(Novel excerpt<\/i>)<\/p>\n
Amal, Anzjabal, Lebanon 1965<\/p>\n
I danced on Hamra Street. A white jasmine flower was in my right hand while I twirled around to the songs pouring out of the stereos from the outdoor caf\u00e9s. When I danced like this, I took quick glances at my parents, making sure their backs were turned because I knew they\u2019d frown and tell me to stop embarrassing them. It just wasn\u2019t right for a girl to be acting so silly out in public. For my parents, image was everything. But I couldn\u2019t resist dancing out in the open air, the sweeping street filled with trendy shops so different from Anzjabal, the village where I was born and raised. Jasmine bushes were everywhere. In front of sidewalk caf\u00e9s. In front of pastel-coloured apartment houses. The powerful scent was so intoxicating that my limbs just started moving during jasmine season on Hamra Street.<\/p>\n
It was a rare treat to visit Beirut. Hamra was my favourite area of that city just because it had a lot of action. It was very different from my mountain village where I mostly stayed. In Anzjabal, I sometimes slept outside with the goats as if I were their protector, the lonely goatherdess with a wooden staff and a stained white buttoned-up shirt tucked into baggy trousers that were held up by a worn leather belt. With the goats softly bleating, I\u2019d close my eyes and drift to sleep, my body on the side, knees drawn close to my chest and other times, I\u2019d stay wide awake, flat on my back, hands behind my head, eyes staring up at the red rooftops, which appeared a translucent pink under the moonlight, and I\u2019d sing Sabah\u2019s songs to the animals. Some of the goats bleated along, but mostly they stayed silent, only the crunching of weeds could be heard over my voice which was neither beautiful nor striking but I could carry a tune.<\/p>\n
And I could dance. If I\u2019d had proper voice training, I could\u2019ve sung between the Corinthian columns of Baalbeck like Sabah in her apricot dress. When I was about ten, my parents had taken my sister Dunya and me to see the famous singer while she performed at the festival. I remember standing in the crowd, gazing at the magnificent ruins of the Temples of Bacchus and Jupiter, tracing the stones with my fingers and feeling carvings of poppies and grapes. Babba had put his hand on top of mine and explained that worshippers had placed grapes and poppies in the grooves of the stone. \u201cCan you feel them?\u201d he asked, his breath smelled of garlic. I wanted to reach up and rub my nose but didn\u2019t because Babba was happy that day. He didn\u2019t often smile and now his mouth was wide open, showing teeth half-black from lack of brushing. He often ate the thick molasses Mama would make during the summer and fall seasons and all those years of dipping bread into this sweetness had rotted his teeth. I let Babba guide my hand across the dusty orange stone and when I closed my eyes, as he instructed, I could feel the engravings and then with my eyes still closed, Sabah\u2019s beautiful voice rose above the applause of the crowd and I no longer felt Babba\u2019s hand on my own.<\/p>\n
But now I was confined mostly to my bedroom, so I rarely sang to the goats or slept out in the fields. Dancing on Hamra Street was a distant memory. I found myself wishing I were in Beirut instead of here. Lying in my bed, I wore baggy trousers, my grandfather\u2019s old grey sherwal<\/i>; they were the only thing that felt comfortable lately. My grandfather had died several years ago and when Mama had gone through his belongings, she was about to throw out these trousers but I begged her to let me keep them, \u201cMama, please. I need something to remember Jido.\u201d I thought of all the times I\u2019d followed my grandfather to the olive groves and watched him harvest, hitting the trees, making the olives tumble to the ground where I knelt and picked up the green fruit before tossing it into a basket. We didn\u2019t talk a lot but there was something comforting being in his presence. He never criticized my thick curly hair that would often fly wild and messy in the wind and he never said I looked like a boy because I hardly wore skirts and preferred exploring the village to learning how to cook.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t cook much these days either. From my bed, I sat up and watched the goats roaming the mountainside, my uncle walking alongside them. Babba and Uncle Samir were the masters of these goats and sometimes I was envious with the way Babba took better care of them than he did me. My uncle had never married because he was slow. That\u2019s what the other villagers said over cups of ahweh<\/i>. The strong scent of the Turkish coffee made me gag and I hated sipping it when I had to visit relatives. But the visits had stopped a while ago. I had been confined to my small bedroom for months. The fig and olive seasons had passed and I witnessed all these changes while I sat up in my bed and stared out my window. Through that window, I saw how the villagers went about their daily lives, planting seeds for the lubieh, koosa, eggplants and plucking figs from branches that were as old as the oldest living person of this place. His name was Issa and he was ninety-eight but the other evening I had heard a visitor say to my parents that the old man had died.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Now I got up from my bed and saw the funeral procession from my window. I stood right in front of the window, which was against my parents\u2019 rules, with my arms folded across my chest, staring directly outside and when I thought someone turned in my direction, like the obedient daughter, I ducked and waited a few minutes before peering outside again. The old man\u2019s body was wrapped in white sheets and his sons had carried him, two on each side of him, struggling with his body while they walked down the stone steps of the crypt.<\/p>\n
When I was about eleven, I had once snuck into the crypt without anyone knowing and dust swept into my small face and I had started to cough but no one came running inside or shouted out my name to come up. Glancing around, I saw those white sheets grown flat and there was this odour that I can\u2019t explain now but it smelled like rotten vegetables. I remember covering my mouth with the end of my sleeve and lifting one of the cloths back and when I saw the skull of someone, I jumped and dropped the sheet, stumbled up the steps until I was outside again, the sun shining brightly on me that when I bent over and saw my knee, there were droplets of blood there, dripping down from my thighs. I started to shriek and rushed home where Mama wailed, slapping her hands on her forehead so hard that I thought she might hurt herself. She asked what I had done and I told her, her lips closed in a tight line. She slapped me hard, said I had brought this on myself. I didn\u2019t know what I had brought upon me and when I asked her, she hit me again. \u201cYour period!\u201d she shouted, then grabbed my hand and dragged me to the outhouse.<\/p>\n
My period, I thought. Mama pushed up my loose skirt, past my thighs and pulled down my white cotton underwear. When I saw that they were stained with blood, I started to cry. She wiped my tears with her palms and ordered, \u201cBe quiet!\u201d She pushed me down. I sat on the wooden opening and didn\u2019t know if I should relieve my bladder or not but I did anyway. Mama shook her head in disgust. She left the outhouse but returned in a matter of seconds with a handkerchief-sized cloth and clean underwear, which she pulled up my legs roughly. \u201cStand,\u201d she said coldly. Then she placed the cloth on my underpants and explained that I would have to learn to do this myself, every month.<\/p>\n
\u201cEvery month?\u201d I asked, exasperated.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d she said harshly. \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t have scared your period into coming early. Who told you to visit the crypt? Were you getting it ready for me? You\u2019ll drive me to an early grave, I swear, Amal.\u201d<\/p>\n
But Mama didn\u2019t die and I got used to those monthly menstrual cycles. For a long time, I had thought that God was punishing me for seeing corpses, disturbing their resting place. But I was smarter than that. Madame Leila had said that I was one of her brightest pupils and even told Mama and Babba that they should send me to the American University of Beirut. I had been serving my teacher some coffee when she\u2019d said those words to my father first, then Mama who had come out of the kitchen with a tray of freshly-baked baklava, the honey oozing from the filo pastry. \u201cShukran<\/i>, Leila,\u201d Babba said politely. \u201cBut we don\u2019t have the money for university.\u201d My mouth opened and when I said, \u201cPlease, Babba,\u201d my voice cracked.<\/p>\n
\u201cWith her high marks, she can get a scholarship,\u201d Madame Leila said, winking at me. \u201cShe\u2019s smarter than the boys.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSometimes she acts like a boy wearing those slacks all the time and wandering to the cave and up the mountains,\u201d Mama said coldly.<\/p>\n
But Madame Leila only smiled, the dimples on her round cheeks deepening.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve always believed that a girl can do the same things as boys and even better.\u201d She laughed but my parents didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
\u201cAmal will marry like her older sister Dunya and maybe she\u2019ll move to Beirut like her. She needs to concentrate on getting a husband, not a university degree.\u201d<\/p>\n
I bit my lips. Then picked up the empty plates and cups and rushed into the kitchen, where I slammed the dishes in the sink while I washed them and before I knew it, Mama stood behind me and whispered into my ear, her hot breath tickling my ear lobe. \u201cStop acting like a child!\u201d she hissed. \u201cWe have a guest in our house.\u201d She pushed a bowl of figs into my wet hands and told me to serve my teacher like a good daughter.<\/p>\n
But I wasn\u2019t a good daughter. I continued standing at the window in open view of everyone who would happen to turn in my parents\u2019 house direction but no one did; they were preoccupied with tears and grief to even notice me. With my cheeks burning, I returned to my bed and lay flat on my back, the covers thrown to the side and pressed my fingers into my belly. There it was, hard underneath, inside me. I began to pound my fists against my stomach until I turned to the side and threw up on the floor. I fell back onto the mattress and clasped my sheets with my hands, the smell of my vomit rising and I knew that when my parents returned from the funeral, they would berate me and probably make me clean my mess but I vowed that I wouldn\u2019t do it.<\/p>\n
****<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Mama clutched at my hair, the long strands had grown knotted from not washing it often but this didn\u2019t stop Mama from pulling me out of bed this way, my barefeet stepping in my own vomit. \u201cWhat are you trying to do to me? Drive me to an early grave?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes!\u201d I shouted. \u201cYes, that\u2019s exactly what I\u2019m doing, Mama. I hate you!\u201d I sank to the floor. I lifted up a handful of vomit and hurled it at her turned back, ruining her only formal black dress. I thought she\u2019d dive at me then but she didn\u2019t. She looked worn-out as she closed the door behind her. I crawled back to my bed and lifted myself up onto the mattress. I knew I was an ungrateful daughter, a whore who\u2019d brought this to myself. That\u2019s what Mama had said when I had stumbled into the house, blood on my jeans, dirt in my hair. \u201cWhat have you done?\u201d Mama shouted, snatching my hair.<\/p>\n
\u201cNothing,\u201d I had mumbled, trying to loosen her grip but she held my hair tightly until she yanked some strands out.<\/p>\n
\u201cShit!\u201d I yelled. Then she finally let go.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were with Naseem, weren\u2019t you? How could you let that filthy man touch you?\u201d She spat at me. Saliva dripped down my nose. I wiped it quickly.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe fucked each other in the field, Mama! And I loved it!\u201d My voice cracked remembering Naseem on top of me, and the pleasure and pain I had felt. I hadn\u2019t imagined my first time like that, but then I went on, \u201cThe goats heard my moans. Did you hear me? Mama!\u201d She covered her ears and when I glanced at Babba, he had his belt in his hands and within minutes, he whipped it across my back, then legs, which grew weak, making me collapse to the floor. I don\u2019t know how I managed to say anything but those words came out when Mama had called me a sharmouta<\/i>.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere is the bastard?\u201d Babba said in the midst of his beating.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I mumbled and then he stopped whipping me, rushed outside. Stumbling, I stood in front of the window and stared out of it. Babba moved quickly towards the field, the river but when he returned, the belt dragging at his side, I knew he couldn\u2019t find Naseem and I knew for certain he\u2019d left the village, disappeared behind the mountains with the scent of my flesh on his own skin, the memory of the pleasure we had exchanged briefly under the moon. Maybe he was thinking about me now, or maybe not. Maybe he\u2019d wiped any traces of my touches from him and hurried on to his next destination. This realization made me look away, and bump into Mama who gave me a slap across the face before she, too, left, went outside to join my father. I watched them briefly as they exchanged a few words, Babba slipping his belt back on. Mama touched his arm and within minutes, they were in the house again, walking past me, returning to their bedroom.<\/p>\n
Now I had nothing to say. I lay on my bed. I stared out the window; the sky appeared as blue as the charm used to ward off the evil eye. Mama had pinned them on my blankets and the collar of my pyjamas when I was a baby and now she had them in my room, on a chain at the footboard of my bed. Exhaustion overcame me. I closed my eyes and within minutes, I was fast asleep.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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