And the young men would shake their heads and run off as though to escape her words.
“The grave is the fourth on the right, near the oak tree. You’ll recognize it, my son. Just dig a little and you’ll find him. I wasn’t able to dig deep enough. Make sure his head’s aimed toward the Qibla,* and if it isn’t, I beg you, move him into the correct position. God will reward you.”
Everyone promised her but no one went. Who would be so stupid as to venture to the cemetery at al-Kabri? And who would go scratching around in a grave?
Even you, Father, made promises to her and lied, telling her you weren’t able to travel that far. Even you didn’t dare speak the truth — that al-Kabri no longer existed, the cemetery had been erased, the oak tree cut down, the olive groves uprooted, and palms and pines had been planted in their place.
Abu Salem never told her he hadn’t looked for the grave, and he never told her the story of the madwoman of al-Kabri and the bag of bones thrown down in the square at Deir al-Asad. He listened to her like all the others, and like all the others he nodded hurriedly and went on.
Umm Sa’ad Radi said she wanted nothing. “They took Palestine? Let them have it. I just want to visit the grave to make sure I buried him correctly. I don’t care about al-Kabri or anywhere else, they’re all going to disappear. They took them? They can have them. But they should give us the grave at least.”
Abu Salem agrees but says nothing.
And we say nothing.
All of us were afraid; we didn’t dare visit her and give her a proper answer. Why? A good question.
Why didn’t we lie to the woman and let her die with her mind at peace?
Why didn’t anyone dare release her from the ghost of the man sitting in his grave gazing at her from the sockets of his eyes, moving his head as though he wanted to say something?
Why didn’t we lie to her?
We’re not even capable of lying. Incapable of war, incapable of lying, incapable of truth.
Umm Sa’ad Radi wasn’t there, and she didn’t tell her story.
As for you, Abu Salem, you were sitting in the midst of them, calm and silent. Everybody knew you’d taken to criticizing everything, and no one took you seriously anymore. You were bitter, they said. Even I thought so. You’d become dismissive; we thought you felt beaten down because the route over there had been blocked. After the fedayeen were thrown out of Jordan in 1970, we only had the Lebanese front, and it was swarming with fighters. They told us we had to climb Mount Hermon to protect Palestine from vanishing, so we climbed it and set the ice on fire with our fighting and our blood. This made your route to Bab al-Shams difficult, if not impossible. However, I know you managed to make your way through and slipped into your village many times, but that’s another story. I’ll save it for tomorrow.
But today.
Now, on that day, you got up and explained things to us. The house of Abu Husam al-Jashi was sailing along on memories; the stories were flying from people’s mouths. Everyone told some story or other and believed what he wanted to remember.
And the curses rained down on Kallas and Alloush: How could the Arab Liberation Army have withdrawn? How could they have betrayed us? How?
Then your quiet voice came from the corner of the room, cutting through all the others. You were holding a thin stick resembling a long pen in your hand, and you drew imaginary lines and circles on the dark red carpet. You said that Galilee had collapsed.
“The whole of Galilee collapsed between operations Dekel and Hiram, and we had no idea.”
The Dekel plan began with the occupation of Kaswan on July 9, 1948. Then al-Mukur, al-Jdeideh, Abu Sinan, Kafar Yasif, and al-Kweikat were occupied. On July 13, they occupied Nazareth, and then Ma’loul, linking Kafar ha-Horesh with the rest of the settlements south of Nazareth. On July 15, an Israeli unit moved from Shafa Amr to occupy Saffouri, and a broad mopping-up operation followed that led to the occupation of al-Birwa.
“What did we do after the fall of al-Birwa? We were besieged in Sha’ab. Every village and city in Galilee fell during the war, except Sha’ab. We stayed there until the end of Operation Hiram on October 28, where, in the space of sixty hours, the whole of Galilee had fallen.”
“We never. .” said Yunes.
He stood up like a man I didn’t recognize, uttered half a sentence and sat down again without finishing it. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes.
He resembled a man, somebody I didn’t know. When we call someone we know “a man,” it means we don’t recognize him anymore, or he’s taken us by surprise. That’s why a wife addresses her husband as “Man” — because she doesn’t know him.
And Nahilah, what did she call you?
You never told me your wife’s names for you, but I don’t think she addressed you as “Man” despite the fact that she was completely in the dark about her husband.
This man, his head crowned with white, stood up and tried to respond to this woman. All the woman said was what we’d been saying every day, what we’ll always say because it’s easiest.
“So, they sold out,” said the woman.
But instead of letting the words slide past, as words usually do on such occasions, you stood up and said, “We never. .” and fell silent. And everyone else fell silent.
Yunes used Classical Arabic on that occasion, as though he felt himself to be an orator or wanted to say the final and unanswerable word. So he said, “We never. .” in Classical Arabic and sat down.
I would like to know, what stopped you? You waited for the teardrop to be caught in Nuha’s eye before speaking. You stood up twice and started to tell the story of what happened to you in Sha’ab, your last war. You said that all the villages fell except for Sha’ab: “We evacuated Sha’ab because defending it was impossible after the rest of Galilee had fallen. Sha’ab isn’t a country, it’s just a village.”
You said you understood the meaning of the word country after the fall of Sha’ab. A country isn’t oranges or olives, or the mosque of al-Jazzar in Acre. A country is falling into the abyss, feeling that you are part of the whole, and dying because it has died. In those villages running down to the sea from northern Galilee to the west, no one thought of what it would mean for everything to fall. The villages fell, and we ran from one to another as though we were on the sea jumping from one boat to another, the boats sinking, and us with them. No one was able to conceive of what the fall would mean, and the people fell because everything fell.
You talked and talked; you were at boiling point, almost exploding, and we couldn’t grasp what you were trying to get at, and why you said that Palestine no longer existed.
“Palestine was the cities — Haifa, Jaffa, Jerusalem, and Acre. In them we could feel something called Palestine. The villages were like all villages. It was the cities that fell quickly, and we discovered that we didn’t know where we were. The truth is that those who occupied Palestine made us discover the country as we were losing it. No, it wasn’t only the fault of the Arab armies and the ALA; we were all at fault because we didn’t know. And by the time we knew, everything was over. We found out at the end.
“Listen. All of them sold out, and we want to buy it back. We tried to buy it back, but we were defeated, defeated utterly.
“Listen. They were less traitors than miserable wretches because they were ignorant; they didn’t know what was really happening. Would you believe me if I said that none of us — not I, not Abu Is’af — knew their plans or understood the logic of their war? We didn’t know the difference between the Palmach and the Stern Gang.*
“Why call it a war when you aren’t really fighting?