My aunt also loved Umm Ali, and she liked to talk to her. They might have been the same age but my aunt was small in size and had been affected somewhat by senility; as for Umm Ali, she was tall and plump, in good health and skilled in conversation. She had given birth twelve times, “Ten boys and two girls, no more, and anyone who saw me here in Beirut with only Abbas would think I’m without any family. May God not forgive Israel.” Umm Ali had come to visit her son when Israel occupied the south in 1978. She stayed with her son, Dr. Abbas, and the rest of the children and grandchildren and their families remained in Bint Jbeil. She was also waiting.
At the end of the third month the resistance left Beirut. It seemed that the war had ended; it ended in our defeat, in the occupation of Lebanon and in the departure of the fedayeen, but it had ended. Those who had been forced out returned to their homes in Sabra and Shatila and began to repair the war damage. Hasan went to Cairo, and Amin went back to regular hours in Acre Hospital. He and his colleagues also began to repair the floors that had been damaged in the hospital, because the war was over. That was what we believed.
On Tuesday afternoon news was broadcast of the explosion of the Phalange headquarters in Ashrafiyeh. I was terrified, as if the ones killed had been our own. It’s strange, that instinct, like dogs that scent danger from afar. I knocked on Umm Ali’s door, and told her; she said, “God may grant a reprieve, but he does not forget.” I said, “If Bashir is among the killed, Lebanon will burn.” She said, “It has burned, that’s already happened.” At night the radio broadcast classical music, funereal as it seemed; I assumed that Bashir Gemayel had been killed. A little later the news was confirmed.
On Wednesday we were awakened by intense shelling; it wasn’t yet six in the morning. I carried Maryam, who was half asleep, and woke my aunt and took them down to the shelter. Then I went up another time and brought down the overnight bag and the two shopping bags. The shelling was continuous, as if we were still at the height of the war. By means of the transistor radio we were able to follow the description of Bashir Gemayel’s funeral in Bikfaya; from other stations we learned that the Israeli forces were advancing to occupy West Beirut and that they had encircled the Sabra and Shatila camps, and the adjacent neighborhoods. In the evening Amin returned. He said that the Israeli forces had set up barricades near the Kuwaiti Embassy traffic circle, in front of the hospital. “A number of their soldiers entered the hospital and asked about the “saboteurs”; we told them that there was no one there but patients, doctors, nurses, and workers. They said, ‘Look, pal, if you don’t kharm us we won’t kharm you. We’re coming to protecht you!’ They ate in the hospital cafeteria without permission, and then, to add to the humiliation, they passed out candy to some of the kids. One of the nurses told me that she saw them giving cookies and bonbons and chocolate to the kids near the checkpoints, and allowed them to play near them.” I asked him, “How do you explain it?” He said, “Remember that long meeting that Abu Ammar held in the Gaza hospital. He said, and I quote: ‘Don’t be afraid, I’ll ask for international forces for you at the entrance to the camps, to protect you.’ There are no arms or fighters in the camps now; the weapons depots were confiscated by the Lebanese army, and the fighters have left. The international forces have left, I don’t understand why, maybe to leave the way open for Israel to consolidate its control over Beirut. But I believe that now that the Israelis have occupied the town they don’t need any more violence. They’ve shelled, invaded, and killed enough, and accomplished what they wanted. Abu Ammar and the fedayeen have left and the Israeli army has entered West Beirut, so they’ve reached their goals completely. Now it’s the other face, chocolates and bonbons and chlorophyll smiles and ‘We’ve come to protect you.’”
Amin went to sleep, but I was between sleep and waking all night long. I felt him leave the bed, so I got up. I looked at my watch and it was near to six. He ate a hurried breakfast, and kissed Maryam’s forehead and his mother’s, as they were both deeply asleep. He said as he was taking leave of me at the door, “I don’t think that there will be any more shelling. I’ll be home in the evening.”
An hour after he left I went down to buy bread, but there was none; the street was nearly deserted. I hurried home, and then I remembered the newsman who had moved his counter from the street to the entry of the neighboring building. I passed the house and went to him. I found him, and bought the paper and carried it home.
Strange; I didn’t wait to climb to the apartment. I stood at the bottom of the stairs. The headlines on the first page had nothing new: the attack on Beirut on five axes; the funeral of Bashir Gemayel in Bikfaya; the national forces were preparing for the attack. I had heard the same news the night before on the radio. I moved to the interior pages: pictures of Israeli tanks and military equipment in Bir Hasan; on the Sports City Road; in Ramla al-Bayda; at the lighthouse and the Military Bath. I stopped at the ninth page, at the details of the first item. A declaration from the White House, which I didn’t read. Then: “Subsequently yesterday a spokesman for the Israeli army announced that the Israeli forces are continuing to establish control over vital areas and crossroads in Beirut. He said that the Israeli armed forces are advancing without meeting resistance except in a few areas, where there has been an exchange of gunfire from light weapons between our forces and the saboteurs. The Israeli Defense Forces are taking these steps to prevent the ‘fedayeen’ and the leftist militias from reforming in the Lebanese capital … Israeli Army Radio said that the army had invaded the Fakahani neighborhood … and the Kuwaiti Embassy Square, which was among the most important strongholds where the saboteurs sought shelter.”
Where was Abed?
I sat on a step in the stairway, continuing to read the details as if the question and possible answer were ordinary or reasonable. A marine landing at the Military Bath, and debarkation on land at the airport. The advance of the forces along five axes: the airport road, leading to the Shatila traffic circle; the Kuwaiti Embassy traffic circle, Sports City, the Cola traffic circle, the Fakahani; the road from the sea to Ouzai; the museum; Barbir.
Where was Abed? They wouldn’t give him bonbons or chocolate.
Maybe he was in the house of one of his friends, sleeping, not knowing that the Israeli tank was below the house in which he was sleeping.
I took the newspaper and climbed the stairs. I put the key in the lock, and realized that I had forgotten Naji’s cartoon; I hadn’t seen the last page.
I saw it. I no longer remember what I did.
Did I strike my face in despair? Perhaps. Did I open the door and remain standing? I went into the house, turned around in it twice, like a hyena, and then left. Did I lock it and go down the stairs only to discover that I had to go up again? I don’t remember. I only remember that after that I was in Umm Ali’s apartment. Good morning, good morning to you. The Israeli tanks are in the Fakahani. I couldn’t find any bread. The Israelis are giving kids bonbons and chocolate at the barricades. I said it, and didn’t hear what she said. Then the apartment of the next neighbor, then the third neighbor. I repeated the same words like a tape recorder. Then the shelling began to intensify and become continuous, so I carried Maryam and my aunt to the shelter. Where was Umm Ali? I left Maryam with her grandmother and went up to Umm Ali; she was baking bread. I yelled at her, is this any time to bake bread?! She said, I found some flour and said, I’ll make bread. Anyway I’ve almost finished. She insisted on continuing: “Our lives are in God’s hand, Ruqayya.” My voice rose as I tried to convince her; perhaps I scolded her, perhaps I spoke insolently to her. Did I say something harsh, did I quarrel with her? I don’t remember, but she did not come down. After mid-afternoon, as the shelling was becoming insane, Umm Ali came down, carrying the fruits of her labor. She distributed the loaves and gave each of the nine children present in the shelter a pastry the size of a fist, sprinkled with sugar.