Hanan Habashi - 'L for Life': Gaza CPDS Fiction

The Center for Political and Development Studies (CPDS) organised a contest a year ago on Prisoners and Nakba and recieved these submissions. [….] They are sent to Gaza.scoop.ps exclusively.

Yousef Aljamal, CPDS.
Gaza

Fiction:

Hanan Habashi

L for Life

How are you, Papa? It's been ages since the last time I sat and talked solely to you. I nearly forgot about my promise writing to you whenever happiness invades my 'little heart'. Well, I'm afraid a letter conditioned by happiness is risked to never get the chance of being written, so let me write you unconditionally and don't deprive me of the least sense of satisfaction I used to get when addressing you. Today marks eleven years since the day you are gone, but only now I am starting to realize how dearly I miss you; how your loss is quite too awful a beast to conquer. You know you are sorely needed. I only hope you can feel my good thoughts wherever you are.

It is now way wider than getting a full mark in History or going out with aunty Karama's family. Life is never that simple. What to tell you? Gaza is a bit frustrating these days, well, these years. It's a good exercise in patience after all. This summer is the worst of all the summers that passed without you; breathing some good air became a luxury we could not always afford. When nothingness takes place, which happens quite too often, I sit in my fully-exposed-to-sun room gazing at the tiny, annoying crack there. Yes, that very same crack on the wall caused by his rifle, such an eyesore! Some other times, I would gaze at it trying to recall how that certain soldier might look like. That huge creature grabbed you out of my bed to nowhere and didn't spare you the chance to finish my bedtime story. I cannot remember but his dusty, black boots and the disheartening rifle. I so many times tried to imagine how he would look like and always ended up believing he is no more than a faceless monster. I maybe went quite afar thinking of him, of his life, of his family, of his wife whom he 'loves', of his smart kid who can get a full mark in math, of him laughing and crying. Papa, what would make a human of such a kind rejoice on the fact that I am living the agony of being father-less with an uncompleted story?

It is when darkness prevails, I sit by the window to look past all those electricity-free houses, smell the sweet scent of a calm Gazan night, feel the fresh air getting straight to my heart, and think of you, of me, of Palestine, of the crack, of the blank wall, of you, of Mama, of you, of my History class, of you, of God, of Palestine; of our incomplete story. I enjoy bringing to my mind your tender voice narrating the story of Thaer. I still remember how much I cheered up when you told me that I and Thaer are so much alike; that he has my wild eyes, and I have his blessed smile. I had not yet known who is he or where in life does he stand, but I believe I had always trusted your heroes. I can never forget how your dazzling eyes had rolled upward when you recalled him burying some olive seeds in the backyard of the orphanage. God bless the smile on your face. God bless the seeds under the ground (1). I can never forget how you looked at me in the eyes and said; "He is a boy who lost his whole family to death but never lost faith in life. I want you to be as strong." Papa, do you remember when I asked you if he was strong enough to wrestle an Israeli? You smiled, you always did, but you didn't reply. You told me he was only twelve years old when one of the orphanage girls, Amal, started trembling, hallucinating and sweating, but nobody there had the guts to break the curfew; to die. Thaer; however, did go out to bring a doctor for Amal, and then…., and then hell on earth, Papa. And then you are no more.

I don't remember when exactly I started to care about completing Thaer's story, but whenever I tried to think of giving it a proper ending, I would get tired, and the weight in my head would grow heavier. I could not do it on my own. I thought I had to think twice; once for me, and once for you. I had tried my best, Papa. Doing so was nowhere near easy, nonetheless. I hated the fact that I might have been driven by curiosity and the sheer love of endings. Thaer is another 'You' in my life; just like your photo that stands there above the cursed crack, and your Kufeyya which the years had washed out its rich black to a glorious grey. They are all living parts of you. I had to believe, then, that it is the fear of losing much more of my father that pushed me there.

I thought, once I thought, of your soul mate; of Mama. I thought you must have talked to her about Thaer. I imagined you both had spent nights admiring his wild eyes and blessed smile, for I can clearly remember when you got together, which was some kind of luxury for Mama, talks between you were not put to an end. I sometimes travel to specific memories. I hear the timber of your voice and the echoes of Mama's laughs – laughs which died long ago, but you don't ever worry, Mama never fails to smile. I know I shouldn't bother you, Papa, but you've got to know that every passing day, Mama is getting weaker than ever. I always wonder; "What does she know which I don't and makes her go on in a life of bitter loneliness?" She must have known much, right? So, thinking that she knew Thaer, I once plainly asked her: "What happened to Thaer, at the end." She washed the last dish, turned the tap real off and stared at the sink for seconds. I felt like she was about to give me the healing answer. I felt she was about to utter something, but she at once retracted. "Who's Thaer?" She narrowed her eyes. "My father's Thaer!" I exclaimed. She kept her silence a shield to some real chaos I spotted in her eyes. "Mama! Thaer, the strong kid who planted olive seeds at the orphanage." I went on trying to get her mind back. "Strong, huh! It doesn't matter how strong you are or pretend to be, life is going to get to you sometimes and that doesn't make you weak, sweetheart, it makes you human." I know, Papa, you don't know this new woman, me neither. I like to call it wisdom. Her wisdom was gained unfortunately, but it is gained nonetheless. Believing that her answer had nothing to do with your Thaer, I re-asked her if she knew what happened to him and whether he got back to the orphanage or not. "He got back home, indeed. We shall all do." She whispered under her breath. I spent that night thinking of Thaer's Home. I kept wondering what's more torturing: the awful clamor of the drone plane outside or the interior noises of some tough questions inside. I guess I eventually slept with no answer, thanking the drone for not giving my inner uproar any chance for a further open up.

Two weeks ago, grandfather went out with Abu Feras, a neighbor, to get the UNRWA food coupons. He left home sane and returned crazy, that simple. Abu Feras says grandpa waited three solid hours under the burning sun in the long queue. When he finally was about to get the coupon, he asked the man there "What are you offering me?" his answer was simple, "Food!" "And when exactly I am going to get my Jaffa in this coupon?" grandpa cried out. You can imagine what kind of hullabaloo took place, but everything calmed down when Abu Feras forced him to get back home. I don't like to think much of the incident. I know that ever since you too are gone, his life is entirely devoted to the grief over a lemon tree and a dear son. Now, he is no longer the man I would talk to for hours. He doesn't believe anymore- not in me. He says people fight and die to regain our Palestine. But those freedom fighters don't come back, nor does Palestine. He swears you are now in Jaffa sitting by a lemon tree, enjoying the sun disappearing into the blue of our marvelous sea. Grandfather says you would never come back, for who on earth could leave the paradise of Jaffa? I am day after day falling in love with the years that dwell in his wrinkled face and the memories of the old days which are the beats of his weak heart.

You have to expect that I asked Grandfather about Thaer. He immediately replied, "Thaer refused to share this dirtied world a breath; he chose to grow up somewhere else. Don't give me that ridiculous face. Yes, dead people do grow up, but don't you ever believe that they grow older." This answer was way more confusing than Mama's. "I don't believe you. Thaer could have never considered death as an option. And what about Amal? Was he selfish enough to leave her die?" I cried. "Who is Amal?" grandpa asked with no sense of concern. For some reason I felt relieved. I smiled and answered," My grown-up friend. You should meet her some time." I told him I intended to visit aunty Karama the next day and asked if he would like to come. He said he could no longer bear children and full houses. I couldn't care less. I kissed his forehead. It smelt like the fragrant of lemon roses. I felt like he planted a lemon orchard in his cavernous wrinkles. Papa, how could he dare say Thaer was dead? He himself couldn't believe. I celebrated every new given moment added to Thaer's life. I had to be thankful to my faith, for you have to make that leap of faith if you ever want to heal. Years may be the length of one's life, but faith is, undoubtedly, the width.

The next day I woke up really early. I, for my very first time, watched the sunrise. With the dimmed light around me, the world looked just like how I felt. And that was when I looked deep, deep down, and started to break apart. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn't stop. I started to wonder if the things I am living for are worth dying for. I started to think of everything I got in life. Although, I have lots of things, they never seemed to be as much as necessary. Every time I think I had it the way I really fancy, it twists and turns and slips away. I didn't feel your soul around, it stayed away just like before, and though I tried to dream you closer, I ended a little passed by. I knew it was about Thaer. I was afraid that I would fall asleep again knowing that he'll always be the story with no ending. I knew that you were just a story away. A story away!

Because I could no more wait to know what happened to Thaer. I spared the sun two hours to take its favorite place in that awe-inspiring sky. The weather had not yet decided its attitude. The cool air was deceiving, so I put your glorious kuffeyya around my neck, and I trustily went out. I trusted life that specific day. Grandfather might think that's naïve, but you wouldn't, I believe. Life is one of the few that are trustworthy.

They say; "To find something, anything, a great truth or a lost pair of glasses, you must first believe there will be some advantage in finding it." And what an advantage, Papa! When I finally reached aunty Karama's house, I knocked the door impatiently. I waited more than ten minutes outside. Nobody answered my continuous knocks. I was about to return home when aunty opened the door. She was asleep. How could she sleep and I didn't know where Thaer's story ends? She welcomed me inside, and excused me to change her clothes. "Please, don't!" I hastily reacted to her excuse. She raised her eyebrows, turned pale and said "What's the matter with you? Something wrong must have happened to your grandfather, or what on earth could bring you this early and you haven't visited me in years. Oh God! What happened to him?" I had to calm her down and drive away her worries. "It's Thaer who brought me that early" I said. Yes, Papa. I asked aunty Karama – I had to, for I knew she was your closest friend ever since you were a little kid who couldn't spell "Palestine". She always prides herself on the fact that she taught you to spell it just right. You had always believed in its bigness. "P for passion, A for aspiration, L for life, E for existence, S for sanity, T for trust, I for You, N for nation, E for exaltation", and there you wrote it just right. You wrote it everywhere you could; on walls, on tables, you carved the stunning letters into trees, and ended up with them engraved in your heart. "What about Thaer?" she bluntly answered my eager question. Hope found its way back to my heart to congratulate me on the fact that aunty did know Thaer. "I mean what happened to him at the end? Did he manage to get his way back to the orphanage? Did Amal survive?" I asked, but she chose not to give an answer. For the truth to be told, I got disappointed. I felt you didn't trust my heart; you didn't want me to get any closer to your story. She returned back dressed in black and said, "Get up, we are going somewhere special." With my teary eyes I gazed at her and said "Where on this part of the planet there is somewhere special?" She seemingly got angry at my answer and said that I am not worthy of knowing Thaer in the first place if I didn't believe in this part of the planet. You have to know that I felt ashamed. Well, I had to.

We eventually got out. She took me to places I have never been to. The narrow, dark roads of the camp captivated my heart. I felt that bittersweet sensation. I felt you were there. I was sure you were there. On our way to the "special place", aunty Karama hadn't stopped talking about every single family in the camp. Stories of deep agony were our companion. I asked her how she could know all these stories; she said that our Nakba is no secret. I admired her more than ever. In my eyes, she had been no more than a dull History teacher. It was the first time for me to know that she refused to get promoted; to be more than a 3rd grade teacher. She believed in the children. She said she couldn't leave the hope that resides in their pure, little hearts.

"Here we are." she said. I was totally surprised. Was it even a "place"? I went speechless and aunty Karama seemed to enjoy the remnants of a burned house. "Goodness! Can't you feel it? Your father spent his entire youth teaching the kids here to spell Palestine. P for passion, A for aspiration, L for life, E for existence, S for sanity, T for trust, I for You, N for nation, E for exaltation" I, for seconds, was afraid that she too had gone crazy. "Which kids, aunty? Your special place is no more than a waste." I spoke finally. She swallowed what seemed to be a great deal of anger. She got back to the remnants. She smiled. She laughed. She cried. She went on sighing. "Now what does your place have to do with Thaer and Amal?" I interrupted her ongoing sighs. "You know what, Mariam? You blew it. However, I have always believed life is about second chances. You hardly ever deserve them, but at some point we all need them." She tenderly replied to my rudeness. She went on asking me, "If you prayed for courage, does God give you courage, or the chance to be courageous? (2) If you prayed for the truth, does God give you His truth in your hand, or the chance to open your eyes?" "Life takes work, I believe." I briefly answered. "Then open your eyes, sweetheart, look past the burning house. You'll find the answer by yourself. I believe in you. I believe in whoever your father told the story of Thaer." She said smiling to my teary eyes. I couldn't see anything, Papa. Nothing caught my bleeding heart. I felt shameful. I felt you deserved a better successor. I lowered my head to the ground. I smiled. I laughed. I cried. I kept on sighing at the sight of the olive tree standing alive at the very end of the burning house; of the orphanage. Thaer's seeds grew up. Nothing else was left, but the tree was enough for me, for Amal, for Thaer, and for you, my dearest Papa.

It is when darkness prevails, I sit by the window to look past all those electricity-free houses, smell the sweet scent of a calm Gazan night, feel the fresh air getting straight to my heart, and think of you, of me, of Palestine, of the orphanage, of the olive tree, of you, of Amal, of Mama, of you, of my History class, of aunty Karama, of you, of God, of Palestine; of Thaer's story.

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(1) Quote taken from "Live to Tell a Tale" – A Song
(2) Quote taken from "Evan Almighty" – A Movie

ENDS

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