I see the homeless pull the cardboard closer to their bodies, still asleep.
I see closed windows and closed curtains; the sleepers haven’t woken yet.
I see all store doors closed, and the products behind them eyeing me, angry at the laziness of human kind, for its owners aren’t ready to buy and sell, its owners are still asleep.
I see empty balconies, a dove landing on the rail of a balcony and the birds chirping to breach the silence, to remind it of sound and what it can do.
People are asleep; no one has awakened them.
And who would?
I place my hand on a storefront to feel the cold, to make sure I’m awake.
I relax and push hesitantly. I fall. I’m whole.
I feel the urge to scream take over me and disappear quickly and suddenly. No sound comes out of my throat. How can I break the silence when I crave it every morning?
I smile. I’m bewildered. I must do something; I must wake a friend.
I have the key to Shwikar’s apartment; I’m her guest after all.
I take the elevator and knock on her door; maybe she’ll wake up. My knock is acknowledged by the meowing of her two cats. The cats are awake at least.
I open the door and find them smiling at me. I open a can of tuna for them to eat instead of the fish-flavored cereal they usually have, as a present on this glorious day, and then head to the bedroom.
“Shwikar. Shwikar. Shwikar. Shwikar.”
No answer.
I shake her by the shoulders. I pull the cover off her. I slap her gently on the shoulder.
No answer.
My God! Will I be trapped forever on the planet of the asleep?
I think. There must be a solution.
What annoys Shwikar the most? What knocks out of her any desire for sleep, rest, and peace?
Hunger.
But she’s asleep!
Questions.
But she’s asleep!
She can still hear them though, and she would wake up. Besides, she despises the “why” questions, so I’ll start with that:
“Why are you asleep? Why aren’t you up yet? Why haven’t you washed your face? Why haven’t you showered? Why aren’t you dressed? Why is your hair blond? Why are your eyes blue? Why are you pretty? Why did you get so upset at the pub the night of the fight? There’s nothing upsetting about men fighting. A fight can even be sexy. Don’t you think? Why? I mean, why did you react that way, because they were assaulting people? But they weren’t assaulting all people, they were assaulting each other. Is it an assault on your right as a citizen? A citizen of what? And what rights? Do you have any rights at all to begin with? Then why would they give you this right, then? Aren’t you overreacting a bit? Can’t you see that your anger over fighting is the same as the anger of the two fighters? Why all this violence? Is it because we live in Lebanon and not Sweden? Why don’t you live in Vienna? Ah, “The Nights of Love in Vienna”! And why do you get so angry driving? Don’t you think you shouldn’t be driving at all? Don’t you think it strange that all drivers around you are wrong and you’re right? That no one has driving etiquette but you? That nobody pays attention to traffic lights anymore, but you’re the only good driver left who does? Don’t you drive in the wrong direction sometimes? Don’t you bypass other cars? Don’t you speed? Don’t you . . .”
And I hear a scream tearing its way out of her throat and see her flat body become vertical. She raises her hand like a robot and slaps me across the cheek.
Ay!
“Is this the thanks I get you little . . .”
I stop mid-sentence and cover my face with my hands—what I was about to say would’ve made another question.
She shakes off her mood then looks at me like she’s seeing me for the first time.
“What happened?”
“Nothing, Shwikar. Calm down. Do you want some water?”
“Coffee, please.”
How elegant: “please”? And the slap she just handed me less than a minute ago?
I make her coffee and explain the situation to her.
“Woohoo!”
She jumps for joy and rushes to wash up and put on clothes that are loud, tight all over, and reveal a body that invites embraces and exudes magic. No one she knows would be out this early and she doesn’t care if strangers see her in that outfit.
“How did you switch gears so quickly?”
“It’s a gift,” she replies. “And we must accept it.”
So this is our tuna reward? But what if this silence lasts forever? We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Seeing Shwikar carrying on like this, her cup half-full, you wouldn’t have guessed that sometimes she sits holding her cup half- empty, closing the doors of possibilities around her, and looking away.
But, why nag? I want to join her happy parade instead.
Let’s play! Who should we wake up first?
She runs outside to test the air, as if the quiet weren’t enough.
“Didn’t you notice that you can’t hear your neighbor, Sitt Maryam, from the opposite building yelling at her children from the second floor all the way down to the street, like she’s in Mexico and her kids are down in a well somewhere? Where did her voice go? To sleep! And where did her son go? To sleep.”
“Mirnaaaaaa!”
“Yeaaaaah?”
“Get the phone from your brother Mohammaaaaad!”
“Whyyyyyy?”
“So you can talk to your sister Majidaaaaaa!”
“Whyyyyy?”
“To ask if her brother-in-law is still in surgeryyyyy!”
“Okaaaayy!”
This is a sampling of grown-up conversations that pass through cement walls. So, you can imagine the nature of the conversations between grown-ups and kids and among kids themselves. The building is like a big family made up of twenty-five smaller families. The boundaries of each family are unclear, but they still get annoyed once those boundaries are crossed, as one can tell from the constant fighting and accusations echoing in every alley in the neighborhood.
The neighbor’s son would bang his spoon against his plate, making a noise that Shwikar could
