Throughout the days I have spent in Jabalia, Amal has been tireless in preparing our meals and taking care of everything. She is like our second, younger mother. She sits opposite me now, watching me intensely, as if she sees right through me. The whole time, she is collecting moving, living images of me to keep in her mind’s album. Emad sits there without speaking, looking back and forth at my mother and me. My mother’s tongue has finally stopped moving, and not because of any device. Now it is she who needs someone who will comfort her on the eve of her son’s departure.
I look at Nasreen — she usually gabs as much as a talk-show guest and if anyone ever needed a remote device under her tongue, it is she. But tonight, I am astonished that she too has nothing to say.
It is almost 10 pm. Each of us has settled into silence. Each of us thinks about what to say, then decides there is nothing more to be said. I am worried, thinking about Abu Hatem. By now, they have covered most of the distance on their way home to Khan Yunis. I am bothered by the fact that on their way they have to pass through the Israeli checkpoint at Mahfouza, which cuts the Strip right in half. As if I was not already worried enough about what I will encounter tomorrow.
This is my last night in the Gaza Strip. My trip has lasted twenty-one days. I have gathered impressions and stories like shadows for an album of ghost images. I have let Adel El-Bashity go wherever he wants with Leila Dahman, after supplying him with enough family to keep him safe and enough detail to make it all plausible.
I will let the other characters in my novel fend for themselves. I will let each of them rebel against me as they like. I will let each of them create their own plot for the coming days, and I will not interfere at all as narrator. From now on, the characters will be in charge of their own plausibility.
Somewhere, nearby, there is a huge explosion that shakes the floor we are sitting on. Then we hear helicopters, chopping by at a distance, and short blasts of gunfire. I jump up and stand at the window to see what is happening.
‘Get down!’ My mother screams until I am sitting by her side again. ‘I don’t want you to get hit. Tomorrow you’re going back to your family, and we want you to get there safely.’
I sit squatting on the floor, feeling upset and despondent. I have grown used to sitting this way, but my buttocks are looking forward to touching a real chair again. Any chair — even a cushionless plastic one like those we sat on at Abu Hatem’s on the day of the feast. My mother is worried about stray bullets. No wonder. After twenty days here, I have learned to cultivate a healthy fear of stray bullets, and the cheap, unannounced death they bring. Said Dahman was killed by a stray bullet. Leila Dahman’s first husband died the same way, as did the husband of the other Leila Dahman. It is as if Gazans live in a permanent condition of randomness. Death wanders about as a stray, and each time it chooses its victim, it does so at random. There is the kind of death that is predictable and planned, and those who want that kind of end know how to find it. There is the unpredictable kind of death that happens according to the shifting balance of power between the various militias. There is also natural death, its victims necessarily in the dark about when it will arrive. And then there is the gratuitous, absurd kind of death whose hand falls according to no plan or pattern. One and a half million Palestinians crowded together, living in the most unpredictable way this unpredictable form of life, living for a death that comes and goes. I now understand why, when you are here, it’s impossible to catch a glimpse of the world outside. Now I understand why no one talks about ‘happiness’ or ‘the future’. Only the last bachelor does, as he plans a wedding in this mass graveyard, in the hopes that he might father many children who will join him in waiting for a future that is always only murky.
Another explosion crashes outside, and Abdelfettah rushes in, clutching a transistor radio that broadcasts non-stop chatter. He tells us he has been listening to Sawt al-Hurriyya station. We gather around him and listen, heads down, trembling.
In addition, two Qassam rockets … Our correspondent in Gaza now joins us to give us more details about the incident …
Al-Salaamu ‘aleikum, brother Ayman, could you tell us what you know about the latest developments in the story?
Brother Namiq …
The voice disappears. Then, moments later, it comes back.
… ibed. Zionist occupation force …
Now Nasreen is arguing with her brother, Nasr.
There are tan … the occup …
‘Will you two shut up?!’ Emad screams. ‘We’re trying to … Now, get your backsides in bed!’ Emad turns to his wife. ‘Could you go get the other radio, Amal? Abdelfettah’s isn’t working very well.’
As Abdelfettah jiggles the dial, hoping for better reception, Amal runs upstairs.
That’s in addition to the two missiles that hit the settlement. There’s a great deal of activity inside the compound, as well as unusual military movements on the part of occupation forces in the… Occupation aircraft have resumed … Beit Hanoun, and in the vicinity of the hospital.
Will the bombardment let up before tomorrow morning? Will the crossing be closed because of this? These missiles are a disaster — there is no possible upside to the stupid attack now taking place.
The planes have just renewed their attacks, but we’re not yet able to ascertain their exact target.
Amal returns with another radio and hands it to Emad who starts spinning through the stations.
It seems we’ve lost our connection to Brother Ayman …
Abdelfettah turns his off.
Oh, oh, oh! How I miss your beautiful eyes!
Oh, oh, oh! How scared I am for you!
Oh, oh, oh!
‘This radio has no shame!’ My mother is incensed. ‘Is this any time to be playing songs about my eyes and your eyes? I hope the monkey who gave birth to them rips out their eyes!’
‘I’ve got a way to play al-Manar on my mobile,’ Abdelfettah remarks. ‘I want to listen to that.’
In Beit Hanoun, at the hospital, Namiq.
Please go ahead, Brother Ayman. Please continue.
Yes, Namiq. There are attacks on Beit Lahia in the north. Six …
Emad tries tuning into other stations until he loses patience, then finally the song comes on again.
The 12 o’clock train, Oh, oh, oh, you…
My mother frowns.
Our thoughts and greetings go out to the family of the martyr.
‘This is the workers’ station,’ Abdelfettah explains to us.
‘Shalom, shal …’
‘Do you know Hebrew, Abdelfettah?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’
‘Be-yom khameshi. Forces targeted Islamic Jihad offices in Jabalia.’
Suddenly, the electricity turns off and we are cast into a sea of darkness. Little Nasreen calls out, ‘Hey! Will someone light a candle? I want to see Auntie!’
My mother calls out: ‘Sit down and be quiet — you’ve already talked enough for two people tonight. The Jews cut the power because they want to keep me from seeing your uncle Walid. They think we have too much time left, and they want us to say our goodbyes now. May God shut off the water in their throats. Please, God — just this once, for me?’
Abdelfettah adds, ‘What did I tell you, Abu Fadi? Israel is conspiring against you and your mother. It’s personal.’ Somewhere in the darkness, we hear a flat colourless laugh. Amal slips through the gloom into the kitchen and returns with a pair of long candles. She places one on the ground in front of me, and another on the other side of the room.