On the Weave of the Sun Read online

  Our hearts were roaring violently, and maybe their tumult reached a climax, as we stood in front of our open holes, waiting for orders. Some of us struggled to keep standing straight, with knees knocking in fear, before destiny gave us a break. Each one of us was ordered to bring a corpse from the truck and bury it in a hole. Just then, we realized that the covered truck was carrying a load of dead people, too.

  We walked to the truck with steps heavy like iron. Each one carried a corpse on his shoulder, headed toward his two holes, buried it hurriedly, and ran again to the truck to bring another one. I guess we were just afraid they would change their minds and ask us to jump into our second holes.

  We couldn’t believe when we finally got back on the bus that we had actually survived, just like that. We didn’t talk on our way back, but when we reached our cells, the dawn was approaching, so we just collapsed on our bunks from tiredness and restlessness. Those of us who had dozed all through the journey continued the rest of our nightmares until sunrise.

  For seven nights and in the same manner, we labored in burying countless corpses. By then, we had known the exact location by calculating the distance, but we had become like machines that failed to recognize their own parts. It didn’t matter much, because we had forever lost our humanity along with our dreams.

  I buried fourteen people, digging their graves with my own hands, and carrying them on my weary shoulders. I laid them in small holes and large holes all the same, and covered them with sand.

  I could still feel their smell in my lungs. Some of them were lightweight and petite, some had fresh wounds, and some had broken jaws or limbs. One of them dropped one of his eyes on my hand.

  In many instances, our shovels hit corpses that we had previously buried, because we were so disoriented from stress. Many times, we found the graves and the corpses uncovered by the blows of the passing winds and we had to bury them again. Sometimes, the dead were actually not completely dead.”

  He suddenly stood up and looked far away, as if to seek refuge in the stretching horizon, and said,

  “The dead used to visit me in the night, looking the same way they did when I buried them, and ask me, why? And honestly, all I could remember was there were fourteen corpses. After that I got mixed up and could not distinguish between what was real and what was merely an optical illusion—a hallucination. After the fourteenth corpse, whenever they got us out of the bus, we could see a large area of corpses thrown out of their graves, waiting for us, as if the sand sea had spat them out to float on its waves again.

  Illness then rescued me from the burying rituals. I was admitted to the prison hospital for a long time before they eventually pardoned a group of us old prisoners, those whose opinions were a threat to no one any more, not even to stray animals. We were finally free of our obsession of being buried half-alive by our friends one day.”

  I saw him clearly in the moonlight. My throat was dry, and my stomach was churning. I was afraid he would hear the beating of my heart or hear my soul fighting not to wail. He was looking straight at me and pointing to the moonlit grassland, when he said,

  “We … buried them here.”

  Ah …

  Written by:

  Fatima Al-Nahidh

  She waited for them to go past her, in their race to the lonesome village school, on the long dirt road that twisted behind the houses that were still trapped in a sleepy dawn. When their figures dwarfed, like ants in the far stretching horizon, Naima suddenly puked by the roadside, but she remained calm and collected, maintained her rough mode, and walked back toward her house. She had been silent and stubborn as a mule, and strong and capable like a mason. She stuffed a sickle and a linen bag full of seeds in a hand-woven palm frond basket, pressed it firmly against her waist, and thundered out toward the field with storming steps. It was early autumn. She was rooting out invasive weeds with a searing vengeance and plowing the field like carving a tunnel in a rock mass, turning over the soil as if searching for a buried treasure. She softly planted the seeds in a quadrate that had already been plowed by Said and watered them, hoping they would grab hold of the dirt and pulsate, and then burst their way to the sky.

  On the eastern side of the field, her hand delved in and came back with some potatoes that she placed with other vegetables that would become the sustenance for days to come. Then, she went on a hay-cutting spree with her sickle, cutting at least a two-day supply for the cattle. She fixed the scarecrow’s clothes in the middle of the field, influencing the daring birds to flee away. Then she dredged the water canal that wound all around the palm trees that were having a nap under the midday sun. Silence in her moves and bends was consuming her, like bees quietly making honey.

  She returned back, her feet barely touching the ground as if she were walking on clouds. She came upon some women who were on their way to the clinic, pretending to be sick for a pastime. One of them waved at her and then the entire company indulged in gossip, as they passed her by. She felt the basket penetrating her hipbone, as the vile, putrid words, seeping through their wretched lips, attacked her ears,

  “The poor man died and she shed no tears over him.”

  “Yeah … although he was her husband for ten years.” “What a woman!”

  “See how alive and kicking she looks.”

  “His death did not deter her from going out to the field as if it were about to vanish!”

  She heard them all, the rotten, depraved words that scratched her ears and devoured her body. They slackened their march to make her hear more, and in return, she slowed down her pace, until they negotiated a road turn, and then she became sick to her stomach.

  Her sister, who came from the far end of the village, met her near the house and delivered the news to her. She begged her to show grief, for people had been talking about her behavior in the last four months, which could not match the agony of parting or even meet the tragedy in the middle of the truth. She reasoned to her that sadness, much like happiness, is an affair of the heart. It can mess with it as it pleases and people debate over it, but she must cry it out a little and not hold it all inside and die of heartbreak, or of what people were saying about her cold heart.

  Naima maintained silence. She silently served her sister lunch, without even a look or a friendly admonition. However, they busied themselves in taking care of the young ones, letting the intensified anxiety condense on the contents of the room, on the door, and on the window, and drip from the rooftop. Her sister felt that she was a bottle of sadness corked with silence, floating over a sea of unfairness, so she wished her well and some happiness as she left in the evening.

  As soon as the new morning blazed, the grandmother came and decided to take the children to remember her beloved dead son, but the children protested and ran, hiding behind their mother. Yet, the persistent grandmother came again in the evening with the aunts and dragged the children from the warmth of their mother, claiming that their uncles would take care of them; after all, they were their next of kin.

  That night in early autumn, black clouds boiled up in a way never seen before, herded toward the village by a ferocious wind, resembling deep sorrow. Like a wounded bird that had lost direction, Naima had been pacing around in a house that had died all of a sudden, as if life had left through five doors, while the storm was closing in: a door to death, another to injustice, a third to the shared, a fourth to deprivation, and a fifth open to the unseen, waiting. Her heart was moaning, her whole body was moaning, and life itself indulged in moaning.

  She threw herself on her bed, being slowly consumed alive by a long craving, while fever was setting her pores on fire, swiftly leading her to nonexistence. She saw him coming from the side of the dream, in a halo of longing, smiling like the last time she had seen him. He sat next to her, then he put a hand on her forehead and another on her navel, it was then that her tears cascaded and a moan of sorrow rose, splitting from the heart—one moan only from the bottom of hell or the top of heaven, all the same. The moa
n broke the bottle of sadness and unleashed a deluge of tears. It shook the throne of the wind that was crawling toward the village, rode the night travelling thunder, sent chills down the spines of the awake, and aroused the sleepers. Birds got frightened in the darkness of the storm and froze in their nests, wolves cried, resigned in their caves in the surrounding mountains, and yielding dogs barked in the shadows of the houses. The whole village awakened with violent chest and waist pains, brought on by an anonymous rush of air that stung them unexpectedly in the overwhelming night.

  That night no one slept, as coldness trespassed in the joints. Blankets did not help, nor did live coal. Tears stood confused in the eyes, melancholy ran through the hearts, a yearning arose in the air like a blue mirage, and the rain kept away. Naima’s children on the other end of the village cried themselves to sleep. The villagers, who waited for the morning, fighting their pains with prayers and hope, did not know how the seeds Naima had planted grew knee high in the western field. The palm trees dressed much greener, the crops of the neighboring plantations matured, and the worms retreated back underground. Many sheep painlessly bore twins that night. A bevy of doves, awakened in the middle of the night, lost their way and landed on the shoulders of scarecrows, and then slept piled up on each other, like wet cotton until the first rays of sun.

  Everybody agreed to observe silence, and no one talked to anyone. When the new morning broke, they found that the water had streamed behind the houses, in front of them, on their rooftops, and on the walls. The little river overflowed, the creeks widened, and the village’s well poured over, although the storm that had passed was dry and had shed not a single drop of rain all night long.

  No one should have known the reason for the salty taste of the water that looked much purer than a mirror, but the taste might have left no space, save for one conclusion. It tasted like tears … perhaps even tastier.

  Catch the Thief

  Written by:

  Wafa Altayeb

  What cheered us more were its sporadic, beautiful, and serene singing and its primitive dances on a proud branch of our situated tree that embraced our house. As the sun proceeded to sleep, it indulged in its serene singing, while preparing to decide to walk to the cage willingly, impersonating a faithful but formidable house guard. We could swear that no cat, hedgehog, or even a silly cockroach could sneak its way into our house without our awareness. For as soon as any creature ventured into the vicinity of our house, the watchful bird would cry out loudly, calling, “Ayman … Ayman … catch the thief … catch the thief.”

  How happy we were when it repeated those words the day our area mayor visited us—exactly the minute he landed on our doormat. We could never forget that he had falsified a court testimony to gain ownership of a real estate property that my grandfather had bought two years earlier, but died before completing the legal registration of the deed. He had already entered the house among those my father had invited for dinner, in recognition of our guest of honor, a visitor from our village. That day, all our neighbors, my father’s friends, and both of my uncles had come to our house. Clearing their throats, they uttered, “Oh Allah … Oh Veiler 1.” The women of the house could not dare to face the male guests, not even covered in their black abayas 2, and definitely not through the main room’s balcony that overlooked the front yard. And when our maid, Maymoona, dared to peep at our guests through a crack in the roof’s edge, it started whistling and crying loudly, while clapping its wings “Maymoona … shame … Maymoona … shame.”

  The mayor arrived last, all puffed up with pride and too good to touch himself like a peacock, wearing a white thobe 1 and a wide girdle around his belly that looked large enough to accommodate more sheep than those we slaughtered for the occasion. On his head, a yellow scarf surrounded a silver embroidered cap. He walked in, happy and assured with the notion that no one would touch the food before he blessed it with thanksgiving, and tasted it with a skilled hand that dripped with rice left and right.

  As soon as it set its eyes on the mayor, it clapped its wings fiercely and cried, “Catch the thief … catch the thief.” When the mayor started gulping the giant snowballs of rice, stuffed handsomely with delicious pieces of lamb meat, it cried once again, “Choke on it … choke on it.” That night, all the guests but the mayor laughed.

  On the night of the ominous accident that parted Ayman with our house, it cried with continued relentlessness, “Ayman … Ayman,” and we stupidly thought Maymoona had forgotten to offer it water, pieces of guava, and green pepper, which it used to eat off the hand of Ayman everyday. It did not stop crying that night and the next night. It cried for two days until sunset, and then it released a sad intermittent whistle, while marching to its cage, offering no guarding services.

  On the third day, it climbed atop of its favorite branch, but did not sing, nor did it dance. It only started crying, “Ayman … Ayman,” while we watched with tearful eyes and running noses. In the midst of the mist in our eyes, and the cries in our ears, and from that two-meter height, its gray wings firmly folded, it jumped head first to the ground, and died peacefully with love.

  1 God veils and forgives sins.

  2 A loose, usually black cloak worn by Muslim women.

  1 Men’s white dress.

  Don’t Leave the Door

  Open … Please

  Written by:

  Wafa Altayeb

  My husband left without closing the armoire door after changing his clothes. He knew how I hated for our maid to see me scattered all over my bed and in my sleep. Carelessly, as usual, he left the door of the apartment open. He also did not close it behind him when he got in.

  Despite my frequent warnings not to leave the door open at night, he always argued by saying,

  “Don’t worry, we are on the eighth floor, and the apartment next to us is vacant, and besides, the doorman would not allow strangers in.”

  My heart was restless because I forgot my keys inside the apartment this time. It was already past 1:00 a.m. and I was on my way to my apartment with my friend, Um Ahmad, and her husband, as I had prearranged with her to give me a lift at the conclusion of the soirée. I got out of the car while still in full makeup, and the doorman opened the door of the building for me. I climbed the stairs, since I knew that the elevator would be out of service as usual. What if my husband did not leave the door open? No … this time he would intentionally leave it open, because he knew I was outside and would return after midnight.

  Regrettably, the door was not open, so I had to ring the bell and wake him up!

  Actually, I was not sure how many hours passed while I was still at the door. A white light was sneaking through the roof ’s door. The doorman was clearing his throat, while starting to collect the garbage. This assured me that it was day, and the door was still closed!

  Not Like That

  Written by:

  Wafa Altayeb

  Her overly thin body was hiding in a pink summer dress with a wide neck revealing her collarbone and short sleeves that showed her arms sprinkled with freckles, glaring through her very white skin. She extended her hand with thin fingers to shake my chubby hand, like two friends, not two women sharing one man.

  Was she the one? I agonized with sanctifying pain, for the past seven meager years that followed the seven prolific years when he was my lover, my darling, and my husband. Was she the one on whose bed he slept the last three months, only to be in my bed for seven days? I had to herd time, fearing it would scatter away and he would leave me and go back to her. How I longed to see her!

  I used to deceitfully call him at night, pretending to be sick to disrupt their lovemaking, knowing that she was calling him day and night during my seven-day turn to disturb our privacy with work news of the company that bonded them. I used to falsely claim having a fever or that one of my children was sick to have a space of his mind that Ann and her company now entirely occupied. After all, she was the one who had been feeding our family and we had to submit to her l
ike laborers with their master.

  Coming for Umrah 1, Ann, the beautiful British businesswoman and owner of a tourist company for which my husband worked, was visiting me and I had to entertain her and my husband in my apartment. In a simple math exercise, I had allocated the four rooms of my apartment: my bedroom where I would be spending my seven days with him, a room for my two daughters, a room for my two boys, and she would sleep in the guest room. I had arranged a comfortable mattress, two pillows, and clean bed sheets. And knowing how Europeans care for plants and flowers, I also did not forget to ornament a table with a fresh flower bouquet. I had prepared my bedroom to receive him like a bride on her first night. I had even sprayed some of my favorite perfume on the pillows and carefully selected the nightgown for the occasion. I had left it on the edge of the bed before I went to the kitchen. I spent the whole day preparing dinner to celebrate my husband’s homecoming. I had been thinking of how interesting it would be to watch her observe his fondness of my cuisine and the way he devoured my delicious cooking.

  At dinner, he only had a small piece of steak with very little vegetables. Pity me, the Arab who could only lure her husband with stuffed food dishes! I had prepared for him Macaroni Béchamel, green salad, European-style steak, and Um Ali 1. This time, he only ate a little Macaroni when she reminded him not to indulge in greasy and starchy food, according to the doctor’s recommendation to safeguard his heart. Now, Ann claimed authority over his stomach after she had claimed ownership of his heart. He no longer said to me, “What did you cook for me, Dalal? My stomach and I are weary of the English food. My colon longs for your tasty dishes.”