An Orange
Jael Menahem cooks soup. Facing the wall, her waist against the oven or the kitchen sink, she is always silent. Jael Menahem’s heart always beats fast. She is afraid that one day a rocket will shoot through the kitchen window and fall into the saucepan, into the soup. Jael Menahem’s heart beats most of all since they have put her Juval, who until recently still sucked her breast and drank her milk, minto a uniform and have taken him where the fire was. Jael Menahem wishes to go out walking or running or dancing or at least to lie on the ground, but she is afraid, very afraid. And when she gets into the bus to go care for her mother, she examines each unknown face that glances at her. And this strange behaviour makes her even more afraid and almost squashes her morale. And Jael Menahem knows one day she will lie down and choke and she will not get up again. Unless, that is, some day a rocket will come to rest by her side, where once her husband used to lie, before he disappeared.
Nadwa Hammad cooks beans. Facing the wall, her waist against the oven or the kitchen sink, she is always silent. Nadwa Hammad’s heart always beats fast. She is afraid that some day a helicopter will come and shoot into her house and the ceiling will fall in on her. Nadwa Hammad’s heart beats most of all now that the men in their green uniform are allowed to enter everywhere. Suhejr is going to school and often they think of schools as mice nests, devil-caves. Nadwa Hammad is very afraid. And as she walks on the pavement on her way to take care of her mother, she scrutinizes every face that glances at her big belly. Who knows what they think she’s carrying under her dress? And this glance frightens her as well and makes her heart race. She wishes so much that she could just wander off, greeting all she met, smiling at them, telling them how good she is at cooking beans. And Nadwa Hammad knows. That some day she will hear the heavy boots in her little street, and perhaps even shots. Or maybe she’ll be wakened by the roof descending to lie on top of her in bed, where once her husband had lain and whose whereabouts she doesn’t know anymore.
I, Manuel Mifsud, have a name as Jewish as Jeremiah and Jesus Christ; my surname is Arabic, like the Prophet’s. Before she died, my mother split an orange open for me: This is a Jaffa orange, a Jaffa. Its juice was red, the colour of fire, the colour of blood. My mother told me: In half of this orange you have a sister, and in the other half you have another sister. Go down to the sea and row towards the Middle East. You will find them somewhere. One is Jael, the other Nadwa.
And Manuel Mifsud found them fearing each other; and afraid of buses, of supermarkets, afraid of streets; afraid of the dark; afraid of rockets; afraid of missiles; afraid of people with power; fearful for their lives; afraid for Juval in a uniform too big for him; afraid for Suhejr who goes to school every morning; afraid of their following shadow; afraid of the silence at night, the silence of God who sleeps alone behind the furthest corner, old and dumb.
He found them afraid and weary and sad and found them longing for one moment in which they could look into each other’s eyes and perhaps start to laugh.
7th January 2009