Khaled Khalifa - In Praise of Hatred

It is difficult to be alone — for solitude to be a never-ending fate marking you like a tattoo. With Zahra’s care and Safaa’s presence, Radwan was made very happy and he returned shyly to sharing our meals, filled with hope for a proper old age. Safaa didn’t succeed in getting Marwa to sit with us, however, and Maryam’s heartfelt tears as she implored Marwa to forgive our cruelty were of no use. Marwa and I had exchanged our roles in hatred, which added a piquancy to her glances at me and Maryam, who now seemed like my grandmother. She lost the gleam of a woman who hadn’t celebrated her fiftieth birthday yet, and had never blown out a candle in her life. Her bottom grew fatter and her anxiety ended; she was relaxed after bouts of nerves which had almost led to madness, when she used to go out into the courtyard at night and doze on the large cane chair. She hated her bed; it distressed her with dreams that kept her awake. The Samarkandi’s son returned as a distant memory, with his quiet smile and his scent. His image mixed with those of other men; I thought Radwan was among them — Radwan standing in front of the door to his room at night listening to the city’s sounds and smiling; or, on one occasion, undressing to perform his ritual ablutions and exposing his sexual parts which Maryam saw as they dangled and proclaimed his inactive virility. She was furious — she couldn’t move, or he would discover her presence. She was overcome with confusion as for the only time in her life she watched a man wash his body. He celebrated his body with his fingers and smiled.

It was a critical year, in which we saw Maryam pray for God’s forgiveness as she begged for the death of her desires. She grew dizzy when she wondered, for a moment, why she hadn’t married and immersed herself in pleasure — but at a glance from us she soon regained her senses and thanked God she had never tasted that murderous need for men which transformed girls from good families into shameless whores. Her conversations were tedious for Safaa, but Safaa bore them out of love and respect for an older sister who had begun to behave like a mother to all the family. Like a grandmother, Maryam destroyed her own dreams; she began to resemble a snail with its calm, submissive slide.

Safaa spent a night in my room, and her affection made me very happy. My equilibrium was restored; we spoke like friends and I didn’t object when she opened my wardrobe, reproached me for neglecting my body and tossed aside my coarse clothes which looked like they belonged to Maryam. Out of her bag she took two glass bottles of perfume which I kept but didn’t use for a long time. I asked her about Abdullah and she replied tersely. She had returned to me, and I gradually came to comprehend my anxiety, and the fear of being arrested which had clung to me for weeks but now no longer — as if I no longer cared after the news of how thousands of our young men had been tortured, suffering broken limbs and skulls, death, exile to unknown destinations. I had an equal chance of death or life. Safaa possessed a strange power; I wasn’t aware how much it helped me to master myself and my anxiety, and my misgivings disappeared.

My hatred only increased for the death squad soldiers, vain as painted peacocks. One day I saw a large military lorry crossing Baron Street with six bodies of our mujahideen on display. A soldier smiled and pointed to the lifeless eyes. Behind them, a Soviet-made armoured vehicle dragged a corpse bound with steel cables; it was being torn up by the rough asphalt, while the driver joked with his friend, relaxed and unafraid of any sudden gunfire. They were assured of their victory and our defeat. Their movements through the city grew more confident, more light-hearted, as they felt that they had been saved from the death that had been looming over them, making them afraid that bullets and shrouds would pour down along with the rain.

Marwa grew quiet; she returned to her silence, then closed her door and her window after receiving the most recent letter. She didn’t open the door and made do with a few dates and a pitcher of water. On the third day Nadhir came, leaning on a crutch and limping a little, and he brought with him a sheikh, two witnesses and three soldiers. Marwa opened the door to her room and hastily adorned herself like a bride. The two exchanged smiles as one of the soldiers sawed through her chains, and they all sat together in the courtyard where the sheikh began to prepare the marriage ceremony. Maryam hit her head with a shoe, wailed, and then threw herself at Nadhir’s feet, pleading with him not to open up a river of blood which would drown us all. Safaa took Maryam by the hand and led her back to her room, trying to understand what had happened. Nadhir took out of his pocket thirteen love letters Marwa had sent him, and his replies in the same vein. He was kind as he tried to explain their mutual desire to marry despite coming from different sects. I couldn’t bear it; I wished I had a pistol or a rifle to take my revenge on a smiling Marwa, who didn’t object when Nadhir reached out a hand to her hijab and removed it. She shook out her long hair like a gypsy and released the smell of sweet perfume. The marriage was quickly concluded and one of the soldiers carried away her small bag. Marwa waved to us as she went out of the door, dawdling like a bride and without properly bidding goodbye to any of us in the midst of our bewilderment. Zahra distanced herself from it; she didn’t try to explain what had happened. She gathered up the chains still attached to the bed and put them in Marwa’s emptied wardrobe, its doors hanging open. Marwa had taken a picture of my grandfather, her small carpet and a few clothes with her, and left everything else in a pile on the bed as witness to her permanent escape from our life.

Maryam rushed outside like a madwoman, and I followed her. Radwan couldn’t keep up with us; Maryam’s quick footsteps frightened me. We went to Selim’s house and found him sitting in his inner room, completely bare of furniture except for a rug and a few pillows; incense burners were ranged around him and green fabric hung from the speckled walls. A dozen copies of the Quran in various sizes were stacked on the low table. The place seemed neglected. Maryam didn’t reply to his wife’s welcome; Um Jalal seemed demented to me, nodding and praying to God to keep everyone safe while her children sat around looking like vagrants, dividing up brown bread and bowls of soup and wearing robes made from some coarse material. It was as if I didn’t know them; Uncle Selim’s house had changed so much. Maryam took hold of his shirt and shook him, weeping and pleading with him to do something to protect his public standing. He shrugged his shoulders as if he was high on drugs and hadn’t heard what she’d said; or as if, faced with a barrage of stones from children attacking him and blocking his way, he was content to pray and place his hands on his head, escaping even from self-defence.

Maryam wept and related Marwa’s abduction, calling her a prostitute who should be slaughtered, and a traitor who had gone over to the other sect. I didn’t recognize Maryam when she was angry. Selim listened to this leaden speech, so distant from his own vocabulary. He turned away and began to read again from the Quran but she snatched it away from him and flung it against the wall, screaming at him to get up and return to the world to see what had happened in it. The blood froze in my veins; Selim wept and gathered up the scattered pages, kissing them and calling Maryam an infidel and a madwoman. His gaze scared me when he looked at us like fallen women and then left us to rush to the nearby mosque. He sat beside the head of the wali who had been buried in the courtyard, bemoaning his fate and grieving that Maryam had been overwhelmed by the material world; he was bewildered by the idiocy of forsaking the Quran like any atheist who had abandoned Paradise for the absurdities of this world.