Jerusalem Stands Alone Read online

  The restaurant in Zahra Street is empty as I pull a heavy leather chair out for her and ask her to have a seat.

  Barbie and I sit down, and we can hear wailing.

  The House

  WE VISIT THE HOUSE TOGETHER.

  Barbie says, “Let’s go before the sun begins to set,” so we take the bus to Katamon and the other passengers ignore us. Instead, they pretend that we don’t exist—we, the natives who should hurry up and go extinct so they can enjoy this country. We get off at the end of the street and walk a little.

  She says, “How I walked in this neighborhood. How I played. How I danced!” And I follow her as she puts together the pieces of her long story.

  When we reach the house, a woman on the porch asks us, “Ma ata rotse?” (What do you want?)

  Barbie says, “I want to see the house.”

  I interject, “Many Palestinians have been coming back these past years to see their houses,” and add, “Edward Said has!”

  A frowning man steps out on the porch and a young girl, probably his daughter, steps from behind him. I say, “This tragedy has lasted long enough. You can’t keep ignoring it.” Barbie then says, “I want to see my bedroom.” The man tells her to go to the Israeli housing authority, that maybe she’ll find her bedroom there. The woman adds, “Yes, leave, we have nothing to do with you.”

  The young girl watches, bewildered, like she had no idea what’s going on. And Barbie, who doesn’t get to see her bedroom, turns around and walks away as I follow behind.

  And the house remains standing, silent.

  Crawl

  HE SAYS, “I saw them early one morning, scoping out the side of the house. They marked the walls with red ink and then went on gently caressing their long beards. I told them to get away from our house, and one of them said, ‘This is our house and we have the papers to prove it.’ I told them that their papers were forged.

  “They just went back on marking the walls.

  “The people gathered. Journalists, photographers, news stations. Khadija and I were in the middle of the crowd. What was happening upset Abd el-Rahman. Rabab and Asmahan stood, paralyzed with fear, and Suzanne stood right there next to us in disbelief.

  “The soldiers arrived and ordered people to disperse. My wife and I climbed the stairs to the house and stood silently behind the window.

  “Abd el-Rahman sat in his room reading the Quran while Suzanne went off to her job. The soldiers stood in front of our house until evening, rooted there like old trees.”

  Laundry

  SUZANNE BOUGHT a small washing machine some days earlier. She sets her laundry on a cycle and goes to work and in the evening she, unlike the rest of the women in the neighborhood, takes her laundry up to the roof of the house. She finds Abd el-Rahman walking up there, prayer beads in hand. (Abd el-Rahman says that evil surrounds us.) Suzanne doesn’t speak to him so as not to add to his stress and he doesn’t speak to her in the name of chastity and controlling his lust. She compares him to his brother, who is traveling the world in search of the woman he loves, and ponders how people choose such different paths.

  She hangs her laundry on the clothesline and wonders how far her relationship will go with her boyfriend, who is interning at a law office. He hasn’t proposed to her but if he does, she will say yes. He hinted at it some days ago when he said, “This city is overpopulated. Where would people live if they wanted to get married?”

  Suzanne finishes hanging her clothes and admires the rooftops of the neighboring houses, not paying any attention to Abd el-Rahman. She glances at the occupied houses. They’re strangely silent, though she sees a few people on this or that roof. She feels a familiarity with this city, resting beneath the blanket of night.

  Half an hour later, she’s back home. She takes off her dress, embroidered in red and green, lies still in bed, and touches her young body for a second. She tries to gather her scattered thoughts and center herself. Three hours later, she falls asleep, having arranged only a few of them.

  Mood

  RABAB WASHES HER JEANS, dresses, shirts, and underwear by hand. She believes washing machines destroy clothes. Fortunately for the washing machine companies, Rabab has only shared her theory with a few people. She did try to talk Suzanne out of buying a washing machine but Suzanne wasn’t convinced.

  Rabab enjoys hand-washing her clothes, attentively scrubbing them in water and soap. She takes her time, the clothes playing back and forth in her hands. Washing her clothes and hanging them out in the sun once a week, and every day during her period, rejuvenates her.

  For a time, she feels warm, awash in affection for her body and clothes.

  The Thin Blonde

  I SIT IN A CAFÉ. The weather is moderate and the evening city markets are nearly vacant. I drink my coffee. My mind is scattered.

  I see the thin foreign blonde darting through the market. (I asked the café owner what her name is: Suzanne.) I think, “Maybe something happened to Suzanne.” I ruminate on her for some time and write down on paper discordant sentences as Suzanne departs and then appears, appears then departs, until suddenly, I stand and follow her. I look for her in the alleys and markets, and I don’t find her.

  Her and the House

  SINCE KHADIJA GOT MARRIED, she’s been away from the house a handful of times. Abd el-Razzaq was in too much of a rush to wait for summer, so they had an unusual winter wedding. He took her to Jericho for their honeymoon and rented a furnished apartment for a month.

  On only one other occasion has she been out of the house: when she had to stay in the hospital for ten days. How she missed him then. Every day she asked Abd el-Razzaq, “When can I come home?”

  Afterward she returned home, and other than on these occasions, she cannot remember being away for more than a day or two.

  She tells her neighbors, “I came into this house on my wedding day, and I will leave it on the day I die.”

  Confusion

  ABD EL-RAHMAN remembers them now. He remembers the cells and the rooms at the police station where he spent long, weary months.

  He remembers them all: the fanatics, the moderates, the secularists, the others in between. Each tried to lure him to their side but Abd el-Rahman did not take sides. He did, however, pick up some of their philosophies. They steeped in his mind, a wondrous brew of ideas, and now, out of jail, he sees evil everywhere. There must be absolution.

  He is uncertain of the things he says at times, unsure of this road to absolution. He cries, and a wave of uncertainty floods him.

  An Hour Later

  I GO BACK TO THE HOUSE, soon to be evacuated, to write an article about it in the newspaper. The owner, Abd el-Razzaq, welcomes me, and, though I am a stranger, the females of the house do not veil themselves in my presence. Khadija, his wife, immediately offers me coffee. His oldest daughter, Rabab, brings me a plate of fruit. His youngest, Asmahan, stands at the door with a book in her hand. Later I’m told that the eldest son, Marwan, is drifting about somewhere in the world. Abd el-Rahman is out, but if he had been at home he would have complained about his mother and sisters appearing unveiled in front of a stranger.

  It’s evening and raining outside, overcast weather that inspires me to write. Abd el-Razzaq busily recounts the facts as I jot down notes and look up every now and then. Khadija, sitting by her husband, frequently fills in the information missing from his narration. I glance at Rabab, who sits listening, and our eyes meet. Her doe eyes are honey colored. Asmahan sits in the far corner with a book in her hand.

  After an hour of taking notes, I become less interested in the soon-to-be evacuated house and more interested in Rabab.

  Her Firstborn

  KHADIJA SAYS that she gave birth to her eldest son in her bedroom. She went into labor sometime past midnight. It wasn’t possible to take her to the hospital because the army blocked the streets and roads.

  Abd el-Razzaq told her, “You will have to put up with the pain until morning comes.”

  For two hours
she tolerated the pain.

  Abd el-Razzaq’s mother brought a bowl of hot water, a towel, and some cloths. As a young girl, she’d watched many midwives deliver babies. Sitting between Khadija’s legs, she prayed to God to keep evil at bay. Half an hour later, Marwan showed his head and began to cry. The windows of the house were tightly shut. Outside, rain poured and curfew was in effect.

  Grass

  HANAN IS CAUGHT IN GHAZAL’S WEB. They first met when he solicited the architecture firm where she works. After that, he made a habit of stopping by her office when her boss was out. Pulling her to his chest, he’d lift her dress.

  She didn’t stop him. She did ask him to make things between them halal, but he has a way of not promising anything while still making her feel he’s not refusing her request.

  Two days after she’s fired from work, he takes her in the evening to a mountain crowded with trees. He tells her, “Lie down with me on the grass and close your eyes,” so she does. A moment later, he hears a scratching noise from the forest. Terrified, he takes off running.

  Hanan lies with her eyes closed for five more minutes. Then she gets up and leaves.

  Hanan

  SHE’S THIRTY-FIVE YEARS OLD. In her free time, she enjoys drawing. She studies the wall and the city’s buildings crammed together, then transposes all of this onto her canvas, sometimes with oils and other times with watercolors.

  Her father passed away years earlier. She has one sister, Khadija, who is married to a fishmonger, and two older brothers, one of whom is an architect in the Emirates. The other is married to a Syrian woman and can’t return to Jerusalem because the occupation forces have an arrest warrant out on him.

  Her younger brother owns a store in Sydney and is married to an Australian. He visits Jerusalem once every three years and brings his mother and sisters silk handkerchiefs and gold bracelets.

  Hanan’s unhappiness with the world is not satisfied by silk or gold.

  Her First Visit

  HE ASKS HER, “Do you remember your first visit to this house? It was a week after our engagement. I brought you here in your thin pink dress and you climbed these steps like a deer, your dark hair draped over your shoulders. You greeted my mother and father, and my mother asked you, ‘How can you wear that dress in the middle of winter?’ You laughed and told her you weren’t cold, and I joked that you’d caught the ‘youth fever.’ We sat in the living room. You hardly said a word, maybe because you were self-conscious of the dress, or maybe because it was the first time you’d been to our house. Then you joined my mother in the kitchen to make dessert. Remember?”

  Khadija says, “I remember every detail. You were twenty-three.”

  A Meeting

  RABAB COMES TO MY REGULAR COFFEE SHOP, bringing with her some sheets of paper on which she has written some of her poems. She wants me to read them and leave comments.

  Rabab has fascinated me since the evening I visited with her father. I’m twenty years older than her but she tells me that there’s a mystery about me that the younger guys who go to her school don’t have. She tells me, “There’s a huge difference between a writer who has read a thousand books and written hundreds of pages and a university student who can’t write a single good paragraph.”

  I read one of her poems. I read and smile and express my admiration for what she’s written. She sits, drinking coffee, and her heart, as it looks to me, is pounding. I can hear my heart pounding as well.

  Birth

  SHE SAYS that she gave birth to Rabab at a hospital. Abd el-Razzaq carried her into the car a little past noon. It was spring and Khadija’s belly protruded so much it looked like she was having twins.

  Rabab came out with little trouble and Khadija breastfed her, then put her to sleep, before Abd el-Razzaq came in to admire his daughter’s face and say, “God bless her beauty.”

  An hour later, Rabab woke up, took her mother’s breast, and both mother and daughter went back to sleep. Two days later, Khadija returned home, a beautiful baby girl in her arms. The house welcomed her every step as she climbed the stairs.

  The Bird Keeper

  A NEW DEVELOPMENT AWAITS ME. I’m pleased by the sensation and am in no hurry to go home, so I roam every market and walk every alley.

  At this late hour the stores are all closed, and the few people remaining glide along, ghostlike. The city is lonely, and in each of its corners stand soldiers.

  I stop by the house of my friend, the singer, who is entertaining many guests, all with a passion for music. My friend sings and plays the lute: “You flatter, you flatter, you charmer and sweet talker.” His voice darkens. “The beauty of this country is in the glance of a girl and in the bloom of a rose. Bird Keeper, wake up and watch over your bird.”

  An hour later, as I leave the singer’s house, the gentle sensation returns. In my horizon there awaits a familiar bird.

  Marble

  I LOWER MY HEAD onto her marble breasts. (Marble is a symbol of rebirth, the plaque beneath the sculpture declares.) She clings to me as if she’s been waiting for this for a thousand years. She tells me, “There are many strangers here, and I feel cold.”

  I ask, “Shall I bring you wool blankets?”

  “That is not what I desire.”

  “What is it that you desire?”

  Glancing around hesitantly, she whispers, “For you not to forget that I’m here while you’re out there.”

  Shahnaz

  WALKING DOWN KATAMON STREET that day, I see Jewish women and their children walking on the sidewalk. I remember Virginia, the slender daughter of Bethlehem who moved with her parents to Jerusalem, to Katamon Street, into the house of Wasif Jawhariyyeh, who had a passion for composition and singing. Wasif played the lute and sang, while Virginia accompanied him skillfully.

  Wasif later suggested a stage name that would better fit her future as a famous singer, and Virginia accepted it. Her name became Shahnaz.

  Shahnaz sang in Jerusalem a few times before her body began to waste from some mysterious illness and she quit singing. The Jerusalem lute player remained depressed until the day he died because Shahnaz was his shining hope, a hope that was blown out as if it had never been. The Jewish women look around them as if they’ve heard Shahnaz’s singing somewhere.

  Sultana

  WALKING DOWN KATAMON STREET, I remember Sultana, who moved into a new house on this street, where she lived for a few months until her illness took her. She’d wake up in the middle of the night, gasping for air. Her husband would open the window to let in a breeze, hold her with her head on his chest. He would feel her forehead, smooth her hair, and tell her stories to put her back to sleep.

  After falling asleep, she’d wake up and remain awake until daybreak. He’d suggest he call the doctor but she wouldn’t want to trouble him, so she’d tell him to wait until morning, when he’d put on his suit and fez and go looking for a doctor.

  An hour later he’d return with the doctor, who would examine her while her husband stood staring at the body that only a month ago was beautiful. The doctor would pull a box of pills from his briefcase and hand it to him.

  She’d sleep for two or three hours as he lay next to her, her broken body pressed against his, wishing death would take him first so he wouldn’t have to see her die.

  A Picture

  AS I WALK toward the house on Katamon Street, I remember her in the picture, standing in a long night-gown beside the wall’s gate, waving good-bye to him on his way to work. He’d turn to her like a man who can’t endure his darling wife being out of sight for a few hours.

  She had a habit of waiting beside the gate to welcome him home from work in her light blue dress. He’d run up to her, embrace her, hold her, and they would walk inside together. Separated from her for a few hours, he felt as if he’d been away for a thousand years. Yes, he was crazy for Sultana.

  Sultana is gone now and the only thing that remains of her are a few lines in a book, a wave good-bye, and the picture of a beautiful woman s
tanding at the front door of the house, a house that is now lost.

  Humidity

  JANETTE WAS WALKING through the city when she saw him.

  He knew all the passageways branching off the New Gate by heart and enjoyed the humidity of the alleyways, the stones of the houses. When she saw him, he was standing under one of those houses’ windows, shoulder against the stones, holding the weapon given to him to defend the city. (He was a volunteer in a unit known as “the Red Belts.”) The city lived under dull showers of bombs and bullets.

  He stood under the window waiting for the woman he’d laid eyes on days earlier. He fell in love with her beauty and her purple dress, while she admired his height and posture.

  They walked together as if they were engaged. When they found themselves in an empty alley, he pulled her to his chest and kissed her. She told him she was afraid. He told her not to be and led her out by the hand, and they continued walking.

  Four weeks later, she remained in the city while he was buried under it.

  Love

  SHE WALKS through the city and remembers him.

  He loved her and she loved him. He told her, “If I go to your house and ask your parents for your hand, would they approve?” She said, “Why wouldn’t they? My father makes no distinction between one religion and another. What about your parents? Would they approve?” He answered, “Why wouldn’t they?” She said, “Well, you are of one religion and I am of another.” He said, “I don’t care what my parents think. I do what I want.”