During two months of intense daily shelling, going down to the shelter and leaving it and going down again, my aunt did not ask again about the news of the war and the fedayeen; she contented herself with asking about Ezz. I would tell her that he had managed to find a way to contact Amin. Every two or three days he would call him and say remember me to Mother and don’t worry about me. I would fabricate the words, finding them strange as they emerged from my mouth, loud and complete, clear and stiff, to hide the lie, or to overcome the lump in my throat. I did not know the fate of Ezz or his wife, after the planes had destroyed Ain al-Helwa and artillery had shelled it for ten days, leaving no stone atop another; they had even destroyed the hospital on top of everyone in it. I would repeat, Ezz is fine, Aunt. She would nod her head, as if agreeing with what I said. I don’t know if she believed it or if she had decided that her share in the battle was to overcome her fears, not to express them, and to endure. When the building would shake and the glass in the window would fly in shards that could kill us in a moment she would not comment, saying nothing. But in the shelter she would talk and talk about one subject, never deviating from it: Tantoura. She would talk about it continuously and in detail, attracting the attention of those who heard her. She always ended with the same words: “When we go back home, I beg you to come and visit us. The village is beautiful, it’s worthy of you, and you are worthy of it.” Umm Ali would assure her that she would visit her, if God willed.
Umm Ali was like a dovecote, everyone was at ease with her, whoever they were. At the height of the shelling, if she was not absorbed in one of her numerous long prayers, she would joke and soothe and set minds at rest. How could she keep her calm amid the minefield in the shelter, under almost ceaseless shelling? Yes, it was a minefield, because when our nerves were shot someone would explode at the others or at himself, with or without a reason. I hit Maryam. My hand got away from me and I slapped her face. I yelled at her, or I just yelled at no one, and then I cried. I would bathe her in the least water possible; she would stand in the basin (I remember it clearly: a basin of green colored plastic). I would soap her head and scrub her body and then pour out a little water, just a little. I would not throw away the water left over from the weekly bath but use it to clean the house, keeping a little of it to water the plants that by some strange accident had managed to remain alive: stalks of basil and sage and green thyme. The plants were smart and judged the situation, and like us they came to make do with the least little bit of water. Maryam suddenly urinated in the basin, and my hand got away from me: I slapped her, and then I slapped my own forehead. Then I cried, and Maryam also cried — was it from the slap, or from my sudden tears?
Where did Umm Ali get all these bonbons? Who had the wit to think of bonbons and the neighbors’ children when the bombs were as continuous as Judgment Day, beyond the imagination of the ancients? She would put her hand into her deep pocket and bring it out, opening her palm, and the children would see the candies, their shiny, transparent wrappers showing their colors: red and green and purple and yellow and white. The little ones would rush to take one or two for each of them. Years later I asked Maryam about her memories of the shelter, and she said, “Three things: The noise. The intensity didn’t only hurt my ears, but made me feel as if the missile had entered my ears and come to rest in them, continuing to explode.”
“And Umm Ali’s bonbons?”
“I don’t know where she bought them, because no matter how I tried to find some like them later on, I couldn’t. They had a different taste — I can still remember it.”
“Don’t you remember the day I slapped you when I was giving you a bath?”
She hesitated, and then said, “I remember. At the time it seemed to me like the worst thing a person could do in her life. Afterward I would wake up from sleep and run to the bathroom terrified, whenever I really needed to pee. Once I woke up horrified because I had wet the bed. I took off my panties and the sheet and washed out the dirty part with a little water. I spread it out on the balcony, and stayed awake until it dried, then I put it back on the bed.”
The conversation stopped. Perhaps Maryam noticed, for she began speaking again, “The second thing I remember is the day I went with three kids from the camp to Mustafa Umda’s shop.”
“Who’s Mustafa Umda?”
“He had a shop in Shatila, a little shop that sold candy and hardware. I bought a chocolate and the other two girls bought sugar-coated almonds. There was a boy with us who asked for marbles. The shop owner brought out a cardboard box, and when he raised the cover I saw those little, transparent crystal balls, with touches of color: blue and green and orange. Some were small and others larger. I was dazzled, and even more so when we left the shop and the boy stopped and crouched down and began to roll them on the ground. He was a little older than we were, maybe he was eight; he seemed old and handsome and amazing, as he rolled one and then aimed the second one at it. Then he changed his position and crouched down again and tried to hit the two with the third marble. I said I would return the chocolate and buy marbles. The boy was very nice — he said, don’t return the chocolate. He gave me one of the three marbles that he had bought. I offered to divide the chocolate bar with him; he smiled and said, ”Thank you, I don’t want it.” Strange. I still remember his smile.”
“And the third thing?”
“The day one of the neighbor women screamed at you and said, ‘You’re the reason, you all are the reason. If it weren’t for the Palestinians, Israel would not have destroyed our country.’ She was screaming at you and your face was a strange yellow color. I expected you to answer her, to slap her face, but you dragged me by the hand and went to the farthest corner of the shelter. You asked for a cigarette from a neighbor and left. I followed you, and you yelled at me: ‘Return to the shelter, I’m going to smoke this cigarette and then come back.’ But I stayed clinging to you. I sat next to you on the stairs and saw you smoking for the first time.”
Umm Ali was amazing. She didn’t speak to me about the matter the whole time we were in the shelter; afterward she came to visit me at home and asked that I make her a cup of coffee. She sipped it with me, and then said, “In war people act different from the way God created them. They go crazy, and become unbalanced; at that point it’s not just their hair or their clothes that are disheveled, but their hearts also. I know she hurt you, but you are kind. Say: God forgive her, and forgive her yourself.”
I did not comment.
Umm Ali said, “I’ll bring her to visit you in the evening and she will apologize to you and we’ll drink coffee together.”
I don’t know what Umm Ali said to the neighbor who insulted me. She didn’t bring her to visit me, because a few hours later we all found ourselves in the shelter. I did not approach the neighbor nor did she approach me, but her son was playing with Maryam near me. Then at a moment when the shelling shook the earth I opened my arms wide and enfolded the two little ones, each one in an arm; I hugged them to my chest and my shoulders curved, my head leaning over them to protect their heads. The woman came and said, “Forgive me.” She cried. I did not say anything.