White Masks (2 page)

Where shall I begin?

We've turned into a story, a tale people tell.

Khalil was a nice young man, and one day he came to our house with his late father to ask for my hand in marriage. My father said he's a nice boy, he's twenty-five years old-I was ten years younger, so that was a good age difference - he's from a good family, he's educated, and a government employee - you know, a civil servant. Our destinies were joined and I never had cause to complain. Every day, he'd come home from work, wash, and sit quietly in front of the TV, like a child; I never felt his presence he was so soft-spoken. There were no worries or anything, even though his salary was only just sufficient - but he was an easygoing man. When I bore him our first child and it was a girl, he didn't mind; it's God's grace, he said, and he named her Su'ad: Su'ad for happiness, he said, and he wasn't the least bit upset. When the second child came, and it was another girl, he didn't come to the hospital for three days. He looked sad, and I told him he had a right to feel that way, though when I came home, he treated me the same as always. But he wouldn't pay any attention to baby Nada-I was the one who named her - and he started going to the café every day, to drink tea, smoke a hookah, and play checkers. He no longer spent all his spare time at home. Well, he's a man, I thought, men can't spend all their time at home, they have to go out, it's only right that they should do what they feel like. My mother said I was lucky, and I was, because then Ahmad came along. When Ahmad was born, everything changed. The man was transformed: he started taking an interest in the children's upbringing and to share my household concerns. He would come home from work, play with the little one, and tell me about his day, about his problems at work, all the cheating and corruption. Listening to him crowing about not taking bribes, I felt
upset - bribes are better than nothing, you know, with children and school fees and the cost of living, but he wouldn't hear of it.

“I won't take a penny from anyone, I am above that. Taking bribes is disgraceful.”

That's what he said. He neither got a raise nor a promotion, and I didn't like to ask why not, but people said that he wasn't conscientious, that he spent most of his time doing the crosswords in the paper, drinking coffee, and smoking. I don't believe any of it. I'm sure he was a model civil servant, but he just wouldn't kiss up to the bosses, that's why they didn't like him. Anyway, how would I know . . . we never socialized with any of his colleagues, and only ever visited my mother-in-law! That was it - every Sunday. It was our only ritual.

And so the days passed . . .

It's unbelievable how life goes by - in the blink of an eye, like a dream, and then it's over. Ahmad grew into a fine young man - handsome, his grandmother said, like her brothers. Actually, he looked more like
my
brother, may he rest in peace, but I didn't like to say so. Fortune smiled on Su'ad and she got married, then it was Nada's turn, with the grace of God. I had only three children. Khalil would say he wanted another boy, one more boy and that would be it. But it was God's will, and I wasn't blessed with another child,
al-hamdulillah!
Ahmad grew up and we grew old . . . he did alright at school, but sports were his thing. He would sit in front of the TV for hours on end watching wrestling matches: the Saadeh brothers, Prince Komali, and the Silver Monster. Sometimes, I'd be lying down in the bedroom, and I would hear Khalil and Ahmad in the living room getting louder and louder as the matches progressed. Then Ahmad joined the
Sports and Fitness Club. I told Khalil this would distract the boy from his studies, but the father had become even more of a fitness nut than his son. He told me he was going to start exercising every morning, and that when he was younger he'd wanted to be an athlete and hadn't had the chance. Except that Khalil wasn't regular with his morning exercise: some days he'd get up early and lift small weights before taking a cold shower and going to work; but then several days would go by without him doing anything... he wouldn't exercise, or wake up early, or take that shower. And with time, his resolve faltered, but he never lost interest in his son's career . . .

The boy had taken up boxing - you should have seen what a figure he cut - and said he wanted to go professional. Khalil pinned all his hopes on him: “Why shouldn't he become a great boxer, why not, like Muhammad Ali Clay, or even better?”

 

 

May God rest your soul in peace, Ahmad, if only you'd lived . . . He took part in several tournaments, and he won! I attended a match once, and you should've seen how he leapt around the ring, like a real boxer, delivering punch after punch! When he took one in the face and I saw the blood, I dashed towards the ring, I wanted to tell him to get down from the ring, but Khalil grabbed hold of me and began cursing, so I went back to my seat and, in the end, Ahmad won the match! He knocked down his opponent, and the guy just lay there motionless while the referee slowly counted to ten and Ahmad looked on. Then the referee raised Ahmad's hand in the air
and I saw Khalil thrust his own arm up and run to embrace him. Ahmad competed in several championships and won every one of them - he was always telling me how he was going to take part in the national championships, featherweight category. I'd laugh to myself at the expression, as if a feather weighed anything. Really, men are pea-brained, they're like little children! Still, it was our lot, the luck of the draw, and there was nothing we could do about it.

No, the war didn't have anything to do with it. Nothing changed during the war - it had nothing to do with it. Khalil stopped going to the main post office down in Riad al-Solh Square, and joined the Mazra'a branch instead - he couldn't bear to sit at home like a housewife, he said. But later he had to, with the shelling everywhere, there was no way to go out, and after I begged him to stay home, he agreed. His salary went on being paid and we lacked for nothing. We thanked our lucky stars, disaster never struck, just the one shell landing nearby, but we were in the shelter and nothing happened,
al-hamdulillah!
I said to Khalil, why don't you do the same as our neighbor Abu Tareq? You know, selling cigarettes from a makeshift sidewalk stall? His salary was no longer enough, you see.

“No,” he said, “I am a civil servant and I won't work anywhere else than at the post office, handling calls and telegrams. I am not about to sell cigarettes . . .”

Ahmad went on training regularly, and we steered clear of politics. Khalil always said: “When the winds of change are blowing, keep your heads.” And we kept our heads pretty well. Even the newspapers didn't cross our threshold - Khalil got them only at work; and anyway, he didn't read them, it was only for the crossword puzzles and the sports page. But then, they
did . . . you know how it is, a man, at home all day long, with nothing to do, helping out with chores like fetching the water - the water supply was cut off - going off every morning with big plastic containers and coming back all breathless. Ahmad never helped out; and anyways Khalil wouldn't have let him. “No,” he'd say, “Ahmad must concentrate on his training, leave him alone.” And so, with nothing to do at home, he started reading the papers, even though he always said he hated politics.

“It's nothing to do with us,” he'd say. “We are just the playthings of foreign powers . . . kicking us around like a ball! It's nothing to do with us.”

You know how it is . . . I mean with the war and everything, it's inevitable, isn't it . . . all the young men in the neighborhood were donning uniforms,
mashallah
. . . When Ahmad told me he wanted to join up, I begged him not to, I told him, no, you're our only son and only sons don't go to war; our only son, and you're going to die! Then these words reeled off his tongue, I don't know where he got them from, he said all these things I didn't understand. And one day he vanished. Khalil was so upset, he stormed into the kitchen swearing and smashed all the plates; then he made the rounds of all the political party offices, asking after him and pleading, but all they said was that Ahmad was going through military training in the mountains and that he'd be back.

And so he was . . . After three long weeks of sorrow and grief and penance, he came back, strutting around in his fatigues with a rifle slung over his shoulder, all puffed up with pride. I caught him one day admiring himself in the mirror, in his high combat boots and his khakis, caressing his rifle! In the beginning, Khalil refused to speak to him, and just sat by the radio, muttering to himself. Then we got used to this new state of affairs -
the devil's curse on us humans, how we get used to anything! Even the death of our sons! Then Ahmad started bringing money home; he'd give some of it to his father, who was on speaking terms with him now, and they would have political discussions.

I, for my part, was worried. But Ahmad's father, may his soul rest in peace, seemed unconcerned, and he became interested in what the boy brought back - nothing very valuable, mind you, a bracelet here, three gold rings there, and other useless trifles. But it helped his father cope with the terrible price increases that were killing us. Khalil stopped muttering to himself, but he was always worried about the boy and waiting for him to get back.

And poor dear, how he got back . . . !

No, no, Ahmad's death didn't change anything. He was killed in combat in 1976, four years ago now, but no, nothing changed. Khalil was just the same as always. Yes, of course it was a crushing blow, and he began to show signs of aging - his hair went completely white - but he didn't change.

It was ten in the morning that day, Khalil wasn't home. They had knocked at the door, but I hadn't heard them - the power was off, the doorbell wasn't working, and I was in the kitchen with the racket of the Primus stove. Then I heard shouting and clamoring at the door, so I opened up. Three young men in fatigues stood there and I told them Ahmad wasn't home. I was about to shut the door but they insisted on coming in. What's going on? I thought, and then my heart started pounding, and I knew that Ahmad . . . When I asked about him, one of them said, “Steady now, Auntie.”

“What happened to him?” I screamed hysterically, as they trooped into the living room. The three of them sat down, I remained standing, and the oldest one did the talking.

“Sit down, Auntie, we need to speak to you,” he said. I burst into tears.

“Ahmad's dead!” I cried.

They nodded, and, overcome with the shock, I began to wail and scream and tear at my clothes. Then Nada was there, though I hardly even noticed, and then all the neighbors came, men, women, hollering and ululating and carrying on - nothing made any sense. They said he died far away - in Qomatiyyeh - and that his body was in the morgue at the American University Hospital; he's a martyr, they said, he was killed in combat. Khalil, who had come home to all the screaming and wailing, sat in a corner, wordless. He just nodded silently as the three young men informed him the funeral procession would go directly from the hospital to the Martyrs' Cemetery, as they weren't able to retrieve the body immediately, and Ahmad had been dead for over forty-eight hours.

“You know how it is, Uncle,” one of them said, “the body won't last. It's best that way.”

Khalil went to identify the body, and when he came back he said nothing, just ground his jaw back and forth and recited Qur'anic verses under his breath.

Then we went to the American University Hospital - that is to say, they went - and brought the coffin home. They took him to his room and opened the coffin for a minute so I could see him, but I never saw him. Everyone saw him but me. Then they hoisted him up on their shoulders and carried him to the cemetery, firing in the air, chanting slogans and singing. The whole time, Khalil muttered and talked to himself, saying that was the way they wanted to do it. They wouldn't let us wash him-a martyr shouldn't be washed, they said, he is cleansed by his own blood - and they
buried him just like that . . . doing exactly as they pleased! Then they lined up beside me and received condolences while I stood like a stranger in their midst, as if it had been their son. Afterwards, they brought food over to the house, and milled about everywhere, doing everything themselves . . . as if we didn't exist, as if Ahmad hadn't been our son.

The truth be told, Khalil found some consolation in the posters plastered all over the walls in the neighborhood. They had produced a color poster, in red and blue, with the words “Ahmad Khalil Jaber, Hero and Martyr” printed under his picture, and there was an obituary of him with photographs in all the papers. Still, Khalil grieved, and so did I.

Then those three young men came back one day and handed my husband 4,000 lira and told us we would be getting 400 lira on a monthly basis. Khalil told them it wasn't necessary. They insisted . . . they were the ones to insist: they said it was the martyr's stipend and we must take it. So we took it. It was bad enough that the boy had died, were we also to die of starvation and grief? No Sir! I told my husband he should accept the money. It's not dirty money, I told him; it's our due.

That's when the posters of Ahmad became Khalil's main preoccupation, before it turned into an obsession. He was upset whenever it rained. They'll be damaged, he'd say. So he brought home about a hundred of them and went around putting them up on the walls of the neighborhood whenever the old ones peeled off, or when children tore them down or they were covered up with advertisements. Then they began to disappear - no, not disappear, there were just fewer of them; it was only natural, the war was over, and the walls were being covered with new posters for films and plays. Still, he insisted on going around putting up the posters of Ahmad. At the
beginning of every month, he would go to the local party office to collect the stipend, and they would make such a fuss of him as the martyr's father. He got on with them famously now, and slowly these new relationships filled our lives - and Khalil was his old self again.