Abd al-Fattah and Ruqaya had perished in the Jibaliya camp in Gaza many years ago. They had left behind several boys who were no longer boys and girls who had become women. And these in turn had left behind girls and boys who had fought each other in order to defend their party allegiances. They had become Dahmani Fathis or Dahmani Hamasis.
As for the mule, they had left it behind more than sixty-five years ago, braying. No one had enjoyed its braying, so they didn’t think of taking it with them as a means of conveying their possessions—they’d be coming back after a couple of months, so they’d been told. So they had carried away with them everything they could and went off, leaving the mule to meet a fate that the people themselves had not been strong enough to confront. Had he been here, walking around, blindfolded, unable to see anything around him? Was this my aunt Ruqaya’s house, then? No, the press had been brought to this house, for there was no room here for a mule to turn, not even enough space for people to turn the millstone.
The Dahman house, which had become the Arusi house, was an example of an ordinary house, a memory of all the Dahman family’s houses, and perhaps of the whole of al-Majdal. The Israelis had gathered together there our old implements like handed-down possessions from a past that would not return.
In the room of the silent old woman, who had retained her headscarf (which looked like a leftover from her Yemeni past), a large picture had been hung on the wall in front of the bed. In the middle of it was a large circular clock, whose hands pointed to 1:41. It was surrounded by photos, some black and white, some in color, which told the story of the Yemeni Arusi family. This was Roma’s mother, and these were her relatives, in the days when she was just a Yemeni Jewish girl. This was a picture of a wedding; here were photos of family celebrations. At the far edge of this illustrated life story was a conscript carrying his weapon on his shoulders. I didn’t ask Roma about her personal life, and in any event she didn’t seem ready to say much beyond:
“I was four years old when I came here . . . I was only young.”
I said goodbye to the house that had been our house. I said goodbye to a piece of my history that had been exchanged for a picture hanging on the wall. I gathered up my confusion and carried it with me as I left with the others, as if I were my father when he had left his birthplace to live as an exile, bequeathing me his exile until this day.
I turned back to Roma. In her sunken eyes, behind her thick glasses, there was a passing flicker of conscience, which flitted between her Majdal, which was not her Majdal, and the Yemen she had lost. I guess we were like an uneasy question that you want to ask though you are afraid of the answers.
We said goodbye and walked away. We didn’t hear the sound of the door shutting behind us, but instead heard the sound of footsteps. Roma quickly caught us up. She suggested that she take us on a tour of whatever remained of al-Majdal Asqalan. We accepted.
I walked beside Roma. I compared everything I knew about Majdal from Khan Younis to the alleys we moved through. We were all walking in silence, accompanied by the sounds of our feet kicking the small pebbles that were strewn over the unpaved streets. Suddenly, Roma stopped.
“This is Zakhariya’s Pharmacy,” she said, and my heart lurched.
If I called my mother and said to her, “Mother, I’m at this moment standing in front of Zakhariya’s Pharmacy,” she would answer, “Good God! How often I talked to you about it. Who would ever have imagined that a day would come when you’d go to Majdal and see the pharmacy with your own eyes?” Then she would disappear into her past and forget that she was on the telephone: “We used to buy red mercurochrome there, and the English salt drink that cleans the stomach and draws the worms out. We also used to buy powder for the little children, and cough medicine. May God put an end to coughs! And don’t forget the muslin either, and the ointments, and the liquid people soak their feet in. God put an end to aches in the feet . . . .”
Zakhariya’s Pharmacy occupied the ground floor in a two-story building of limestone. The house was still beautiful, as if it hadn’t witnessed any disaster—unlike the remains of the small buildings around it. Over the front of the pharmacy was a sign on which was written ‘Sh.R.M,’ and underneath in Hebrew, ‘Bayit Mirqahat,’ and then in English ‘Pharmacy Megdal.’ Behind the pharmacy was a small beauty parlor for women, the Magdalenes of the Israeli period.
Soon enough, we said goodbye to Roma and she said goodbye to us.
“Ma‘assalama,” she said.
Luda quickly tried to slip a bank note into Roma’s hand, but Roma was quicker than her and pulled her hand away. Luda insisted that she take it, but Roma refused again, and pushed away Luda’s hand, which remained outstretched at a distance for several moments. When Luda continued to press her, Roma said, with an embarrassed sigh, “Seliha, gvirti, today’s the Sabbath!” Despite Roma’s obvious embarrassment, Luda tried again. I myself understood that the giving or receiving of money on the Sabbath day was regarded as a sin by Orthodox Jews. I didn’t ask Luda afterward if Roma had taken the bank note in the end or not. So I never found out which won, Roma’s need or the sanctity of the Sabbath.
As we walked away, I was conscious of Roma saying something
