Elias Khoury - White Masks

To tell the truth, I find myself completely mystified, as nothing wholly substantiates or refutes any of the hypotheses. That is why I have chosen to leave the last word to the documents themselves and not to weigh in any further. These documents and the information I have gathered might provide a key to understanding Mr. Khalil Ahmad Jaber’s case; they might also help us understand the many other similar cases that we are unable to explain, both in terms of their widespread occurrence and their underlying causes.

In closing, I wish to state unequivocally that I am pointing a finger at no one, and that my aim is not to level accusations. It would be meaningless to do so in these fair times of ours, and the whole affair warrants no more effort than that required to read about it.

The victim’s wife: Mrs. Noha Jaber, née al-Hajj, born in Beirut in 1938. The following fragments of her account were gathered from a variety of sources, including: the preliminary inquiry carried out by the head of “Popular Security” in West Beirut, a “comrade” of Ahmad, the martyr; the investigation of the examining magistrate; scattered bits of conversations and the wife’s responses on various occasions, particularly in the course of condolences following the funeral, or in discussions with friends and neighbors, as well as with the author himself, who made several visits to Mr. Khalil Ahmad Jaber’s home. The author made his first visit on the day of the funeral, April 17, 1980, and returned three times after that, posing as both a friend of the martyr and a journalist who wished to cover the event.

Oh, Lord, Lord, this is it, the final reckoning, the Day of Judgment, the day we always feared and expected. . and now it has come. First, Ahmad died. He just slipped through our fingers. We thought life was over — life as we knew it had come to an end. But base as we human beings are, we got used to it. The boy went and we carried on! Before he died, I could never have imagined — and neither could my late husband, Khalil — that we’d be able to live on after him, not even for a minute. But he went, and we just carried on. . oh Lord!. . And now, dear God, how do you expect me to manage — me a poor widow, all alone? What will people say?. . The devil take them!. . Forgive me, God!

Just like everyone else, my father always said: “Dear Lord, let me not perish by fire or by drowning, nor destitute and wandering.” And now, dear God, the country is on fire and the city is drowning in garbage and he died destitute and wandering the streets. They just left him there. . dumped him naked in that empty lot after killing him. He died on the street, and then they brought him to the house, him and that smell. . May the Good Lord forgive me. . I couldn’t go near him, my own husband, I just couldn’t! Lord, have mercy! What fault of mine was it, what fault of his, of anyone’s? May God have mercy on us all and preserve us from earthquakes and other calamities. .

This is the final reckoning. . not just mine, but everybody’s. . And you, Abu Ahmad, how could you leave me and go like this? You left the house never to return. . I’m sure they kidnapped you, and they killed you. .

Before that…? Nothing; nothing special. . Of course he was upset, he was prostrate with grief — what would you expect when your own son dies? He was beside himself. But he survived, we all did, and we said, that’s our lot, that’s our fate, and afterwards everything went back to the way it was before. In fact, it was as though he were born again — he was rejuvenated somehow. Then, one day, suddenly, it was all over: I no longer understood him — or him me — and then he disappeared.

Where shall I begin?

We’ve turned into a story, a tale people tell.

Khalil was a nice young man, and one day he came to our house with his late father to ask for my hand in marriage. My father said he’s a nice boy, he’s twenty-five years old-I was ten years younger, so that was a good age difference — he’s from a good family, he’s educated, and a government employee — you know, a civil servant. Our destinies were joined and I never had cause to complain. Every day, he’d come home from work, wash, and sit quietly in front of the TV, like a child; I never felt his presence he was so soft-spoken. There were no worries or anything, even though his salary was only just sufficient — but he was an easygoing man. When I bore him our first child and it was a girl, he didn’t mind; it’s God’s grace, he said, and he named her Su’ad: Su’ad for happiness, he said, and he wasn’t the least bit upset. When the second child came, and it was another girl, he didn’t come to the hospital for three days. He looked sad, and I told him he had a right to feel that way, though when I came home, he treated me the same as always. But he wouldn’t pay any attention to baby Nada-I was the one who named her — and he started going to the café every day, to drink tea, smoke a hookah, and play checkers. He no longer spent all his spare time at home. Well, he’s a man, I thought, men can’t spend all their time at home, they have to go out, it’s only right that they should do what they feel like. My mother said I was lucky, and I was, because then Ahmad came along. When Ahmad was born, everything changed. The man was transformed: he started taking an interest in the children’s upbringing and to share my household concerns. He would come home from work, play with the little one, and tell me about his day, about his problems at work, all the cheating and corruption. Listening to him crowing about not taking bribes, I felt upset — bribes are better than nothing, you know, with children and school fees and the cost of living, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“I won’t take a penny from anyone, I am above that. Taking bribes is disgraceful.”

That’s what he said. He neither got a raise nor a promotion, and I didn’t like to ask why not, but people said that he wasn’t conscientious, that he spent most of his time doing the crosswords in the paper, drinking coffee, and smoking. I don’t believe any of it. I’m sure he was a model civil servant, but he just wouldn’t kiss up to the bosses, that’s why they didn’t like him. Anyway, how would I know. . we never socialized with any of his colleagues, and only ever visited my mother-in-law! That was it — every Sunday. It was our only ritual.

And so the days passed. .

It’s unbelievable how life goes by — in the blink of an eye, like a dream, and then it’s over. Ahmad grew into a fine young man — handsome, his grandmother said, like her brothers. Actually, he looked more like my brother, may he rest in peace, but I didn’t like to say so. Fortune smiled on Su’ad and she got married, then it was Nada’s turn, with the grace of God. I had only three children. Khalil would say he wanted another boy, one more boy and that would be it. But it was God’s will, and I wasn’t blessed with another child, al-hamdulillah! Ahmad grew up and we grew old. . he did alright at school, but sports were his thing. He would sit in front of the TV for hours on end watching wrestling matches: the Saadeh brothers, Prince Komali, and the Silver Monster. Sometimes, I’d be lying down in the bedroom, and I would hear Khalil and Ahmad in the living room getting louder and louder as the matches progressed. Then Ahmad joined the Sports and Fitness Club. I told Khalil this would distract the boy from his studies, but the father had become even more of a fitness nut than his son. He told me he was going to start exercising every morning, and that when he was younger he’d wanted to be an athlete and hadn’t had the chance. Except that Khalil wasn’t regular with his morning exercise: some days he’d get up early and lift small weights before taking a cold shower and going to work; but then several days would go by without him doing anything… he wouldn’t exercise, or wake up early, or take that shower. And with time, his resolve faltered, but he never lost interest in his son’s career. .