Selma Dabbagh - Out of It

In an adept one-handed movement Ian sprung up and covered the smoke detector with a piece of cling film and wrenched forward the aluminium frame of the window with the other so that it cut through the room on a horizontal plane. Only then did he light up.

‘Quite fit though.’ His grin was approving. ‘Your Lisa. She’s quite fit, isn’t she?’ Rashid did not understand what Lisa’s health had to do with Ian. ‘Want some?’ Ian squeaked at Rashid, keeping his lungs full and going slightly pink, as though he was being gassed. The more difficult the process was, the more Ian enjoyed it. He loved to show off his prowess at surmounting the legal, practical and physical obstacles standing between him and the art of dope smoking.

‘No, it’s all right, thanks. I need to check a couple of things before I go.’ Rashid nodded at his computer.

‘Go for it. No worries.’ Ian exhaled greyness into the bright air outside and the outside air buzzed traffic back into the room in return.

Sabri. Sabri. Rashid clicked on the message and scrolled down. It was the longest message he had ever received from his brother.

Ian was still talking. ‘So what you were saying last night about Tripoli? During the war in Lebanon, you were saying that you think that, had the other faction won, that Palestinian leadership would have been different? Do you really believe that? Because I think you can’t just consider bad leadership in a vacuum,’ Ian said, fluent now he had been fuelled.

No time to read the message now. Rashid printed it out, folded it over and stuck it in his jacket pocket. He sifted through the papers on his desk, creating a small pile, the proposed thesis at the bottom, a couple of books on top.

‘No?’

‘Of course you can’t.’ Ian’s eyes glistened with bloodshot pleasure. He was exactly where he wanted to be, pontificating with a joint. ‘You can’t just say, “This micromanaging dictator came up and wrecked everything for us, destroyed our struggle.” You have to say, “Right, so how did this guy do it? How did we let him?” Take responsibility, brother. There must have been some kind of… of culture (in the non-static sense of the term, you understand), that promoted him. He didn’t come from Mars or Blackpool, say. He was one of yours, man.’

The stoned grin was something that Rashid greatly enjoyed having himself but hated intensely in others. He particularly disliked Ian’s version of it. When faced with political questions of the type Ian particularly liked to concoct, Rashid never knew where to start. Did he start with revolutionary movements in general or the assassination policy aimed at their moderate politicians, writers and thinkers more specifically? He could also, he supposed, defend the Outside Leadership’s successes and its democratic nature during its heyday. Victim or propagandist, take your pick; Ian always forced him into one role or the other.

‘Anyway, I thought your brother and your dad were in the mainstream party, the Leader’s party. So what did they see in the guy?’

Rashid started, stopped, and then threw his hand in the air as though signalling to an invisible attendant to take it (whatever it was) away. The day was heating up; a low urban glaze had overtaken the dawn’s harsh side lighting. No. Fuck it. He was not going to do it now. He was off duty.

‘I’ve got to go, Ian. Got an appointment with my supervisor.’

‘Oh, OK, sure. Love the way you said my name just then, IYUN. Like a Rasta.’ Ian urged the glowing cherry to fall off the end of the joint before putting out the edges against the side of the bin and placing its bent, stunted body back into his matchbox. ‘Any chance you could pick up an eighth for me later? Your guy’s stuff is much better than mine.’

Rashid’s bag was ready, but he was trying to remember what he had forgotten. He had not really planned to go back there. He had made a deal with himself. No Moroccan snooker bar. No dope. There was no Gaza any more. He was out and therefore there was no need now, was there?

‘Yes, OK, but not tonight, I’m going out. But when I next go there, yes, OK. Tomorrow or something.’

‘Cheers. Catch you later, all right?’ Ian almost sung out at Rashid as he ambled down the corridor on his gangling big-footed legs.

Rashid found two empty spaces next to each other at the end of the tube carriage. Opposite him, a hunched woman in flip-flops sat alone. Her pink T-shirt stopped well above her knees. Her legs were strange, knotted together like ropes of rind. Rashid took out Sabri’s email. The woman tested the air twice with her nose as though trying to detect prey and looked up and down the carriage.

Rashid looked at what she was looking at. It had to be the otherness of the passengers that was disturbing her. Their darkness, for they all were, without exception, washed up there like him. I could be from here, he thought, in the same way that they are not from here. But what of their national duties? What of his? Pulling him out of any comfort zone presented to him, pushing him out into a conflicted world where he had no place. And here was Sabri’s message to remind him that he could never relax, never be part of anything or anywhere unless it was part of a push for change, for resolution. But such a long message from Sabri, even on that subject was rare and curious.

Brother Rashid,

It was good to hear your news. I trust you are studying hard and doing well and that you found my comments on the 1948 expulsion policy to be of benefit to your essay. You are indeed honoured to be able to conduct your research under Professor Myres. I would have greatly enjoyed having the pleasure of meeting him myself, having perused so many of his books and articles, and I am confident that he would be interested in the findings of my own research.

I appreciate receiving the articles and the links for the information on the village evacuations and massacres of 1948 that Prof Myres passed on to you. As you are aware, these will enhance my research on the subject. I think it is only a matter of time before more of these violations come to the fore and our cousins across the border will be forced to acknowledge their history and relations with us and we will be able to move ahead. They cannot continue to pretend that we were nomads from outside who rushed in to feed off the growing Jewish state. It is preposterous and has no basis in fact. This should become clearer with time and accurate research, making the future of our two peoples possible.

With the arrival of the New Year and the opening of old records, there is some additional research I shall want you to conduct on my behalf. You will find this research to be of great interest and importance, not just to my book but also in terms of adding to your understanding of our history as a people as well as our own particular history as a family . Your Mama and I are in agreement that the time has come for there to be greater knowledge of our own circumstances and the roots of the divide.

Rashid read this paragraph several times over. Italics and underlining were used sparsely by Sabri, who had once described them as vulgar. They now screamed out of the page as though they were in capitals. These lines were about as clear to him as some of the political communiqués his brother put before him to test him with (‘Can you see why the authors of this one here say People’s Committees not Popular Committees , Rashid? Can you get that at least?’). When Rashid looked up he realised that he had missed his stop and had to wait for another train to take him back in the opposite direction.

We have been very busy and have not had the opportunity to explain the situation at home. Mama and I are well, but things in the house have changed.