Raba'i al-Madhoun - The Lady from Tel Aviv

‘The sewer project? You think that’s really going to happen?’

‘Do you think these things can be done overnight? Sheikh Zayed City in Jabalia stood unfinished for years. The construction was stopped for years until Mahmoud Abbas came in.’

‘What are you talking about? Abbas was in Egypt at the time. The PA has refused to sell the sewage. They have even said so publicly, We will not sell our shit to Israel. They want to treat it and reclaim it just like they do in developed countries. The PA is on public record as saying: This crap belongs to the nation and we’re not going to treat it like shit. We will not let anyone shit on the excrement of the good people of Jabalia and Beit Lahia. The PA considers excrement a nonnegotiable part of national sovereignty, and would never compromise on the issue without a general referendum. They did pretty much everything they could have done on the issue. Although I guess they could have organized public demonstrations. I can hear it now — crowds of patriots in Jabalia and Beit Lahia shouting:

It’s our shit, now get in line

Us in front and you behind!

Our shit, our shit, friend or foe

Belongs to us, for evermore! ’

‘And what happened in the end?’ I interrupt, hoping to put an end to this crappy conversation.

‘Ho!’ Abu Khalil answers. ‘The PA came and the PA went — but the shit never left, did it? The whole area reeks of it. You smell it wherever you go. The sewers are overflowing. And don’t forget that Gaza’s sewers pour directly into the sea. And Wadi Gaza too — it is now nothing but a canyon of pipes pumping the nation’s shit into the Mediterranean. And the water supply is polluted, so now we have to buy bottled water from the Jews.’

Amal, Abdelfettah’s wife, brings out cups of coffee, followed by cups of tea. Everyone sits and drinks as much as they like, shifting their bodies back and forth now and then. Their legs get tired, even though they’re used to sitting this way.

Well-wishers keep on coming and going. The conversation never stops, nor does my mother’s broadcast system. There is no remote control in the world that could stop her now — not even one made by Sony. No one listens to anyone else. Abu Ahmad locks horns with Abu Khalil and their private battle goes on. My mother tells me stories and I am somehow expected to listen to all channels at the same time and follow each of their many updates. I am supposed to take in and comment on everything that is said in my capacity as professional journalist or television guest brought in to comment, as an outsider.

It is another day of incredible, laughable and heartbreaking reunions. I let them go on saying whatever they want to say. I jump in sometimes with a word or two, simply to let them know I am still listening. But that is never enough for my mother — she insists on dragging me into things with that tongue, and I let myself be dragged along by her. ‘I’ll tell you what’s a fact — when I hear someone is a Hamas supporter, I turn my back on them. If they walk by, I don’t say hello. When the Israelis kill someone, those jerks run around everywhere making such a racket about it. And then they try to give money to the poor victim’s family. In other words, if I can be blunt with you — they’re buying people, that’s what they’re trying to do. Am I right or am I wrong?’

‘Auntie, you’re absolutely right,’ Salah ventures.

‘I know how to talk politics better than the lot of you.’ And, for the first time, my mother stops talking.

It is almost midnight when the last well-wishers leave the last bachelor pad and my mother and I are by ourselves again, just as we were in the morning.

She asks if I want to sleep, and I tell her that I am worn out and need at least twenty hours of sleep. But, even so, I do not feel like going to bed right away.

I lean toward her until my shoulder is touching hers. Before I say anything, she asks, ‘What’s bothering you, son? I know there’s something. I’m your mother — you can’t hide anything from me, Walid.’

‘How long have you known Leila Dahman, Mama?’

‘Leila Dahman? What made you think of her right now?’

‘I’m just asking.’

‘Well, I’ve known her ever since she was a girl. She’s only a couple of years younger than you, and she is a cousin of ours. She’s not a distant relative, you know. Why are you asking about her?’

‘It’s just that … did she ever marry?’

‘You think a woman like that would be left unmarried? God forbid! A woman as beautiful as the moon not finding a husband? No, no, no — not when any hag in this town can expect to find a ring on her finger! What are you trying to insinuate?’

My mother turns and looks away. As far away as she can, as if she wants to hide the expression that is on her face. She is just like me. Her face always betrays what she is feeling. She shifts in her seat and places her right hand onto her knee, then rests her chin on her fist. Then she falls into a silence that is, for her, completely unnatural.

I cannot stand her silence, and I decide to chase after it. ‘OK. So then why didn’t Leila come with her husband? He must be family too, right? Shouldn’t he have come with her to greet me?’

She shifts again, putting her left hand on her other knee. Now I can see her face. The sadness and gloom are as clear as day. She pauses for a moment, before relinquishing the silence. ‘Leila was married to her cousin Waddah. He was an exceptional young man — as handsome as she is beautiful. He was so upstanding that when people in Khan Yunis went to utter a serious oath, they did it on his name. His death was a complete shock. No one expected anything like it. One morning, he’s going to work, he’s walking out the front door, he’s shutting the door behind him. And then all of a sudden, he’s struck in the head by a bullet. No one ever found out whether it was the Jews or those armed men who run around in the street all day long.’

She stops and looks at me. Then, her tone even more grave, asks: ‘Now I’ve told you. So you tell me. Why are you so interested in her? I know you are. You can’t hide it. Have you got your eye on Leila now? Does that mean you’re thinking about divorcing Jala?’

‘Julie, Mama. My wife’s name is Julie.’

‘Jala, Julu — it’s all the same.’

My legs are sore from sitting so long, so I stretch them out in front of me. Reassuring her, I say, ‘The man who’s divorced his wife is someone else, Mama. It’s a Palestinian man who knew Leila when she was young, back in high school. A young man from the Bashity family. From Majdal-Asqalan, who lives in Germany now. His name is Adel. He contacted me, asking about her. He was going to visit Gaza and he wanted to find out where she was — but didn’t want to go around asking about her himself. He didn’t want people talking about her. Even though it’s an old story, you know how people can be.’

‘You think Leila would have fallen in love with someone from Majdal? No way! The girl was always such a prude.’

‘Mama, I don’t have to tell you that young people know how to keep a secret.’

‘OK, clever clogs. Who are you still in love with then?’

‘This isn’t about me. Let’s stick to the subject of Leila.’

‘Kids can be stupid — and that was a long time ago. Why is your friend thinking about Leila all of a sudden?’

‘He was married to a German woman for ten years. Then the marriage fell apart. He divorced her and that was that. They had one daughter, and she married an American and emigrated to New York with him. Every so often, he’d call home and ask about Leila. When he heard that her husband died, he thought of going back. He wants to spend the rest of his life with a Palestinian woman. And he and Leila were once in love with one another.’