I am happy to be here. To be hearing this. But within seconds, my sense of contentment comes to an end, scattered in the darkness of the bedroom by the symphony of dozens of other roosters in the camp who return the rooster’s good deed. They begin to challenge the first rooster, letting it be known that they too have kept vigil all night, watching over the alleys of the camp, and hinting that they would have been the first to crow had not their biological clocks been set to slightly different shades of time. Like the muezzins, these roosters have not agreed to set their clocks to the same hour.
On the roof directly over my head, great celebrations begin — like the shouting festivals of one of the armed factions. As soon as the roosters’ festival starts, here and there on the roof a clucking or two begins as well. At first it is hushed, like a timid confession: ‘Ka-ka-kabak-bak-bak-baak.’ This is followed by a mass chirping, then the cluckings that grow louder and stormier like the singing of men at a wedding — right at that moment when they take the groom off their shoulders and set him down at his door. They stomp on the ground with some envy, but mostly to encourage him to accomplish the heroic feat now facing him. And they sing loudly as they push in the door. Above my head, the hens continue their chorus: ‘Bak-bak-bak-bak, bak-bak-bak-bak!’
The chickens across the camp now fill the night air with their screeching din. People tolerate this carnival only because of the thousands of eggs they lay every morning.
I lie there awake for a long while, watching as the morning swaps its cloak of darkness for a glittering silver robe. When my eyes have had their fill of wakefulness, I do not resist. I go back to sleep, forgetting all the morning events soon to come. I drift off, barely mindful of the sound of car engines and the donkey-driven vegetable carts that create a particular kind of racket whose tone I had successfully repressed decades ago. I half listen to the hammering of carpenters and the pounding of metal workers which announce the start of another working day. And there, among the other sounds, I can still hear the buzzing of an Israeli drone whose whine never stopped once the whole night.
My first morning home is epileptic — I can neither sleep, nor am I awake.
11
That morning, I greet my mother with a kiss on her forehead that I have been waiting to give her for decades. She responds by saying that now that I am here she can relax, knowing she will be happy for the rest of her days. When I sit down next to her, she asks whether I slept well.
I tell her that I closed my eyes for about two hours. I go on telling her about the ridiculous events, explaining how I was hounded by the barking of dogs. Unlike English canines that abide by anti-barking laws, Palestinian dogs have no compunction about breaking the law. I tell her how the crowing of roosters had taught me that the dawn belongs to them alone, and not to the muezzins who cannot agree with one another on a singing work schedule. I talk about how lively and snappy the nocturnal gunfire is. ‘The hens, Mama — the hens! They must be the only workers in the world who meet all their production quotas before the sun comes up. And the braying of donkeys, Mama. I haven’t heard such a sweet, gentle sound in many, many years. I miss the braying of donkeys, Mama! Such patriotic donkeys Gaza has!’
My mother says nothing. She bites her lip, unsure what to say. I add: ‘You know, Mama, we have absolutely no donkeys where I live. If someone were to bring one to London, I bet they’d want to put it in the zoo, or on display somewhere. And then the media would rush around to cover it — it’d be a huge event. Tourists would pull out their cameras to take photos of themselves standing next to the donkey as a souvenir of the miraculous occasion. They’d take the beast on tour around the whole country. They’d establish an official pedigree for him and his asinine ancestors and give him an annual physical. You know, I was sort of hoping that someone might take a picture of me standing next to a Palestinian donkey. And don’t get me going about all the carts that the night farts out of its arse. Mama, don’t be shocked by how I talk — you use the same expression. And the call to prayer — God damn the call to prayer in this country! As if my ears weren’t sore enough from having to listen to Israeli soldiers shout and yell all day. Aren’t five hundred muezzins screeching into five hundred microphones a bit much? Has the Resurrection Day come early for Gazans? Are people so afraid for their place in heaven? Why don’t they get themselves into a neat single-file line and wait until their cases come up for review? It’s a pity that each muezzin trusts only his personal timepiece.’
My mother begins to laugh, then stops herself.
‘For forty years, Mama, the various Palestinian factions have never joined together in a single front. So why would I expect Palestinian muezzins to form a unified front during my visit?’
My mother banishes the traces of an unlaughed laugh. When she talks, her voice is gentle and reassuring. ‘Don’t worry about it, son. That was only your first night back home. By tomorrow you’ll be used to it again. Between you and me, we stopped noticing these things long ago. We don’t notice anything any more. We sleep through artillery barrages. It is like nothing happened — that’s how used to it we are. You want to know how fucked up life is here? I’ll tell you. When it is completely quiet and there’s not a sound outside — that’s when I get so nervous I can’t sleep.
‘Get up, my good son — go and shave, take a hot shower. You’ll start to wake up and feel more rested. Amal is going to come over and bring us our breakfast. Get yourself ready, your cousin Maryam called a little while ago and said she was going to stop by. She wants to see you. Maryam’s crazy about you, you know. Get up and get ready.’
*
Two women in their early sixties walk into the last bachelor pad. They walk down the short hallway and stop near the mattress on the floor. As they remove their shoes, they greet my mother and look at me. Four eyes watch me with great curiosity.
I get up to welcome them, genuine warmth and inquisitiveness on my part too. I hold out my hand to each of them. We sit down, a small circle around my mother who, as usual, sits hunched over herself on the ground. Not for one moment does she stop welcoming the women into the room.
The first one looks at me. She is very dark-skinned. With a warm, friendly smile, she says, ‘Of course you remember me, right, Abu Fadi? I’m your cousin, Maryam.’
‘Umm Zahir,’ my mother adds.
‘Maryam?’
I lean over and embrace her, our eyes filled with tears. Maryam, my cousin, was a few years younger than me. Unlike her brother Nasreddine, who made fun of and cursed his complexion, Maryam loved the pigment of her skin, just as others in the family also loved it — she had a classic, Pharaonic kind of beauty. My mother had once wanted me to marry her brother’s daughter. And, whenever the thought occurred to her, she didn’t hesitate to talk about it at length. ‘Walid, Maryam is as dark and sweet as a black plum. She’s got a great sense of humour, and her lips almost drip with honey. And you know, she is sweet on you. She likes you. I swear to God, she once told me, “Where am I going to find someone as good as my cousin?”’