Was my mother ever angry when I came home! She didn’t want to talk to me until I promised never to do it again. And she was right. It was foolish.
Uncle Salim slept peacefully. His daughter was somewhat relieved because he woke up in the afternoon. He ate and had some tea, laughed, and asked for me.
My father sat in his room, listening to the radio in the dark. When I came in, he whispered, “They are still fighting. The navy has recognized the new regime, but the air force has nearly destroyed the radio station and the presidential palace. Aleppo resists, and the panzers are rolling northward. God protect the women and children!”
Monday, April 8 — Yesterday was the saddest day of my life. Uncle Salim, that brave and noble man, died.
What a loss for us all! My best friend is gone. He was always there for me, always stood up for me against all the adults. If I happened to play a mean or dirty trick, Uncle Salim could be very harsh with me. But he never humiliated me in front of others, as my father and schoolteachers did. No, he would take me aside, furious, and gently explain what a louse I was.
All the neighbors, grown-ups and children alike, wept, and the whole house was full of people.
He died in the night, without a sound, and left us forever. His small room is filled with flowers from his friends. My father closed the bakery and made bitter coffee — as is customary on such occasions — for all who came to offer condolences. Together with some other men, he fetched a simple casket, although going out is still prohibited. My mother helped wash Uncle Salim, all the while returning to the courtyard, where she sat down in a corner and wept. Nadia and her mother were here all day. Only her father, the miserable pig, stayed away, even though he just sat at home. Nadia fearlessly stroked my hair and held my hand because I was in a rather bad way.
Even as he entered, the priest admonished everyone to remain level-headed. A funeral procession would be dangerous, and thus he would see to getting a permit for a car in which he and the daughter of the deceased could be taken to the cemetery. Never in his whole life had my father screamed at a priest, but yesterday he was mad as hell. I was really proud of him. He shrieked that the church was no longer serving the poor but only those who drive a Mercedes. Jesus always stood up to those who abused him, but the church obeyed the orders of the most asinine officer.
“Uncle Salim,” my father cried out into the dumbstruck congregation, “was not a criminal to be smuggled to the cemetery under the cover of night and fog. He was a noble man, and the funeral procession should show this!”
Men and women both supported him and decided to ignore the curfew. The priest grew pale and wanted to slip away. He said he had a baptism to perform and that he would send a deputy.
“You’re staying right here,” Uncle Salim’s daughter commanded, grabbing hold of the man of the cloth when he sought to get by the silent men. “If the men won’t keep you here, then I will. He is my father!” she cried, and the priest stayed.
The women elected, contrary to prescribed custom, not to remain in the kitchen but to go along to the cemetery. None of them wanted to leave the men alone in their distress.
Our street had never seen the likes of this procession. Hundreds of people accompanied Uncle Salim’s casket, which was borne by six men. Over two hundred women ran ahead of it; this too was something that had never been done. I walked, with Mahmud and Habib, directly behind it in the midst of the crowd. When the pallbearers reached the main road, they turned around three times in a circle so Uncle Salim could take leave of his little street; then the procession advanced into the nearby church. It was crammed full. I stayed outside with Habib, but Mahmud wanted to stand with his father right beside the coffin. Josef came late and quietly joined us. The priest gave a good speech.
From the church the funeral procession took the broad street to the East Gate of Damascus, then turned right, toward the cemetery; after a hundred paces, it suddenly came to a halt. I couldn’t see anything; I just heard shrieks. We knew something had happened and ran to the front. I seized the knife in my pocket; Mahmud already had his out. A jeep blocked the street, and four soldiers aimed their machine guns at the women. But the women would not stop. They cursed out loud, and Uncle Salim’s daughter tore open her black blouse and cried, “Let the procession go, and shoot me!” She forged ahead, and the other women grabbed stones, from the side of the road and advanced on the retreating military officers.
When a woman cried out, “We are your sisters and mothers!” I saw a few soldiers look down at the ground. The officer in the jeep gave the command for retreat, and the vehicle sped away. I looked back and was surprised to see that Habib stood behind me with a pistol in his hand. He put its safety back on and stashed the gun in his jacket. Never in my life would I have thought that Habib owned a pistol, though I knew my father and two neighbors had taken their weapons along. I’d heard them discussing it in the stairwell. But it was the brave women who drove off the soldiers with stones.
At the graveside, Habib made a moving speech in a sad voice, speaking of the wisdom of the deceased and weeping just as the other men and women were.
P.S.: Exactly as Uncle Salim wished, I placed the marble, the key to his coach, and the dried root beside him in the casket. The priest regarded this as superstitious, but when he learned it was the request of the deceased, he agreed. All I kept was the gold coin. I will fulfill the wish of the robber and of Uncle Salim.
April 11 — Since yesterday life has returned to normal. I’m back at work. Panzer tanks are everywhere. The radio station has been destroyed, and many buildings in the New City bear the scars of battle. Uncle Salim goes on living in me, and as long as I’m alive, he will remain there.
About ten years ago his wife died. Roughly a month later, I visited him. I was seven years old at the time and already a fast friend of the old coachman. When I got there, I saw how he set the table for breakfast: two plates, two cups, two knives, and two spoons. I brought to his attention the fact that his wife had died. He smiled and said, “To you, my friend, to you she is dead. In me she is still alive and will remain so as long as I breathe.”
My mother probably won’t set a place for Uncle Salim next Sunday, but as long as I breathe, he will still be alive within me.
April 14 — Our silly neighbor Afifa has frightened her five-year-old daughter, and now she’s bemoaning the consequences. Little Hala asked her mother why Uncle Salim died, and she answered, “Because he was old.”
“But all of you are old; why aren’t you dying?” the curious daughter asked.
Afifa was in a tight spot and could find no better excuse than “Uncle Salim forgot how to breathe while he was sleeping.”
Now the poor child cries before going to bed because she’s afraid of forgetting how to breathe. Or else she wakes up scared every night, struggling for air. And Afifa, this stupid cow? She complains that the girl has no sense of humor.
April 21 — The days go by, and yet I cannot get Uncle Salim out of my thoughts. I miss him terribly. A student moved into his little room. Sometimes when I go downstairs and hear a noise, for a few seconds I think about looking in on Uncle Salim. Funny, although I know he is dead, this happens to me repeatedly. We miss his laughter in the courtyard. No one could laugh as childishly and gaily as he.
Today I know that he was mistaken about something. “Death,” he said one day, “is a long sleep.” No, death is a final step. It leads somewhere, from which there is no coming back. Uncle Salim may well live on in the trees, flowers, and thistles; every kind of vegetation takes a part of him out of the earth and passes it all on: The trees — shadow and security; the flowers — fragrance and color; and the thistles — barbs and resistance. But no being on earth can make a living mixture out of all that is Uncle Salim.