STILL ANOTHER YEAR

[NGONGE]

Samira Azzam

 

This story (originally 'Amun akhar) is from Azzam’s second collection, Adhilul-kabir (The Great Shadow), published in Beirut in 1955. The author weaves humor into her melan¬choly theme. The setting of the events is the annual visit of Christian Arabs from Israel to the Holy Places in the Old City of Jerusalem. At the time the Mandelbaum Gate was the location for temporary reunions of divided families and friends

 

In one of the cars filing up for inspection at the Customs Office at Daraa, there sat a woman huddled under a grey woollen blanket. She was evidently disturbed; Her anxious look through the rear window caught the fair-haired Syrian inspector who, after a sweeping glance over the luggage, was now fingering one bulging bag which could have never been kept closed except for the rope tied around it. The old woman tapped the window with her fingers, and the driver came up to her.

 

“Tell me, my son, what do they want from us ?” asked the woman.

 

“Nothing,” answered the man, “They're just doing their job; they'll Id us go soon.”

 

“Have they disturbed the basket?”

 

“They asked me what was in it, so I said only hard boiled eggs, pine kernels and.. and.. Haven't you counted the contents a hundred times in front of me ?”

 

“But, my son, you've forgotten the coffee. You know, over there coffee is something precious; more valuable than gold. I am taking two kilos for Mary; she loves coffee. Every morning as soon as she'd opened her eyes, her hand used to reach for a matchstick to light the primus stove, and put the coffee on to boil. Then she'd hand me a cup, and give one to each of the others, And then she'd drink what remained in the pot.”

 

The old woman's words were followed by a sigh and with the edge of her black shawl she rubbed away a tear that was trickling down the deep lines of her face.

 

When the inspection was over, the driver returned to his seat, adjusted his felt cap and started the motor. The car sped along the road which crossed the desert that stretched out between them and the frontier of Jordan.

 

With shrivelled fingers the old woman crossed herself over the face three times over and then asked, “How many hours before we get there ?”

 

She heard the driver answer her without turning his head.

 

“It's one o'clock now, we might reach Amman by six o'clock in the evening. That is, of course, if everything goes smoothly and we are not detained by the Jordanian Police Inspection at Ramtha.” “Are they too going to go through our things ?” asked the woman. “It's their duty.”

 

“Then will you try, my son, not to let them open the basket. Tell them that all I'm carrying to Mary is hard boi-”

 

“Hard boiled eggs, pastry stuffed with dates, pine kernels and coffee,” the man hastened to complete.

 

“There are also some apples and some clothes for the children: a suit for Karim, another just like it for Elias, and a red jacket for Abdul Nur. I don't know why, but Abdul Nur is the nearest to my heart. Is it because he has his grandfather's - Abboud's father's - name? He was born the year before last, at Christmas time: we learnt of his birth through the Family Programme over the wireless. A friend of mine got the message, it wasn't I that heard it. I kissed the ground twice in thanks to God for Mary's safety. Three times Mary has been through childbirth - all alone, with no one to help her. Her mother-in¬law is dead and I - her mother - was far away. Seven years have gone by since we were parted. She was a bride then but now she has Karim, Elias and Abdul Nur. Seven years… a good slice of your life. She never was able to leave Nazareth for Jerusalem to see us: each time she was either pregnant or in childbed. Her husband came oper once and my boy Abboud went to meet him in Jerusalem. He told Abboud that J'vlary had become so lean - and you can already see some white in her hair. Poor girl! she is still too young to age like that. How old is she? Many girls of her age have not yet married. She is only twenty six, 0:” even a little less. She is two years younger than my son Abboud. Abboud is not yet married, but Mary. . She has three sons, Karim and--”.

 

“And Elias and Abdul Nur - and the last of them has his grand¬father's name… and -”

 

“God bless you, my son, you have a good memory,” the old woman said and went on,

 

“ Young people have good memories. It is youth. When I was young and before my back was bent, I used to memorize the dates of birth, marriage and death of the sons of our community. People used to call me the Register. But now, aren't I too far gone from those days?

 

“Sorrow, my son, dims the mind and exhausts the body. We used to live in Jaffa. You know the place? We lived in the Darj el Qalaa. We had an orange plantation; its oranges glistened like gold and were known for their sweetness. Our people had been there a long time. Our house was open to all - my husband being the head man, what we used to call the mukhtar. And according to custom, it was he who used to receive strangers. We were cooking constantly - always puffing and blowing at the oven - and our home always echoed with visitors' voices. . you know, the day Mary got married, more than twenty persons stayed with us overnight.. no lack of bedding, and plenty of food. . The copper pots which Abboud's grandfather had brought from Damascus.. Now everything's gone: house, orange-grove, bedding, pots - all ! All I have now is two mattresses and two sets of bedclothes, and two pots and a table - which Abbo~!d himself made before going off to the desert.. And I live in one room '- that's the way the world goes, my son. Don't drive in such a rush… you're making my bones ache. Arrived, are we? What are these houses? Not Amman? It's Ramtha. Ah! an inspection here ?”

 

The car stopped and the driver jumped out with the passports for inspection. The old woman tinkered with the window until she managed to open it and, pushing her head out, she took a deep breath. She called the bronze-faced policeman wearing a red head-cloth and started to talk to him in a half-whisper.

 

“My son, the basket at the back of the car, the basket is mine.. I'll save you the trouble of inspection. All I have in it is boiled eggs and. . “

 

“Boiled eggs ?” asked the man.

 

“Yes,” she answered,” for I am going to meet Mary, who is coming from Nazareth to Jerusalem. I thought that boiled eggs…”

 

“But why boiled ?” put in the man. Mary might prefer them fried. “

 

An aged smile covered the woman's face as she went on, “Ah, I did a bit of thinking: I said to mysclf, fresh eggs would crack with the shaking of the car, and spill over the cakes, pine kernels and clothes. They say that over there clothes are expensive: have you heard anything of the sort? No eggs at all there, my son. This I came to know from some people who went to Jerusalem last year. And meat too, they say is scarce. How I wish I could have brought her some meat… but I was afraid it'd go bad. One can survive on a meagre fare. And as long as Mary and her husband and her sons are in good health, then my thanks to God know no bounds. We're better off than others and there are others better off than us… Lost money you can regain... houses we can restore as long as we have our men safe around us. The unjust will have their day. And when Abboud comes to see me, well, that's enough to make me forget the tears, the suffering and the long cares. But there's nothing grieves me as much as my separation from Mary. Seven years now, my son. She was only just married when I left her. Now she has Karim, Elias and Abdul Nur.”

 

When the old woman saw the driver approaching, she swallowed her words, and withdrew from the window.

 

She then arranged her blanket and fell to nibbling at a cake which she had pulled out of her bag. “Gracious God !” she muttered. And the car resumed its journey.

 

“My son, do you know where Jubran el Sayegh lives in Amman ?” “No I do not.”

 

“Then how can you say that you go to Amman frequently ? You should know the place. Jubran has a drapery store in .. oh ! I forget the name of the street now. Wait son, I'll look for it. Abboud wrote it down for me on a piece of paper. Yes, here it is... read it. Will you take me to that place? For that's where I'll be spending the night. . the man is a distant relative of ours, and his wife has been a friend of Mary's since they used to go to the convent school together… they were in the very same form. Do you think the man will keep the shop open till we arrive? Why don't you answer? You look tired.. I don't blame you. One single journey has left my bones broken. I don't know what I'd do if I had to make it three times a week like you do. I never thought I'd make this journey, but I have to. I couldn't let the opportunity slip this time.. I'd have made it on foot. If you were a father you'd know the longing a mother has for her child. Nothing is dearer to you than your child, unless it's your grandchild. I can't contain myself... wish for nothing more than for this night to be over. “or then I'll find myself in a car carrying me to Jerusalem and another driver, as kind as you are, taking me to Mary. Then I'll never stop kissing her; I'll be savouring the smell of her flesh, and never have enough of it. I'll talk to her till my mouth grows dry. I'll ask her about Jaffa; she might have visited it. I wonder what's become of our house? Is it still standing? which of my people are still left there? And our orchard - has Mary tasted its oranges? And the church, is Father Ibrahim still the parish priest? And my friends Sarah, Um Jamil, and Marianna? Are they still alive?”

 

 

Excerpt from: Still Another Year, by Samira Azzam. Arabic Short Stories, 1945-1965. Edited by Mahmoud Manzalaoui. The American University in Cairo Press, 1985. pp 297-302.

 

 

Samira Azzam

(1934-1967)

 

Samira Azzam was a Palestinian refugee. She lived and wrote mainly in Lebanon from 1948 until her early death in a car accident. She was married to a national of Iraq, a country in which she had worked as a broadcaster, for a short time.

 

She wrote two novels and published four collections of short stories, of which the last was Al-insanu wal sa’aa (Man and the Clock); she also translated Ray West’s Fifty Years of American Fiction.

[N.O.R.F]

What is it with you and long posts saxib? Bal soo koob sheekada.

[NGONGE]

^^ What's the point you badow? It's a short story.

[N.O.R.F]

After a coffee

[Muriidi]

" when i grow up i wanna be just like you .."

 

 

 

 

.. it's hard work ..

 

 

now i'll go post some baby-sitting music ..

[NGONGE]

Everyone does. One more dullard won't make a difference.

[Kamaavi]

"sorry, the time in which you may edit your message has elapsed.."

 

..only forum leaders may delete posts.

 

 

wisdom thru words

 

~life story teller:....

 

motivational and inspirational stories for you and me ...

 

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[Kamaavi]

Let me tell you a story about mind over matter...

 

Once upon a time there was a bunch of tiny frogs.... who arranged a running competition.

 

The goal was to reach the top of a very high tower.

 

A big crowd had gathered around the tower to see the race and cheer on the contestants....

 

The race began....

 

Honestly:

 

 

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