Текст книги "I Was Born There, I Was Born Here"

Автор книги: Mourid Barghouti

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Mourid Barghouti
I Was Born There, I Was Born Here

For Radwa Ashour

Forgive me if what has seemed little to you, to me is all.

– José Saramago

‘Come Closer’ Foreword by John Berger

This book, with its fury and tenderness, its close observation and cosmic metaphors, is wild. Reading it, you follow graphically the experience of the Palestinian people during the last sixty years, and, at the same time, you partake of some of the most ancient recourses of the human imagination when faced with collective suffering and humiliation.

It has been written by the distinguished poet Mourid Barghouti, who is also the father of an honoured poet, Tamim Barghouti. It’s a book that begs for an answer to the question: why write poetry? And, in begging, it gives its own lacerating, literal and sometimes lyrical answer.

I’ve read no other book in which poetry is so interleaved with the problems and shit (such as identity cards) of daily life, or in which a working poet – either the father or son – is felt to be so close to those for whom their poetry speaks. It comes from the heart of an endless tragedy where jokes are one of the principal means of survival. It redefines in such conditions what is “normal”.

It’s also fine to die in our beds

on a clean pillow

and among our friends.

It’s fine to die, once,

our hands crossed on our chests

empty and pale

with no scratches, no chains, no banners,

no petitions.

It’s fine to have an undusty death,

no holes in our shirts,

and no evidence in our ribs.

It’s fine to die

with a white pillow, not the pavement, under our cheeks.…

What has happened and is happening to the land of Palestine and its people is unclassifiable. None of the historical terms such as colonization, annexation, invasion or elimination are precise enough. The word ‘Occupation’, which is generally used, has been given a new vast meaning and this book spells out that meaning and the extension of what it means.

Perhaps it is for this reason that the book itself is unclassifiable. It’s a book of heartrending stories, a book about poetics, a personal memoir, the history of a family, a journal of confessions, an uncompromising political tract attacking the state of Israel, the corruption of the so-called Palestinian Authority, and the self-serving dictatorships of the surrounding Arab countries. It is also a book of love – love for all those who, although powerless, somehow continue to live with dignity. With courage, too. Yet dignity offers not only an example, but also a shelter. These pages demonstrate how it does so.

The reader is brought face to face (like people come close together in a very small shelter) with what is happening in Palestine today (every day), which is inseparable from what happened yesterday and what people fear will happen tomorrow. The media never refer to what you discover here. Place names such as Jenin, al-Khalil, Rafah, Hebron and Qalandya become dense with experience.

This, however, is only part of what the book offers. There is something else. Mourid Barghouti’s form of narrative insists that lived moments when they are momentous contain something that can be considered eternal, and that such moments, however brief and trivial they may appear to a third eye, join together and form a necklace called a lifetime. Living as we do in a consumerist culture, which recognizes only the latest and the instantaneous, we badly need this reminder. Thank you, Mourid.

1. The Driver Mahmoud

Here we are, safely arrived in Jericho, as he promised. I still can’t believe we made it. Maybe it was luck, or the cell phones, or the wiliness of the villagers and shepherds, or maybe – most likely – fate hasn’t made up its mind yet to let Palestinians die in road accidents. I think most, though, about our driver, Mahmoud.

I stand waiting for him in the hotel porch in Ramallah. He arrives more or less on time. This is nothing unusual for Darwish Tours, who are known for their punctuality. He leaves the taxi’s engine running, steps down into the light rain, and comes toward me.

“Mr. Barghouti?”

He picks up my small suitcase (my suitcase is always small here because of the checkpoints) and hurriedly creates a space for it in the trunk. It’s good that he doesn’t lift it up onto the roof of the taxi along with the other luggage and good that he’s picked up the six other passengers first so that we won’t waste time searching for their addresses among the hills and valleys of Ramallah. I take my place in the yellow taxi and tell myself it’s a good start to the day.

He sets off for Jericho without uttering a word, like someone hiding a secret and waiting for the right moment to tell it. Clearly he’s decided to avoid the Qalandya checkpoint. The windshield wipers are no good at removing the imprint of the fog, which has taken on the color of zinc, and are losing their race with the rain, which is getting harder. The vehicles in the street are few, the pedestrians fewer.

We leave the confines of Ramallah.

Everything appears normal until he gets a call on his cell phone. He finishes it in seconds and increases speed noticeably. After a few kilometers, he leaves the main road and enters a village that I’m seeing for the first time and whose name I don’t know but am too embarrassed to ask. Its one narrow street curves, then twists and turns among the houses before we leave it once more for the paved highway.

“Good morning, everyone. My name is Mahmoud and this is today’s last taxi for the bridge. Israel has informed foreign diplomats the attack will take place tonight or tomorrow and told them to get out of harm’s way. All the bastards care about is the foreigners; we’re not human. The army’s on alert, the roads are closed, and there are flying checkpoints everywhere. The weather as you can see is bad but we’ll definitely make it to the bridge, with God’s help. Coffee? Pour a cup for everyone, Hajj—‘the great man lives to serve his people,’ as they say. Please, have some coffee.”

The passengers don’t appear particularly upset at the news of the impending attack announced by Mahmoud. In fact, the fat passenger sitting in front of me in the middle seat comments sarcastically: “As if the film needed more action! Every day they kill us retail and once in a while they get the urge to kill us wholesale. Big deal! They’ve launched a hundred attacks before and it’s done them no good. They’re really stuck. Like they say, ‘Stupidity is trying what’s already been tried and expecting different results.’ The only thing they’re good at is shooting and killing. Each time they attack, go bam-bam-bam, drop bombs from airplanes, and leave. What’s the point?”

“It’s a farce!” says his neighbor. “When you see them invading our villages and camps, you’d think they were off to conquer China, though they could arrest any of us any time, including Yasser Arafat, or expel him from the country, or imprison him, or kill him, without tanks or armored vehicles or F-16s. Who’d stop them?”

He falls silent for a moment. Then he says, as though to himself, “Anyway, their project isn’t going well, I can tell you. An Israeli state at our expense isn’t working out for them. How do they think they’re going to get away from us? Do they suppose they can kill us all? The project’s dragged them into a mess, there’s no end in sight, and they know that each year gets them in deeper. You’re right, they’re really stuck.”

I, who for long years have been away from these people, from my countrymen and the details of their daily lives, cannot make light of the plans of a terrifying individual such as Sharon to invade our cities and our villages. To them, though – the inhabitants of these same cities and villages, who haven’t been distanced by successive exiles – everything has become food for jokes. Is it familiarity or stoicism? Is it a confidence built up by a culture of living inside the details or a sign of the resistance they embody simply by remaining in place?

I decide to convince myself too that everything’s normal. I prefer not to show my anxiety over what the engineer of the Sabra and Shatila massacre will do tomorrow, or the day after, when he unleashes his tanks and massed troops – themselves armored like tanks – onto our streets. I think to myself, If only our leadership, petrified of Israel as it is, could grasp the truth of Israel’s dilemma the way these passengers have.

The driver produces from beneath his feet a thermos of coffee, which he hands to the old man seated next to him, supplying him at the same time with a stack of small plastic cups.

As the first cup is poured, the smell of the coffee enters into a stealthy race with that of the cardamom. The cardamom wins, of course.

“Lord, bring it all down on Sharon’s head! Have some coffee, son, daughter. It’s very hot. Give some to the lady. Please, go ahead,” says the Hajj.

The cup reaches me via the hand of the girl sitting in front of me in the middle seat. I take it gingerly, look at it, raise it to my lips, and take a first sip.

Now this is coffee. It may not have the elegant cup that would make it some other kind of coffee, but it’s a perfectly timed cup of coffee. People can’t agree on where coffee’s secret lies: opinions range from the smell, the color, the taste, the consistency, the blend, the cardamom, the roast, to the shape of the cup and a number of other things. For me, it’s the timing. The great thing about a perfectly timed cup of coffee is that it’s in your hand the instant you crave it. One of life’s most exquisite moments is that in which a small luxury becomes a necessity. And someone has to present the coffee to you, because coffee is like roses: someone else has to present you with roses, you can’t present them to yourself. And if you do make the coffee yourself, it’s because at that moment you’re on your own, with no lover or anyone else to think of, a stranger in your own home. If it’s by choice, then you’re paying the price of your freedom; if it’s by necessity, you need to hear the doorbell ring. Its colors are also tastes and flavors – the blond and the dark, the full roast and the medium – so it acquires its different meanings from the expression on the face of the one who offers it to you and the circumstances in which they offer it. Coffee the first time you meet someone is different from coffee to make peace after a spat, which is different from coffee that the guest refuses to drink until a demand is met. Writing coffee is different from reading coffee, and coffee on a journey from coffee at home. Coffee in a hotel is different from coffee in your house, and coffee made on an open hearth from that made in a machine, while coffee from a cheerful face in a café is different from coffee from a sullen, gloomy face. And if the ‘dawn visitor’ tells you, with official courtesy and a weapon-bearing smile, as he tears you from your family and leads you away, “We’d like you to have a coffee at our place,” it’s a form of kidnapping, or murder; foolish is the man who trusts the government’s coffee. Again, coffee at a wedding is different from coffee at a wake, where ‘coffee’ loses all meaning and is handed round to the miserable company by an equally miserable ‘waiter,’ who doesn’t know his guests and doesn’t ask them how they like it. There, the waiter’s no waiter and the coffee’s no coffee, its cup cone-shaped and handleless, its timing and its flavor not of your choosing – the last thing you could care about on such a day, as though it had lost its very name forever.

This morning, however, Mahmoud’s offer of coffee comes at the perfect time and, along with the lively rain outside, sends a joy through my veins that is at odds with the bad news.

“But no smoking, if you’d be so kind. We’ll be there in an hour,” says the Hajj.

“What do you mean, an hour, Hajj?” says another. “Make that two, three hours … four. You heard what the man said: we may get there and we may not.”

Mahmoud smiles and corrects him confidently: “I said we will get there.”

A boy in his early twenties, with a broad forehead, a puzzling mole on his right cheek that I can’t make up my mind about, and small eyes that combine blackness and brightness; a boy confident as a new lamp, alert as a lawyer seized by a sudden idea, his voice commanding but not rough. Even in his winter clothes, he looks skinny. His expression is serious but relaxed and relaxing, assured and reassuring. Though young, he drives the car with an old hand’s seemingly careless care.

Between me and the fully veiled lady in the rear seat sits a sad young man who I tell myself must have a story. Everyone in this world has a story and since I hate it when anyone asks me, “What’s wrong?” I don’t ask him why he’s sad. During a passing glance in his direction, however, I find him smiling mischievously and his eyes direct me to a strange scene. The lady is lifting the end of her veil with her left hand and holding it out in front, creating a long trunk of thick black cloth with a secret passage beneath it down which her right hand brings the cup of coffee to her lips with a careful speed that speaks of long experience. Then she lowers the cloth again, closing off the alimentary tunnel as quickly as she opened it and before anyone can catch a glimpse of what it is she’s trying to conceal. I pretend not to notice, even though the scene is totally new to me, as during my years abroad I have never seen a fully veiled woman taking food or drink in public. I do, however, steal another look and catch her reopening the obligatory tunnel, inserting the cup of coffee into it with the same studied care, and taking another sip. She appears to regard the procedure as perfectly normal.

In the three middle seats are two men and a young woman, of whom all I can see are her hair, which is tied in a pony tail, and her small ears, which are without earrings (I think of my wonderful friend ‘Ali al-Shawk and his mixture of astonishment and disapproval at women’s need to dangle things from their ears). One of the men must be very short, as his kufiya and the cord that keeps it in place are only just visible above the back of the seat, so that I can imagine but not see him. The other is the fat man with the cheerful air. Before offering the coffee to his nearly invisible neighbor, he says playfully to Mahmoud, “My friend’s from al-Khalil. Should I give him coffee or better not risk it?”

We all laugh. Even the veiled lady laughs out loud.

If he’s opened the door to jokes against people from al-Khalil, I think to myself, it’ll never get shut again.

Mahmoud wants to provoke further jokes to lighten the mood, and says with false innocence, “What’s wrong with people from al-Khalil?”

Then he adds, imitating an Egyptian accent, “The Khalilis are great guys and al-Khalil’s a real man’s town, swear to God.”

“Are you Khalili, Mahmoud my friend?”

“I used to be but I got treatment.”

The man from al-Khalil laughs loudly and we laugh along with him once more.

Mahmoud adds, seriously this time, “I’m from al-Am‘ari Camp.”

“An honor. Good people.”

Egyptians make jokes about Upper Egyptians, Syrians about the people of Homs, Jordanians about people from Tafileh, and Lebanese about ‘Abu al-‘Abid,’ the theme in all cases being their naïveté or empty bragging. The Palestinians make jokes about the people of al-Khalil, the point being their hard-headedness. Generally, people ask about the latest joke, but Mahmoud, in a strange departure from tradition, asks the passenger from al-Khalil what was the first joke ever made about the people of his town. The man, sunk in his seat, says, “I don’t really know, but my grandfather used to tell the story of a man from al-Khalil who falls from the seventh story and doesn’t die but gets up again, sound as a bell. Someone says to him, ‘Here’s a hundred lira to do it again,’ but the man refuses, saying, ‘How can I be sure I’ll land on my head next time?’”

Then Mahmoud asks, “And what’s the worst? I mean the joke they really can’t stand.”

“When the settler Baruch Goldstein opened fire on the worshipers in the Sanctuary of Ibrahim in al-Khalil and killed twenty-nine of them, someone said a few days after the massacre, ‘There would have been more casualties if Baruch hadn’t fired at their heads.’”

I haven’t heard the joke before, even though the massacre at the Sanctuary of Ibrahim took place in 1994. I don’t laugh. There have been so many massacres that they’ve become material for their victims’ jokes. In this uneven conflict with the Occupation, which bears the most modern weapons of the age, the unarmed Palestinian hates to be an object of pity. He arms himself with laughter and irony, even at his own expense, and by making fun of his repeated tragedies under this seemingly endless Occupation. People no longer complain to one another about the prisons, the curfews, the repeated closures and invasions. I don’t know whether getting used to these atrocities is a weakness or a strength. If getting used to oppression is a sign of the slave, one confident of the justice of his cause may find in it a way of tamping down his anger and stoking the elements of a hidden strength. One sign of strength in the oppressed is the ability to mock the powerful, and an unspoken readiness to respond in time, however distant that time may be. While waiting, the oppressed exercise their senses to the full in their lust for life.

It would be a big lie to claim that the oppressed do nothing with their lives and in their lives but resist oppression.

The oppressed cling to any of life’s joys that may be granted them, no matter how small. They let no opportunity for love, good cheer, or the pleasures of the body or soul escape them.

The oppressed strive to fulfil desires both obscure and obvious, no matter how rarely the chances come and no matter how difficult they are to realize.

I was delighted by a truly lovely story related to me by a young poet I’d met on an earlier visit, at the Shorouk Bookstore in Ramallah. He told me how happy he’d been when the loudspeakers unexpectedly announced the Israeli army’s complete closure of the town and how grateful he was in his heart to the army because the closure and the curfew would oblige the girl whom he loved, a relative of his who was visiting his family, to spend the whole night in their house, without fear of reproach from her parents. The next day, when the curfew was lifted and the checkpoints opened, the village, of course, was delighted, while my lovesick friend was miserable.

I hope the man from al-Khalil doesn’t go on telling jokes. A funny remark generated spontaneously in the course of a conversation, being a sign of wit and quick mindedness, makes me laugh more than jokes that have been learned by heart. Fortunately he stops and doesn’t say another word for the rest of the journey.

The car climbs a slight slope and then returns to the level as it regains the paved road.

I think about starting a conversation with the sad young man next to me but quickly drop the idea.

Mahmoud the driver appears relaxed now that we’re on the smooth highway. He searches among the buttons on the car’s radio, switches it off, and picks up his cell phone.

“Fine. Fine. Thanks.”

He reduces speed without explanation.

He looks right and left before turning off the highway, dropping down into a field next to the road, and turning back the way he came.

The comfort of the asphalt has lasted only a few minutes.

He goes another short distance and then explains things to us: “We’ve just avoided a flying checkpoint. Why the long face, Hajj? ‘The hopes of the optimist are rewarded.’ ‘Every knot finds someone to untie it.’”

“It’s all in God’s hands, my son,” says the Hajj.

“Are you taking us back to Ramallah? My plane leaves tonight and if I miss it I’ll lose my scholarship and my whole chance of university,” says the young man sitting next to me in a polite voice as though speaking to himself, hoping to hear something reassuring.

The driver replies in a voice that is fatherly, despite their closeness in age. “I’ve never taken a passenger back where he came from, no matter what. I just need you to help if necessary. That’s all I ask of all of you. Don’t worry. Smile, Hajj. Lighten up. They want us paralyzed and terrified. They don’t realize we’ve got used to it. And you, my friend – your plane won’t go without you. I’ve never taken a passenger back. Put your faith in God and in me, everyone. Hopefully, everything’ll be fine.”

A few minutes later he leaves the fields again for an unpaved road.

I’m not familiar with these roads that Mahmoud is taking, and not just because my geographical memory has faded during the years of exile; the sad and now certain truth is that I no longer know the geography of my own land. However, the car is now traveling over open country and there’s no sign of paved roads, traffic lights, or human beings as far as the eye can see. It’s going across fields and I don’t know how this is going to get us to Jericho.

Puddles of water, stones, and wild plants, scattered through a fog that is starting gradually to lift. Everywhere you look, huge olive trees, uprooted and thrown over under the open sky like dishonored corpses. I think: these trees have been murdered, and this plain is their open collective grave. With each olive tree uprooted by the Israeli bulldozers, a family tree of Palestinian peasants falls from the wall. The olive in Palestine is not just agricultural property. It is people’s dignity, their news bulletin, the talk of their village guesthouses during evening gatherings, their central bank when profit and loss are reckoned, the star of their dining tables, the companion to every bite they eat. It’s the identity card that doesn’t need stamps or photos and whose validity doesn’t expire with the death of the owner but points to him, preserves his name, and blesses him anew with every grandchild and each season. The olive is the fruit itself (berries that may be any shade of green, any shade of black, or a shiny purplish color; that may be almond-shaped or oblong, oval or spherical) and it is recipes, processes, and tastes (semi-crushed, salted, semi-dried, scored, or stuffed with almonds or carrots or sweet red pepper). Olives are people’s social status and what they’re good at. The season of their harvest, in the magical autumn, transforms the men, women, and children of the village into bards, singers, and lyric poets whose rhythms turn the tiring work into a picnic and a collective joy. The olive is the pressed oil flowing from the enormous palm-fiber pressing mats, its puzzling color somewhere between shining green and dark gold. Of the virgin oil produced from the first picking they make each other their most eloquent gifts and in the jars set in rows in the courtyards of their houses they store their peace of mind as well as the indispensable basis of their daily meals. If anyone falls ill, the oil is his medicine, and if they rub their aches with it, the pain goes away (or rather it doesn’t, but they believe it does). From its waste, they manufacture soap in the courtyards of their houses and distribute it to the groceries – Shak‘a Soap, Tuqan Soap, Nabulsi Hasan Shaheen Soap, and others. From the wood produced by the annual pruning, they carve curios, lovely wooden models of mosques and churches, and crosses. With great skill they whittle pictures of the Last Supper, the Manger, and Christ’s birth, and statuettes of the Virgin Mary. They fashion arabesque work boxes of various sizes inlaid with mother-of-pearl from the Dead Sea, along with necklaces and rosaries, horses and camel caravans, and carve them to the smoothness, luster, and amazing hardness of ivory. From the crushed olive stones they extract smooth grindings that they use as a fuel for their stoves along with or instead of charcoal, and over whose silent fire they roast chestnuts during the ‘forty days’ of the bitterest cold, leaving the coffee pot to simmer gently, quietly, over its slow heat while outside the thunder mountains collapse, gather, and then collapse again, preceded by lightning at times hesitant, at times peremptory. Next to these stoves they exchange their sly humor, make fun of their cruel situation, practice their masterful skill at friendly backbiting, and, when the visits of relatives or neighbors bring a boy and a girl together in one house, exchange flirtatious glances that combine daring with shyness. For those who don’t like coffee, they bring the blue tea pot, and sage leaves with their intoxicating perfume of the mountains.

These trees have been murdered, I think, and at the same instant, in two different places, stand a peasant with empty hands and a soldier filled with pride; in the same room of night a Palestinian peasant stares at the ceiling and an Israeli soldier celebrates.

The fine rain continues.

The road becomes more rugged.

Our shoulders touch with each jolt.

The veiled lady presses herself more and more tightly against the door of the car; she has placed her bag between her and the young man as an extra layer of insulation, for greater peace of mind.

No one starts a conversation on any topic.

Everyone is worrying about arriving safely, without anyone appearing to be worrying about arriving safely.

This is how it always is: just as the drunken man proves his drunkenness by denying it, so people’s denial of their fear proves they are scared.

Suddenly, everything stops.

Now, with the car stuck in the mud, Mahmoud turns off the engine, so that the tires don’t dig in deeper and complicate matters further.

We get out to see what’s happened.

It seems the situation isn’t serious. The problem can be fixed.

“A little push, everyone.”

We gather, form a scrum at the back of the car, and push, making several attempts before we succeed in freeing it. I convince myself that I’m playing an effective role in pushing the car even though I depend on the zeal of the others, which seems so clear when compared to the amount of strength that I demonstrate. The old man’s keenness and the young woman’s determination and enthusiasm amaze me. She is the only one to do her job with the cheerfulness of a child, encouraging us at the same time with loud cries: “Come on, boys! Put your backs into it, boys!”

The old man, happy to have been included among the ‘boys,’ tells her, “God bless your youth, cousin!”

Given how difficult it is for him, the fat man stands out as the one among us who gives the most of himself, while the countryman who had been sunk in his seat provides conclusive evidence that he is very short indeed. I suppress a smile, as I remember Subhi al-Far, the peasant from Deir Ghassanah who returned from the village threshing floors to give the men in the village guesthouse the good news of a bumper wheat harvest that year and exclaimed with great joy, “The harvest this year is fantastic, God protect it! As tall as me, exactly.”

Abu ‘Odeh, the guesthouse’s best and wittiest talker, said, “God widow your wife, Subhi al-Far! If the wheat’s your height, we’ll all die of hunger this year!”

Mahmoud drives the car a few meters forward and stops to wait for us. We call to the lady in the veil to catch up; she has stood off to one side during the rescue operation.

The mud sticks to our clothes, our hands, our shoes. Mahmoud fetches a small jerry can of water from the trunk of the car.

“Everyone take turns, now. Please, sister. Please, Hajj. Please, Mister.”

One by one, each of us washes his hands as he carefully measures out the water. He offers us a piece of cloth from inside the car with which we try to wipe off the bits of mud that have stuck to our clothes and we use up a box of paper tissues drying our faces.

It’s still day but it looks like evening because of the thickness of the fog in the valley. No doubt Mahmoud has 20/20 vision and no doubt his relative quiet helps him to concentrate his eyesight to the utmost. Now he’s whispering that he’s spotted a concealed Israeli tank and that we have to wait a little to see if it’ll go away.

We stop.

After a few minutes he decides the danger is past.

We continue on our way.

I think to myself, a person could cross this valley on foot; horses or mules could find their way through these rocky twists and turns; but how can an old taxi carrying seven passengers and their luggage do so, with the fog and the rain closing in and the Israeli ‘Defense’ Force in its hideouts behind the trees? I think: this young Palestinian is trying to perform a small miracle without realizing it, is being a hero unaware that he’s being a hero. He’s only a hired driver but he wants to do the job that earns him his monthly salary perfectly. Right now, he’s the leader of this trip and doesn’t want to let us down. We are now his nation – an old man and two women (one of whom doesn’t cover her hair and face while the other wears a full veil); a man who’s short and another who’s fat; a university student; and a poet who is amazed by everything he sees and doesn’t want to spoil it by talking.

What would you do if you were in his place, I ask myself.

Would I be capable of leading this trip?

I am a writer, that is, I don’t ‘do’ anything. Isn’t that pathetic?

Or am I just being too quick to blame myself, as I always am when things go wrong around me?

How often I’ve wished I’d learned some craft, some manual trade. Isn’t it beautiful for a person to be a mechanic, a smith, a farmer, a carpenter, an engineer, a doctor, or even a construction worker with strong muscles who rises with each additional story to a higher rank and at the end looks out over the lazy city from above? He owes no one any favors, for he has raised himself by the sweat of his hands and now sees what the hawk sees, even if he leaves his glory behind and flies away forgotten after the inauguration night. One day my mother caught sight of me. I was twelve and my mother could see me trying to dig the green-onion bed in the vegetable garden with my younger brother Majid. We were breathing hard and she said with a smile as she stood at the top of the steps to the house, “It’ll have to be school for you, my boys, that’s for sure. You’ll die of hunger if you ever have to work with your hands.”