Elias Khoury - Gate of the Sun

“Abu Is’af knew very well that I was the military official in charge of the whole South Lebanon sector, but he still treated me as though I were a junior officer, raising his hand and expecting me to be silent, like in ’48.

“I was silent so as not to upset him. After all, Abu Is’af is truly dedicated to the struggle, and I respect him immensely. When we disagreed over the flame powder, and he started to get upset, I lied and claimed he was right. I recounted how I had followed him, how I, too, had thrown myself into the flames. I let him tell whatever stories he liked in front of his sister and grandchildren — how he caught on fire himself and how all the other fighters did the same, and this terrified the Jews.”

“We were like demons,” said Abu Is’af, “like demons that spring from the heart of a fire, and they fled, leaving their arms on the battlefield.”

I ASKED YOU about the woman of Sha’ab, and you told me about the flames. Fine, but now I want a clear explanation of why you said that Sha’ab didn’t fall.

What did happen?

What were you doing there?

“The truth,” said Yunes, “is that after we’d liberated the village, we buried the four martyrs and met on the threshing floor. We decided that the women, children, and old men should leave and that only the militiamen should stay. Everyone agreed. In the morning, all the women, old men, and children left, except for my father and mother, and Nahilah.

“My father said he’d never go, that he was going to stay so he could conduct prayers. And my mother said she’d never leave him. And Nahilah stayed with the two of them. Then we learned that many of the older men had stayed behind secretly, or had come back secretly.

“That’s how Sha’ab became a den for fighters and a retreat for old people — about two hundred fighters and more than a hundred old men and women.

“We waited for three months, the women coming into the village at night to get provisions. We stood guard, awaiting a major offensive, but they launched only limited attacks. The first was on July 27, the day after the liberation of the village. The attacks continued through August and September, but I can’t say there was even an all-out invasion. They’d open fire without any real attempt at advancing. We provoked them into fighting on several occasions, even though our ammunition was low. Then we withdrew.”

You withdrew, just like that, for no reason?

“No, we withdrew because it became impossible to stay any longer. On November 29, 1948, the Jews bombed Tarshiha from the air. Then the bombardment expanded to include al-Jish and al-Bqei’a, and the ALA began its withdrawal to Lebanon. Jasem came to Sha’ab and said, ‘Friends, they’ve betrayed us all. The Sha’ab garrison must withdraw before they close the Lebanese border.’ We realized that everything had collapsed.

“That day, Abu Is’af made the decision and said, ‘We’ll withdraw. If everyone else withdraws and we’re left on our own, it won’t work.’ He said, ‘We’ll go now, then come back.’

“I told him, ‘If we go, we’ll never come back.’

“‘What do you suggest?’ he asked.

“‘Nothing,’ I said.

“He said, ‘We’ll withdraw, then come back.’

“So we withdrew. All the fighters withdrew with their arms.

“But the old people refused to withdraw.

“Hussein al-Fa’our, who was to die later in the mud of Zabbouba, said, ‘Take your arms and go. We’re going to stay in our village. They can’t do anything to us. We’re old people; they have nothing to gain by killing us.’

“But they killed them.

“Nahilah told me about the massacre of the old people in the village and how the Israeli officer called Avraham came in and ordered them all to gather near the pond. He stood among them like an officer inspecting his troops, as though they were a military lineup. He even ordered al-Hajj Mousa Darwish, who was disabled, to be brought from his house. It was his wife’s fault. She told the Israeli officer she’d left her husband in the house because he was disabled. She told him about her husband because she was afraid they were going to blow up the houses, as they’d done in al-Birwa. The officer ordered her to get him. She said she couldn’t carry him on her own and a man volunteered to help her, but the officer waved his rifle in his face and said no. She went on her own and came back dragging her husband along the ground. She wept as she dragged him. The woman was dragging her husband and the officer was smiling, pleased with himself. We could see his white teeth. There was something strange about the whiteness of his teeth. When the woman had brought her husband to the officer, al-Hajj Mousa Darwish gave a loud snort, black liquid gushed from his mouth, and he died.

“The officer saw nothing; it was as if he hadn’t seen the man die. Instead he started pointing at various men. Anyone the finger pointed to had to move to the other side. He chose about twenty old men. Then he pointed at Yunes’ blind father. The man didn’t see the finger, so the officer pulled out his revolver. Yunes’ mother screamed ‘No!’, went over to her husband, and led him to where the others stood before returning to her place. A truck came and the officer ordered them to get in. My mother ran up and took hold of my father’s hand and explained that he was blind.

“‘Get back, woman,’ the officer yelled.

“Nahilah ran over, her son in her arms, and took told of the blind sheikh’s hand.

“‘Get back, all of you,’ shouted the officer.

“They didn’t get back. They took my father and went back to the pond where most of the people were, and the truck set off. The Israelis started firing over the heads of the people, who scattered into the fields looking for new villages or the Lebanese border.

“The story of Zabbouba, my son, is the real embodiment of our tragedy,” said Yunes.

No more was heard of the twenty men that the officer’s finger had put onto the truck until Marwan al-Fa’our appeared in Lebanon. Marwan al-Fa’our was the only one to survive what we would later come to call the Massacre of the Mud.

Marwan al-Fa’our told of the rain.

“It was a diluvial downpour and the truck forged through it. We reached Zabbouba, close to Jenin on the Jordanian border. They made us get down from the truck, ordered to us to cross to the Arab side, and started firing over our heads.”

It was a march of rain, death, and mud.

The mud covered the ground, and the rain was like ropes. Cold, darkness, and fear. Twenty men walking, sliding, grabbing at the ropes of rain hung down from the sky and falling down. They’d try to rise, and they’d get stuck in the mud.

Twenty men hanging onto ropes of rain, sobbing and coughing, trying to walk but sliding and sticking in the mud.

The mud was like glue.

They stuck to the ground. They fell and the mud swallowed them.

The ropes of water falling from the sky began to turn to mud.

And the dying started.

That’s how the men of Sha’ab died in the Massacre of the Mud, which took place on a certain day in December of ’48.

The Sha’ab garrison congregated and withdrew in orderly fashion in the direction of the Lebanese border.

The detachment commanded by Dandan, however, left them and joined the Yemenis concentrated in the hills of al-Kabri, where the last battle took place and all the Yemenis and Iraqis died. That was where Dandan, and Abdallah, and al-Mosulli died.

The Sha’ab garrison congregated at Beit Yahoun and Ain Ibil and started making forays from Jesr al-Mansourah.

An army unit surrounded them, disarmed them, and ordered them to join the Ajnadayn Brigade near Damascus. There they were put in prison.