Noticing my assessment of the property, Yusef said, “Money comes in from the West in cycles.”
“Guilt cash,” added his uncle, leaning in over the stable door, rubbing his thumb and fingers together in a pastiche of the Middle Eastern money-grubber.
“It means the camps turn filthy over maybe three, five years and they fear cholera, so then we get some investment for electrics, plumbing, hygiene. It’s not so bad.”
I could tell Yusef was a little shamed and I wanted to tell him that he so didn’t need to be. “The street at the top has been replumbed and wired.” He smiled and looked off into an imaginary distance. “It’ll be good enough for the Lebanese to move in soon.”
Uncle said something in Arabic and Yusef snorted. I cocked a quizzical eyebrow. Yusef waved an explanatory arm. “He said . . . how would you say?”
“There goes the neighbourhood?” I guessed.
“Yes, kinda.”
Uncle just chuckled and drew on his stub-end. If I hadn’t been there, I was sure they’d not have used the Lebanese as the butt of their joke. It would have been Jews. But a Westerner’s presence made them watch their manners and mask their prejudices. So they showed me that they accepted their lot cheerfully, and it was a relaxed banter, only somewhat forced, that marked my visits, which became regular after that first tea and firewater.
I started dropping in on my own when my routes took me through the area, and sometimes when they didn’t. I was driving myself around more now, while Yusef accompanied a new intake of volunteers. I’d bring milk or a small sack of chickpeas as a contribution and sometimes we’d make matsos and hummus to share, whether Yusef was there or not. I barely spoke to the old lady, but squeezed her hand as I left and she’d smile.
One afternoon, I was there with Uncle and the boy was sitting on a chaise reading old American comics he’d found somewhere, when Yusef returned. It felt good. It felt like we were family. I made tea and we sat on an old bench seat from a car in the front compound and watched the water – and much else besides – as it ran down the centre of the alleyway. Uncle went to look for fresh water as the plumbing had gurgled dry, though I suspected he was off to play backgammon with his mates and lose a little money.
We smoked Uncle’s cigarettes in silent communion and I didn’t think about asking before I said, without looking at him, “Yuse, where’s Asi’s mum?”
“She’s dead,” he said, without pause or tone. “She died.”
“I know,” I said. “At least, I assumed, I guessed. But that’s not what I asked is it?”
He turned towards me and his eyes were smiling. “What you mean? Is she in heaven? Yes. Maybe. She’s in a plot we have – we Palestinians – down on the edge of town. At least most of her is.”
He exhaled smoke and stubbed out his cigarette end on the ground between his knees. I said nothing, but waited and looked up at the sky between the drying washing hanging outside the upper windows across the street. There was also washing hanging on a bicycle, I remember.
“She was killed when Amal shelled the camps. She was visiting friends in Sabra and Shatila. She used to help out with social work there. They had made it to a kind of shelter, but it was hit, a direct hit. It was a phosphorous bomb, made to kill, to fry. She hadn’t taken Asi. He was only a baby then, but she did sometimes take him with her in a papoose. That trip, she left him with his grandmother.”
It had been what they called the War of the Camps, when Shi’ite resentment of Palestinian refugees had boiled over. Amal was the Syrian-backed militia, but they had been supported by Maronite Christian Phalangists, meaning Yusef’s wife might well have been killed by Christians.
Yusef had jerked his head back towards his front room in an indicative gesture as he had spoken of May. I looked past the stable door. “That’s your mother-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“I thought she was your mum.”
“She is now.”
“What was your wife’s name?”
“Ella.”
I cupped his shoulder with the palm of my hand and looked away up the rise in the lane, away from the pain, rocking my hand almost imperceptibly back and forth. Yusef broke the silence. “We have a wreath-laying on the anniversary. Some music, some prayers. It’s soon. Will you come?”
“Yes,” I said, taking my hand away. “I’d like that.”
So I went with Yusef that day. It was a strange dislocation of time and place for this Brit girl, because it was not unlike some brass-band commemoration in a northern English town, except for the brilliant white light of the sky. There were PLO uniforms and wreaths and a marble pillar to rest them against, their petals already curling in the heat. Yusef was calm, detached, a light smile fixed on his lips. He didn’t bring Asi, he explained, as it felt too military and he didn’t want him to be “part of the war”. Not yet, he added to himself. But he had to come, he said, to mark the event.
“Our people won’t be forgotten, of course, so long as we have hearts for them to live in. But it’s important that these events aren’t forgotten either. We’re making our history.”
We sat and drank dark, gritty coffee just off the memorial square afterwards. I watched Yusef grimacing into the light as he tugged urgently on his cigarette, much like Sarah used to. His serenity at the memorial
