Looking back, Walid realized that he had missed what was happening. For example, he had taken no notice of Julie’s behavior on the second day of their visit, taking a stroll in the town and getting to know a lot of its details, when with Jamil and Luda they had met Roma al-Arusi in the only house remaining in the Dahman quarter of al-Majdal Asqalan.
But he recalled it now.
7
Jamil stopped his silver Subaru behind the remains of the old vegetable market in al-Majdal Asqalan. Once out of the car, the four of us—myself, Julie, Jamil, and Luda—dispersed in different directions. For myself, I started to search for a house with the flavor of the past, my parents’ house that had seen and celebrated my birth—was it here, or there, or perhaps there? With tears in my eyes, I searched for my early childhood among the rubble of the city, but didn’t find it. I cried for myself and my childhood, and for some time my emotions took over.
Finally, I took my cellphone out of my pocket and called my mother, tears still in my voice. I spoke to her with words washed in tears.
“Hello!”
“Greetings. Who’s that speaking? You sound like Walid. Walid? Greetings, a thousand thanks to God for your safety, my dear! Where are you?”
“How are you? I’m in al-Majdal.”
“Ah! Really? When did you get there? That means God is pleased with you, my dear. By God, going to al-Majdal is like a pilgrimage to Mecca ten times over! Where in al-Majdal, and what are you doing?”
“In the square in front of the mosque, beside the old market.”
“Blessings on Muhammad, the best of messengers and prophets! If you are my son, Walid, and I am your mother, kiss the walls of the mosque for me, and if you don’t find a wall, look for a stone—look for a stone and kiss that. And don’t forget to go into the mosque if some of it still exists, and pray two rak‘as. I know you don’t pray. You don’t want to pray, that’s okay for you, you’re free not to, it’s between you and your Lord, only pray for your mother, it’ll bring you a reward. One prayer in Palestine is worth a thousand at home, even in the camp mosque. What do you think?”
“Mother, do you remember where you lived before you emigrated? Do you remember our house?”
“How on earth could I forget it? Heaven forbid that I should forget the house I was married and conceived you in. Curse the Jews who took it away from us!”
“And where is our house?”
“If you’re standing in front of the mosque, as you say you are, and are facing it, then our house will be straight behind you. Up, up a bit, in Ras al-Talaa. Turn around, turn behind you, you’ll see it. God is your helper, the first house in Ras al-Talaa.”
Behind me was some ground stripped of its features by American Caterpillar trucks. A few garbage bins had been placed at the edge near the old market. What my mother had described to me was now just barren land, and it was difficult to be sure that houses had ever stood on it.
I went back to looking bitterly at the remains of the great mosque built by the Mamluk emir Sayf al-Din Sallar in 1300. At its left corner, a minaret stood like an old lighthouse deserted by the ships; its domes looked like pale knitted skullcaps, their wool worn away with time. I crossed the street to the opposite sidewalk, and stood in front of an entrance, above which was a sign: Khan Asqalan Museum. On either side of it were some small shops and a restaurant, a mis‘adah, in front of which was an area of thick green cloth awnings and some chairs. Oh my God! How could I pray two rak‘as and dedicate them to my mother in a mosque that had turned into a museum and a bar?
Deep inside me, I gave a scream that no one else could hear, and turned around to wipe the whole scene away. My gaze wandered over a long street, which ended in some houses that had once had two stories; their lower parts still bore the traces of what had once been on top of them. To the left of the street, in the background, were three palm trees. Long ago, my aunt had stood there, waiting for me beside them, picking me up, taking my little hand in her own, and picking some dates.
The house had had an upper story, a second floor to which my mother took me once, carrying me on her shoulders when I was still small enough for her to do so. She took me up some marble stairs, which led into a tiled open area in front of two rooms. My head brushed against clusters of red dates. My aunt wasn’t here. My aunt was there. My aunt wasn’t there. My aunt had died in Khan Younis, in a house on the edge of a refugee camp. But I had found no trace of her when I’d visited the ancient graves in the town some years before; not even a letter of her name remained on
