy walk. It’s the left foot that kind of skips and bounces – first the toes, then the heel touching the ground. The right foot drags behind, surrendering to the beat.
It’s a walk you’ve mastered – maybe unconsciously – during the years of making music. It’s that complete detachment of the left foot from the rest of your body when music is played.
Yes, you’re edgy when you know you will move from one world to another. In this world, you’re doped on hasheesh more hours than there are in a day.
Your bed is occupied by two women on alternate days. And then there are those who find their way into your bed after a performance and are gone the next morning, never to be seen again. Shamed.
But the one your soul yearns for is unattainable for you. Out of reach. Not from your social standing. A real intellectual. It’s not her beauty that draws you to her. There’s nothing unique about that. The usual stuff – dark olive skin, dark brown eyes, hair black as the night. In nice long and think curls down her back. No. it’s something else you can’t describe in any essential way.
It’s in the way she sits on the ground, like she becomes part of the earth. It’s in the way she sips her shai – as if it were the single most important task in front of her. It’s in the way she cocks her head to the left when Um Maysara speaks. It’s in her smile – her body takes on a different form when a smile touches her lips. It’s in the way she smoothes away the curls blown by the naseem into her face. It’s in the way she holds her body relaxed when faced with armed kids at the checkpoint. It’s in the way she walks into that other world – full of confidence and freshness.
And it’s in the way she acknowledges your presence with the softest of smiles and a barely visible nod of the head. And with that smile, you cringe and almost stumble backwards. You, with your bouncy left foot full of self-confidence, lose it all.
Now can you put in words what it is about her that draws you like a mad animal that just smelled the fresh blood of prey?
I wake up just before dawn breaks over the hills to pray. After so many years, it has become part of me. My body betrays me and I find myself dozing off after the prayer for a few moments. Then I collect my wrinkled body and start the day – slowly so that I don’t forget anything. The cloth bag – as I walk through the deserted streets – feels heavy on my back, pulling my body down to the ancient ground. My footsteps barely make a sound, but the contents of the bag jingle with a life of their own. The portable gas, the old brass tea-kettle, the tin box of tea-leaves and, most importantly, the fresh na’ana leaves Salwa makes sure I have. I head towards the hills, leaving the camp abandoned behind me.
The checkpoint is on the main road leading to the camp. It takes me about half an hour to get there, sometimes more, sometimes less – depending on how cooperative my legs are. I always get there before the soldiers. I can’t give them the pleasure of arriving before me and claiming this land as their own. No. I am a reminder to them – every morning – that I was here before them and I am part of this land.
***
Abu Hasan is approaching the checkpoint with slow, tired strides. His body is bent on itself, as if trying to make himself less noticeable. Abu Hasan is a big man. Before the second Intifada, he used to work in
The shai is getting cold. I get up, stretch my old body towards Allah, and dump the remaining shai into the bushes on the side of the road. I make a fresh pot of shai with na’ana and settle on my rug, waiting. I look towards the checkpoint. The line isn’t getting any shorter. It never does. Mostly I see men, young and strong, some older. There are also women, young, most veiled. There is no work at the camp, so beyond the border is their only chance. We don’t want to live on charity. We want to live dignified lives. We want to give our children hope of something better. That’s why Abu Hasan is here today. He has been crushed and reduced to less than human when he couldn’t work beyond the border anymore. But things are changing now. At first, only a few men were able to get temporary work permits. At first there were rumors that they are collaborators. But then more permits came through. This was about six months ago, and since then, most of the men from the camp have tried to get work permits. But it’s not easy to get one. Maysara came home the first day with his head down, humiliated. He was denied a work permit because our family name is the same as that young man’s who blew himself up on the bus in Haifa some years back, killing more than ten people. But he didn’t give up. Ever since then, he’s been running around from one authority to the next, filing all sorts of paperwork, his file getting buried with thousands of other applications. He’s still waiting, hoping that maybe, one day soon.
I sell three cups of shai before I see Abu Hasan emerging from the small building next to the checkpoint and heading back, his body even more crumpled than before. This time he stops at my stall, hands in his pockets. “I don’t have any money on me, hajji, but if you would be so kind as to give a tired man a drink of shai, Allah will reward you, and I will send my daughter tomorrow with some fresh na’ana for you.”
“Abu Hasan, do you not recognize your neighbor? I used to pack you bread and za’atar for lunch and send it with my Maysara when you worked together.”
“Ya a’mmi, Um Maysara! Allah be blessed to have put you in my path this morning. Alhamdulillah for kind people like you.”
He sat next to me and sipped his shai while I told him about Maysara and Yasmin, the other children and the grandchildren. He told me about his own family, and how difficult it was these days to get cooking gas, and how his wife has been trying to set up a small family business at home, sewing clothes. But even thread was difficult to obtain these days. Not being able to stand it any longer that his family lives off charity, he decided to try his luck at the checkpoint. Although he is no longer young, his body is still strong and he has years of experience in overseeing construction teams, identifying problems and coming up with creative solutions. “The soldier sent me to the general. I don’t know why he chose me over all the other men standing there in line.”
(c) photo by khulud kh. Jaffa, 2012Time to say goodbye. Time to close the last page of this book. To reclaim my freedom – for now at least. Yes, it’s exciting to complete a book. But more than that, it’s sad. For two and a half years, Maisoon, Ziyad, Majid and Asmahan lived with me. They would wake up in the morning and sit with me at the kitchen table for a morning coffee and cigarette. Sometimes they would talk to me, other times they’d remain silent.
They walked inside my body. I was never alone. Never lived in one world – always the other parallel world would creep up on me – a shadow that followed me everywhere.
And now – it is time to release. I closed the last page of the manuscript, and with it I said goodbye to Maisoon, Ziyad, Majid and Asmahan. The door to this specific parallel world has been closed – for now. The feeling is a one of a newly regained freedom and aloneness. I can again breathe on my own.
But with this door closing – I am left stranded in a long, narrow, dark corridor. At the moment, I’m still adjusting to the darkness around, feeling my way around, getting ready to walk – towards what – towards another parallel world.
Two years ago, in Andalucía, four characters made a sudden appearance in my mind. They wrote the beginning of their history in some ten pages. That was all they needed at that time. Just to make me know they exist and are waiting for me patiently. Maybe now is the time to go back to them, see what world they will reveal to me, and invite them for a morning coffee and cigarette.
