Sayed Kashua - Let It Be Morning

I hate myself for thinking that coming back to the village would solve anything. For some reason, I thought that if I was surrounded by people like myself, my own people, nothing bad could happen to me. I thought that in the village I’d be much more sheltered than I was in the Jewish neighborhood. I thought the village would make a good guesthouse for me to come back to at the end of my working day, like everyone else. I’d go off to work and I’d come back to sleep, safe and sound. But now I have no choice but to admit that there’s nowhere to run away to anymore. I hate myself for not getting out of here at the right time, for finding comfort in the thought that everything would work out soon. I hate myself for not getting my wife and daughter out of here as soon as I felt the danger approaching, as soon as the hatred began getting to me, day in and day out, at work, in the street, at home, in restaurants, in the malls and in the playgrounds.

I should have left everything behind and made my way to a sane country, anywhere. But like an idiot, I had preferred to go back home to my parents and to ignore the warning signals. I knew Arabs are hated everywhere. I knew that being an Arab is the worst thing that could happen to a person nowadays. The xenophobia they have in Europe couldn’t possibly be as bad as what we have here. It just couldn’t be.

There is no choice now, no escape. And I can’t afford to waste time crying over things I should have done but didn’t. I’ve got to pull myself together and do what has to be done. I’ve got my work cut out for me. I’ve got to survive.

My father’s regular chess partner has arrived, and they can be heard outside, arguing at the top of their lungs. “You touched it, you moved,” my father is saying. “That was an accident,” his partner says. “What’s got into you today?”

I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes with my fists. I take a deep breath, and the stench makes me cough hard. My younger brother sits up too. “What’s that smell?” he asks. “God help us!”

“They aren’t collecting the garbage anymore. They don’t have fuel for the garbage trucks. The truth is that the village dump is over the fence put up by the soldiers.”

“This is serious business, isn’t it? What do they want?”

“I don’t know.”

“I heard they shot two workers. God, look how far we’ve gone. I’m ashamed to be part of this village. Of this community, of this people. Know what? We have it coming. It was obvious a long time ago that we needed to put up a fight, to throw stones at them at least. Look what we get for our exemplary behavior. It’s a disgrace.”

“Listen, this isn’t the time to start analyzing where we went wrong. We were wrong, and that’s that. Let’s not waste any more time. Pretty soon we’re going to run out of water. I need you to help me, okay?”

“Are you serious? Do you think it’s going to last much longer?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did, but we can’t take any chances. They’re not pumping in any more water. All we have is what’s left in the water tanks on the roof. That’s it. We can’t waste it. From now on, water is for drinking only. Besides, I’d like you to come with me for a drive around the village.”

My brother doesn’t ask too many questions. He gets off the bed, a head taller than me, much thinner and more athletic. He puts on an undershirt, puts his hair in a ponytail, ties it with a rubber band, slips on his sandals and signals to me that he’s ready to go.

My mother is in the kitchen making tea. I restrain myself from yelling. I must not lose my cool now and get everyone worked up. They already think I’m overreacting, as usual. “Mother,” I call out to her, and my wife and sister-in-law listen from their seats at the kitchen table. “Mother, you know the water supply is running low and God only knows how much longer it will last. So please, go easy on the tea, and for heaven’s sake don’t start cleaning the house like our idiot neighbors. Better keep the water for drinking.”

Mother stares at me as if I’ve gone mad. As if the idea that we could run out of water too has never occurred to her. We’ve had several special alerts in emergency situations — before the October War, on Land Day, during the first Gulf War, at the beginning of the Intifada. Then too people bought out the food stores, to be on the safe side. Except that nobody ever thought in terms of running out of water. Especially since there was never any interruption in the water supply, which came from Israel. There were never any real shortages. This war is different from all the others.

My brother disappears for a few minutes, then returns. “I went up on the roof,” he says. “The water tank is half empty already. What’s used up is used up, and no more water is coming in.” Everyone is taken aback at my brother’s announcement. Now I can count on their taking things a bit more seriously. To make sure they don’t become overly upset, I remind them that there are water tanks on my roof too and on my older brother’s — tanks which are even bigger than the ones on my parents’ roof. “If we use the water sparingly, it can last for two weeks. But we have to be careful. Which means you can’t even flush the toilets. So, Mother, you’ve got to go easy on the coffee and tea, even if Father gets uptight. Let Salim go have tea in his own house if he wants to.”

I leave, and my brother follows. My fuel tank is almost full. I get in the car and turn on the radio. My brother sits next to me and laughs at me for buckling up. “As if you’re going to get a ticket from the cops patrolling this village,” he says. They’re playing happy music on the army radio station. “At least in the car you can turn on the air conditioner,” my brother says, and I tell him he can open the window because I don’t intend to waste fuel.

There’s nothing unusual in our neighborhood. Even the grocery store is open, and I remember that I owe them some money. I stop the car, turn off the engine and go in. “Anything new?” the owner asks me. I shake my head and pull out my near-empty wallet. “How much do I owe?” The owner goes inside and I follow him. It’s dark in there, and it takes him a while to find my card. I walk through the aisles. There’s no food left. No candles or batteries either. Just cleaning supplies, toilet paper and the disposable dishes they sell before a holiday. I walk past the refrigerators. The shelves are completely empty. Everything would have spoiled anyway, but it stands to reason that people were so worried that they bought it all. I bend over to the bottom of one refrigerator, grab the thick handles and open the bottom compartment, with its extra-thick doors.

I’m thrilled. I knew it. People just didn’t think about the fact that they’d be needing water and sodas too, and there are a few bottles left. I take as many as I can carry and ask the shop owner to add them to my bill. Bottles of Coke, orange juice and the mineral water that hardly anybody buys unless it’s for infants, on doctors’ orders. My brother sees me approaching the car and gives a big smile. I signal him to go inside and get some more, and stuff everything into the trunk. My brother goes inside and returns with a few more bottles. Suddenly the shop owner yells, “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

“What? We’re buying some drinks. We’re having a party,” my brother tells him.

“No, please do me a favor. Don’t take everything. Leave a few for me.”

“You’ve got more in the refrigerator,” my brother says, and keeps walking toward the trunk.

I pay the owner for the purchase and thank him. He looks to see how much is left in the fridge. “What? You’ve only left me three bottles?”

“If you need any Coke, just come over,” my brother says.