Sayed Kashua - Let It Be Morning

Despite the heat wave, the streets are full of kids and teenagers standing around in groups and talking about the demonstration, about the casualties, the soldiers and the roadblock. Everyone is convinced that Israel is about to drop an atom bomb on Iraq or Iran. Some of the youngsters are even swearing that they heard it on broadcasts from the Arab states. They’re saying that American and Israeli forces have launched an all-out offensive against the Arab world, and they’re afraid that we, the Israeli Arabs, will undermine their efforts by photographing targets for the Iraqis. Others swear they heard the Egyptian army has conquered Beersheba by now and is quickly advancing toward Tel Aviv, and that the Israelis have decided to hold us hostage.

Men and women are marching down the road, perspiring and carrying home large bags of food. As for me, I seek out the least busy-looking grocery so I can buy candles, batteries and maybe another pack of cigarettes. I’ve figured out that the food I bought can feed the whole family for at least a week, so that even if my older brother doesn’t manage to buy everything on our mother’s list, we’ll be okay. The thought that I’ve saved my family, so to speak, gives me a sense of victory. I quickly curb the feeling.

The older people who normally spend all their time at the entrance to the mosque aren’t there. They’ve taken their seats in the mourners’ tent. Two neighbors are standing in the doorways of their homes talking about an episode in an Egyptian series that was on TV last night. One of them says she doesn’t know what she’ll do if the power doesn’t come back on by nightfall. She’ll go crazy if she misses the next episode. I know the series they’re talking about. My wife has become addicted to it too and I myself try not to miss the story of the textile merchant who was once poor and has turned into one of the richest men in Cairo. He takes four wives. Three of them get along well, but the fourth is a wicked woman who is only after his money. Slowly I make my way home, and decide to enter the neighborhood grocery store despite the crowd inside.

A bunch of women are standing in line to pay. Some of them have come from other neighborhoods. The shelves of canned goods have been swept clean. There are no bags of rice or flour left either. One of the neighbors comes into the shop and screams at the owner to bring out the merchandise he has in his storerooms. The owner swears that he doesn’t even have any left for himself. He’d meant to keep a bag of rice for himself, but it’s all gone. He swears by all that’s holy. The neighbor gets even more annoyed and looks at the strange women standing in line and goes on screaming at the owner that he shouldn’t be selling to strangers, that he should be responsible enough to keep his merchandise for his regular customers, the people in his own neighborhood, his faithful clientele.

Practically the only things left in the grocery store are candy, snack bars and condiments. The furious neighbor, sporting a hat with the logo of a local transportation company, makes the rounds of the grocery, wringing his hands and saying, “What’s the matter with everyone? Have people gone crazy or what?” and then leaves.

They’ve hardly touched the candles or the batteries. I take two packages of each and get in line. The owner recognizes me and signals that I can leave. He knows I’ll be back to pay later. On my way out I ask if there are any cigarettes left. He bends over and pulls out two packs of a local brand from under the table. “They’re the last ones, want them?” The woman facing him is holding a few bills in her hand. She looks in my direction and lets out a hiss that makes me feel uneasy. I say yes, take the two packs and get out of there.

The whole family is at my parents’ house. They’re outside this time, seeking comfort in the shade of one of the few trees in the yard. “Look at him,” Mother says. “He thinks of everything. Who else thought of buying candles?” My father laughs at me for buying so many batteries. “What do you think, that we’ll never have electricity again?” Everyone’s laughing now. Even my nephew, who doesn’t understand any of this, manages a smile. My wife has already told them about my shopping spree yesterday, which she discovered when she went into the storage room.

“So?” Father says. “I see you’ve decided it’s going to be a long war.”

My older brother comes to my rescue and tells us that he’s hardly managed to buy anything. “And what if things go on this way? Nobody really knows what’s happening, so I’m glad you did what you did,” he tells me.

My mother goes into the house and returns with a bowl of potatoes and two peelers. I say at once, “Mother, why waste the potatoes? The things in the fridge are about to spoil. Let’s eat those first.”

Father laughs out loud and coughs. “Yes, the potatoes should be kept for the tough times of the war. By tomorrow we’ll have nothing to eat, after all,” and he continues coughing.

My wife says I’m right. It really would be a waste. They’re going to be cooking all the meat in the three families’ freezers today, so there’s no need for potatoes. My mother puts them back and says in a ceremonious voice that we have so much meat we won’t be needing bread today either. I go inside, enter my parents’ bedroom and look for the battery-operated radio. It’s the one we used during the Gulf War, when all of us moved into the sealed room at night. I put in the batteries. The official Israeli channel has no reports of casualties. They’re just talking about the new situation, what they call a general state of emergency, and the moderators, assisted by security officers, government officials and experts from academe, are trying to analyze the implications. There’s nothing on the radio about an attack either, nothing on Iraq or on Syria. There’s no mention of terrorists, except the story from this morning about an attempt that was foiled by our soldiers. Everyone agrees it’s important not to take any chances, but nobody says a thing about roadblocks.

Outside, they’ve decided to roast all the defrosted meat. My mother says that’s in bad taste. “This is no time for a barbecue. People might think we’re celebrating when two families in the village have just come from burying their loved ones. Think of the contractor’s mother. She kept fainting. Her son was the backbone of the family.” Mother says she’ll use a pressure cooker to prepare the meat. “It’ll be much tastier, soft as a doughnut.”

Father insists that the contractor was a complete idiot, only a fool would run a roadblock that way. “What was he thinking, that it’s a game? What’s a soldier supposed to think when a pickup comes charging straight at him? Isn’t he bound to shoot?”

A car stops in front of the house and everyone stares at it. A young man gets out, one of the mayor’s nephews. “Salam aleikum,” he greets us, and informs Father that the mayor has invited him to a meeting with the heads of all the families in the village, in the council building.

It’s the first time they’re having such a meeting. Normally, decisions are taken by council members without consulting the villagers themselves. Before the mayor’s emissary has a chance to get back into his car, my father wants to know, “Has he decided to set up a security cabinet?”

Our family may be one of the smallest in the village, barely a hundred people, but my father has always been among the mayor’s supporters. The two of them belonged to the Labor Party. The mayor followed in the footsteps of his father. His family is the largest in the village and the other heads of families had never succeeded in uniting and gaining power. When it comes to the local elections, the Muslims and the Communists and the nationalists don’t stand a chance. The only thing that counts is the family. They all turn to their families, and what’s good for the family is good for them.