Elias Khoury - Little Mountain

— Tomorrow, I’ll give you a rifle and you’ll come and fight with us. Do you accept?

— But I know nothing about fighting.

— You’ll learn to fight as you’re fighting. Are you scared?

— Of course he’s scared. I’m scared. We’re all scared. Courage is a fallacy. There’s no such thing as courage. Fear comes before or after. We’re always scared, whether before or after. We’re scared of prison before going there. We’re scared of death before dying. We’re scared of war after the battle starts. We’re scared of women before getting married.

— No. We’re scared of women after getting married.

The prisoners huddled around the prisoner who was scared, and we gathered around Nabeel who wouldn’t scare. In the end, we had to sleep. The sound of shells grew around the prison as my sadness grew. Talal grew sad and his sadness clouded the three prison days we spent waiting for the release of the prisoners. Talal in a corner, counting the shells and waiting for his turn. Then the unit commander came and told us we were going back because the operation had been canceled. But what shall we do with the prisoners? Talal asked. The commander said it was a complicated matter, needing time and contacts. We cant act on our own. Well leave them for the time being. They’ll no doubt be released in the end.

Everything is temporary, she said, holding her picture. Look at my picture. You’re prettier than the picture. Talal lifted the camera to his shoulder. The lithe young African boy ascended, blending into the sand and the raindrops.

— I’m talking because I’m sad. We’re dying like flies. Ever since the Mongols, maybe just before or after them, we’ve been dying like flies. Dying without thinking. Dying of disease, of bilharzia, of the plague, in childbirth or the absence of childbirth. We’re dying like flies. Without any consciousness, without dignity, without anything.

— And yet you call for war. And war means the death of even more people.

— Revolution means life.

— But they’re dying.

— They’re dying with consciousness. Consciousness is the opposite of death.

We can abolish death only with consciousness. Then we’ll be over with dying like flies and start into real death.

— Death abolishes consciousness. Death abolishes consciousness, do you hear?

She ran, put sand on her hair and began shaking her head.

— You’re a bourgeoise and I don’t love you.

She ran off and I didn’t run after her. I carried my shoes in my hand and slowly walked to the car. Where to? she yelled. Aren’t you going to take me prisoner and put me in the box? I opened the car door, turned on the ignition and left.

The snow was rolling over our heads. Fog, and the big mountain bowing at our feet. The enemy was advancing — trying to advance — but we stood at the top, immovable, as gods. We were advancing slowly and the white mules slowly advanced with us. The sound of gunfire fusing into our voices. Swollen, our feet had become gray splotches, part of the snow. We ourselves remained. Going back over our memories. Recounting the prison story. Remembering the four prisoners. Each one telling the story the way he liked, the way he remembered it, or the way it was. Shots rang out in the vast expanse where the sun was rolling, the snow falling, and colors didn’t look like colors. My throat was dry, my hand wooden around the rifle. We were listening to their voices. They were cursing and we were cursing back and opening fire. We need Sameer’s stones, Nazeeh shouted. Moments later, they retreated. We were sitting quietly around our rifles when Salem jumped up, yelling, his voice booming like the mountains: who’s there? He ran toward a man, whom at first glance I thought was one of our comrades.

— Who are you?

Talal ran, Nazeeh ran. They took his rifle.

— Who are you?

His voice was trembling. He spoke without having to say a single word.

— Who are you?

— A shepherd.

— And the rifle? — I’m lost.

Nazeeh shouted, a prisoner, hold him fast. Tie him up with rope. He stepped forward and hit him in the face. Welcome Mr. Fascist, the message has been received. Don’t hit him, Salem yelled. Talal came running, grabbed him by the arm, come on.

I’m a student, he said. We’re the new shift. They left me on the mountain. Don’t kill me.

He was trembling, as prisoners do, Nazeeh was trembling, as conquerors do, and Talal trembled. I held the prisoner by the right arm and Talal held him. We took him to the tent, gave him a glass of hot tea. What happened to the four prisoners, Talal asked me. Nabeel came, we should kill him on the spot. Sons of bitches. Fascists!

The prisoner quaked. We’re not going to kill him, said Talal. He’s poor, just like us.

— Why is he fighting on their side?

— When will the poor fight their own wars?

— There’s no war that’s special to the poor. Buildings must tear down buildings, and shacks buildings and cities cities. And out of the destruction will rise the poor’s special war.

Talal sat beside the prisoner and started talking. He told him about the South, about the poor in Nabaa, about Tall al-Zaatar. *He told him that Amman had been ablaze, that the orange hadn’t died. He told him the story of the prison and of our friendship with the four prisoners. The prisoner was convinced. Prisoners are always easily convinced.

— But why are you fighting with them?

Don’t kill me, I beg you, the prisoner says. We won’t kill you, Talal says. But talk. I’m convinced, the prisoner says. Always, prisoners are convinced easily. And prisoners die easily.

The last option is me, I told her. The last option is death, says Nazeeh, walking behind the white mule which stumbles as it makes its way across the rugged hills. And Talal sleeps quietly, swaying on the mules back. One bullet in the head. Drops of blood fall, trickling onto the mules white belly. The last option is death, he said to her. The four prisoners, they’re still dreaming of rifles. And the mountain trembles under our footfalls. The last option is death, I tell her. The loaf goes dry in my hand. Talal sleeps, surrendering like a real king. And Sanneen doesn’t answer.

* Beshara al-Khoury was the first president of independent Lebanon. His statue, on one of Beirut’s main arteries, was a major point of convergence for demonstrators during the worker and student protest era of the late ’60s and early ’70s.

* Serhan was the young Palestinian who assassinated United States senator Robert Kennedy in 1968.

** Abu Ahmed and Imm Ahmed, literally father and mother of Ahmed; it is common in many parts of the Arab world to refer to people in this way, and even childless or sonless married men and women may be given such a laqab — agnomen or nickname — as a sign of respect.

Hajjeh is the feminine of haajj, i.e., someone who has accomplished the required Muslim pilgrimage to Mecca. Such people are often credited with baraka, a special sort of blessing, a favorable influence or touch to which children should be exposed if possible, especially if they have experienced some misfortune, illness, or disability. The term is often used to precede a name in deference to a person’s age or perceived wisdom even if the pilgrimage has not actually been undertaken.

* Any of a variety of long flowing robes worn throughout the Middle East by men or women. Although originally used to designate the long, woolen cloaklike wrap worn especially in the desert where the nights are cold, it has become a generic term for any kind of floor-length, loose garment.