The day of the funeral, everything in the house seemed the color of mud. I could smell death in every sniff of air, feel it in every corner of the house, and sense its bitterness in every face. However, there was that face that whenever I saw, bitterness would change into hope, and sorrow into joy. A face that hadn’t learned the language of sorrow yet, and sang in a totally different tune. It was Angy’s. Angy, at that time, was the very youngest member of the family. A gorgeous, extremely innocent 6 month-old baby girl. She had a perfectly rounded head, mops of smooth, straight brownish hair and the bonniest pair of eyes. Her chubby mellow cheeks, along with her toothy smile beaming through her full-moon face made her absolutely irresistible. She was even more adorable when she sat on the big couch, half-bent over, with her tiny little legs stretched out, leaving her feet not so far from her tummy. A posture that would make her look like a small tennis ball. Her name was a bit heavy on our tongues. It’s Turkish for angel. I also heard that it means a group of seven heaven beauties. Quite special! Despite the beautiful and unique meanings, we had a tendency to use an easier-pronounced nickname. We called her Annoona. A bit long for a nickname, but we got the hang of it at last. “Little girls are the cutest thing on earth!” I would frequently repeat, being under the influence of that little enchantress. For me, Angy - or Annoona -was not a mere little chubby cute baby. She was a symbol of life, hope, renovation and everything good left on earth. However, there was a time when she caused me to cry, though indirectly. I entered the living room in my grandma’s house and found them looking at some pictures of Annoonah, printed on A4 papers. I grabbed the pile of pictures and exclaimed joyfully to my cousin, Mais: “Hey! Annoona’s pictures!” She nodded with a not-so-happy expression. I sat next to her looking at pictures; she didn’t seem interested at all. I couldn’t understand the reason behind her screwed up mood, till I reached a paper on which was the photo of our late grandfather with Annoona in his lap. On the picture there were 3 verses of poetry, the small poem that my grandfather had composed for Angy, his youngest grandchild, few months before he passed away, signed at the bottom of the page with the cordial dedication: From grandfather Ibrahim Al-Salah to dearest granddaughter Angy Al-Salah Reading that stirred dozens of emotions and brought tears to my eyes that I tried to hold back. But the mission became harder as I looked at Mais, realizing the reason behind her frown that started to dissolve into a muffled cry. Failing to mute the pressing sentiment, and without uttering a single word, we rushed to the kitchen and wept openly.
Annonah
Annonah again
Jiddo and Annoonah
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“Long time no see!” I exclaimed when I saw Sara and gave her a big hug. How are things going with your fiancé?” “You mean my X-fiancé. We’ve broken up.” She said, trying to fake a shy smile. “Why, what happened?” “He had a fight with my father. He tried to apologize but my dad wouldn’t accept it. Later on the roles were reversed, and he got back at my father by dumping me” I wasn’t in a position to make a judgment, but I certainly felt terribly sorry for the poor girl. Being abandoned by someone you love is the worst heart-breaking feeling a girl could experience. “What if they have reconciled?” I thought to myself. “The whole problem might have been forgotten in a matter of weeks.” I wonder how much time she needs to overcome her abandonment. That is how I see it: The father refused to compromise at the beginning, the son-in-law refused to compromise afterwards, and the girl had to pay for it. “Why did the girl’s feelings have to be in the second place?” Well, something had to be sacrificed at the end, and it couldn’t be the superior macho pride! Typical male society.
“Or maybe he didn’t love her enough” I wondered in a second thought. But, how much is enough? A relative term, I thought. “Maybe I should stop here” I thought to myself. “I’m sort of a hardliner when it comes to this subject ” Is it me who is asking for too much, or I am really not getting enough? Someone who can’t even say Love and uses a term like this subject instead, must be having a problem. Nonetheless, I have to admit that there were times when I felt an excessive need for love, not in its direct narrow meaning, but for love as a vast concept. In other words, I needed people. One of those weary nights where I felt as if a huge stone was resting upon my heart, I rambled between pressing random thoughts that dashed through my brain like an angry stampede. “The amount of love you give determines the amount of love you get from others.” That one seemed fairly logical. “But” I thought, “Giving someone all the love you could is no guarantee that you’ll get anything in return.” That one woke up a not-so-nice memory. Which nullifies which? Neither. As I wrote this, the idea seemed more complicated than I thought, and it diverged into several theories and possibilities. “Love is such a dilemma.” I can’t help, as I write this, but to think of my grandfather in his army suit, passing by the house where my grandmother lived. They didn’t say a word, nor needed to. It began there, and lasted for 50 years. I still remember him sitting beside her on the sofa, singing for her “ya wardet el hob el safi”, which would make her blush and try to stop him. But he didn’t refrain from showing his affection, he would just giggle and continue the song: “Teslam edain elli sa’aki". She also loved him, even if she didn’t show it his way. But her words would sometimes betray her, and a smooth flow of love would slip through her tongue. “No one takes care of you as much as I do.” She mumbled one day as she handed him a plate of sweets. She always knew that he was fond of sweet. A man of a sweet tongue, and a sweet tooth. But her love for him would become more and more radiant in his last days, too radiant to be hidden. Everyone could see it in her tears, her staying up by his side at night, and spending hours on end on a plastic chair by his bed when he was at hospital. Despite his sickness, he didn’t take satisfaction only in receiving love, but also in giving more and more to everyone around him.
September 2000
The public sentiment was on the rise after the Palestinian uprising (Intifada), which came as a reaction for Sharon’s provocative visit for the holy shrine of Al-Aqsa mosque.
I was still at high school back then. Students at school were trying hard to get a permit to take the demonstrations out of the school gates, but not everyone was taking it seriously enough.
However, the situation at universities was taking a rather ferocious course. Students were raging and the security forces were having a hard time containing the flood of the outraged youth.
My sister was quite active at that time, Despite my parent’s constant warnings.
“All these demonstrations are in vain, you are not helping” My father would say.
Well, that is the case with many parents; they don’t want their sons and daughters to get involved in any trouble. I think it was the fear of having them expelled of college, or of being dragged into a fierce interrogation by the national intelligence.
The funny thing is that those parents themselves, who keep instructing their children about staying on the safe side, were not on the safe side all the time.
My uncle who gave some typical safety instructions for his daughter when she was admitted to university, was himself sneaking into the ditches were the fighters stayed during the civil war in the 1970’s. He was only 10-11 years old at that time.
I never participated in those demonstrations, though the public sentiment was intensified by the Anglo-American aggression on Iraq. However, I once found myself willingly trapped in one.
I was leaving university when I saw crowds of people heading towards the main gate. Suddenly, someone started to shout: “The security, go back!”
The demonstrators started to run in the opposite direction, and as I turned to go back with them I saw a young man foisted into the crowd, lying half low and holding his mobile phone as if it was a microphone, and saying: “They are at the main gate.”
“A secret agent!” I thought immediately.
The students then headed back toward the main gate, which was locked by the security. One of the demonstrators climbed up the gate and broke the chain that was tying the gate closed.
The voice of the crowd grew louder and louder, as I left the university thinking of what might happen next.
Based on what my cousins told me about the previous demonstrations, we should’ve expected everything.
At the first demonstrations following the Intifada, a girl fell and down and broke her spine. She was announced dead soon after. Let alone the tear gas that was used sometimes to shatter the crowds. Once, the demonstrators took refuge in the basement of the presidency building, the place was suffocating with people that one girl passed out and caused panic among the already panicked students.
However, demonstrations were not the only from of protest. People would express their solidarity through the revived trend of Hatta ( a traditional headscarf worn by men).
The black and white Hatta turned into a symbol of resistance. People, especially young men and women, wore it around their necks, tied it on their car seats and clang it to their bags.
Sadly, the Hatta turned from a symbol of solidarity to a symbol of racism, when the black Hatta vs. red Hatta thing started to spread around.
My father refused to get my enthusiastic sister a Hatta. He was, as many parents were, afraid of the consequences. Consequently, she sought the help of my grandfather.
My grandfather probably wasn’t aware of the use of the Hatta at that time. But, as usual, he wanted to help. He brought his black and white Hatta and gave it to her. He was proud of his Hatta’s. He had a black-and white Hatta, and a red-and-black one, and he wore them alternatively. Apparently, there made no difference for him.
“Till when are you going to wear this Hatta?” My father asked her one day as she came home, pale and fatigued.
“Till they lift the tyranny off the poor people.”
The tyranny wasn’t lifted, but the Hatta still hangs in our guest room.
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