Confident that no one will interrupt her as long as she is talking to her long-lost son, my mother continues, ‘Abu Fadi, you don’t want to go on listening to Abu Ahmad and Abu Khalil’s tall tales, do you? Those two do nothing but fight whenever they meet. And their fight is nothing but words. One of them stands over in Hamas’ corner, the other stands up to defend Fatah. And each heaps insults on the other. Listen to your mother — and don’t pay any attention to what they say. It’s nonsense. And about that ring — I held on to it for over a year. Then I placed it with Ansam, your niece, for safekeeping. God rest her mother’s soul.’
She wipes away two sudden tears with a handkerchief, and continues. ‘It cost two hundred dollars. You know who gave me the money? Your sister, Raja, God rest her soul. I go to my neighbour Majda. You know Majda — you and your cousin were calling her from the crossing to see if she could go to the house in Khan Yunis and get you my ID number. I give her five hundred dollars and I tell her: “Listen, Majda, my dear, go buy some gold with this money.” Gold is always better to have than dollars. Besides, I don’t even have a bank account. Everyone else puts their money in bank accounts, don’t they?’
I catch Emad’s eye and cry out for help: ‘Someone, hand me the remote! Please!’
While everyone laughs, Abu Ahmad seizes the chance to launch another attack on his political opponent. ‘You know, Abu Khalil, your neighbour Shehada wanted to become a government minister. They wanted to make him Minister of Health, you know.’
‘Screw them! What the hell does Shehada know about health, anyway? Here is what our neighbour knows about health: when he gets a headache, he stays home from work. He sits in bed and takes off a week’s worth of sick days.’
‘You think that the other guys who became ministers are any better than him?’
‘Look, cousin, maybe — maybe — he could handle things at the Ministry of Sewage.’
Everybody is cracking up again, when Abul-Abd jumps in. ‘So sewage gets its own PA ministry now? Is that why it stinks so bad?’
Abu Khalil’s enthusiasm grows as the conversation goes on — and he adds: ‘Look, old man. The Jews came to the PA and said: “We would like to purchase your sewage.” And the PA told them: “No.” So the Jews came back begging, and this time they didn’t pose their request in that garbled Hebrew they speak. This time they asked in clear, comprehensible Arabic: “We will pay good money for your shit.” But still the PA refused to sell. They said the Jews were going to collect it and treat it and turn it into gold. Pure gold, my friend. And the Jews went on saying: “Please let us take it off your hands.”’
Abu Ahmad cuts him dead. He is so upset you might think we had been talking about selling the nation’s soul. ‘You mean they’re trying to get it on the cheap, cousin?’
‘Hand over that long beard of yours — you don’t deserve to wear one! You’re deluded if you think Israel would pay cash for your shit. The PA never once was so deluded to suppose that a country could sell its citizens’ shit for hard cash. Not even the EU pays cash for shit — and they pay cash for everything around here. Israel merely made an offer to purchase, that’s all. First in shekels, then in dollars, if you must know. Does that sound like a good deal to you?’
Abu Ahmad is now defiant. ‘No, I do not like it one bit. First of all, the sewage project is German. The engineer overseeing it is German. And he said they’re going to use it to irrigate the lands to the west of Beit Lahia. If the faeces is sold, our German friend is going to be disappointed. And don’t tell me that he belongs to Hamas — or have Germans gone and joined the Islamic resistance now?’
‘The sewer project? You think that’s really going to happen?’
‘Do you think these things can be done overnight? Sheikh Zayed City in Jabalia stood unfinished for years. The construction was stopped for years until Mahmoud Abbas came in.’
‘What are you talking about? Abbas was in Egypt at the time. The PA has refused to sell the sewage. They have even said so publicly, We will not sell our shit to Israel. They want to treat it and reclaim it just like they do in developed countries. The PA is on public record as saying: This crap belongs to the nation and we’re not going to treat it like shit. We will not let anyone shit on the excrement of the good people of Jabalia and Beit Lahia. The PA considers excrement a nonnegotiable part of national sovereignty, and would never compromise on the issue without a general referendum. They did pretty much everything they could have done on the issue. Although I guess they could have organized public demonstrations. I can hear it now — crowds of patriots in Jabalia and Beit Lahia shouting:
It’s our shit, now get in line
Us in front and you behind!
Our shit, our shit, friend or foe
Belongs to us, for evermore!’
‘And what happened in the end?’ I interrupt, hoping to put an end to this crappy conversation.
‘Ho!’ Abu Khalil answers. ‘The PA came and the PA went — but the shit never left, did it? The whole area reeks of it. You smell it wherever you go. The sewers are overflowing. And don’t forget that Gaza’s sewers pour directly into the sea. And Wadi Gaza too — it is now nothing but a canyon of pipes pumping the nation’s shit into the Mediterranean. And the water supply is polluted, so now we have to buy bottled water from the Jews.’
Amal, Abdelfettah’s wife, brings out cups of coffee, followed by cups of tea. Everyone sits and drinks as much as they like, shifting their bodies back and forth now and then. Their legs get tired, even though they’re used to sitting this way.
Well-wishers keep on coming and going. The conversation never stops, nor does my mother’s broadcast system. There is no remote control in the world that could stop her now — not even one made by Sony. No one listens to anyone else. Abu Ahmad locks horns with Abu Khalil and their private battle goes on. My mother tells me stories and I am somehow expected to listen to all channels at the same time and follow each of their many updates. I am supposed to take in and comment on everything that is said in my capacity as professional journalist or television guest brought in to comment, as an outsider.
It is another day of incredible, laughable and heartbreaking reunions. I let them go on saying whatever they want to say. I jump in sometimes with a word or two, simply to let them know I am still listening. But that is never enough for my mother — she insists on dragging me into things with that tongue, and I let myself be dragged along by her. ‘I’ll tell you what’s a fact — when I hear someone is a Hamas supporter, I turn my back on them. If they walk by, I don’t say hello. When the Israelis kill someone, those jerks run around everywhere making such a racket about it. And then they try to give money to the poor victim’s family. In other words, if I can be blunt with you — they’re buying people, that’s what they’re trying to do. Am I right or am I wrong?’
‘Auntie, you’re absolutely right,’ Salah ventures.
‘I know how to talk politics better than the lot of you.’ And, for the first time, my mother stops talking.
13
It is almost midnight when the last well-wishers leave the last bachelor pad and my mother and I are by ourselves again, just as we were in the morning.
She asks if I want to sleep, and I tell her that I am worn out and need at least twenty hours of sleep. But, even so, I do not feel like going to bed right away.
I lean toward her until my shoulder is touching hers. Before I say anything, she asks, ‘What’s bothering you, son? I know there’s something. I’m your mother — you can’t hide anything from me, Walid.’