MATCHBOX

I am Sahal Al Fadi. Someone, who dreams of the return of those old dawns when we raced fearlessly to gather ripe figs. Someone, who dreams of a time when one can travel to the ends of the world, crossing villages and cities, never facing a soldier’s interrogation. 

I love books. Growing up, stories made me cheerful. Because, the children in those stories were so different from us. They never stood in queues for hours on end, waiting for a scrap of bread. They never quenched their thirst from murky streams riven with wastes. They never lay cold and dead inside stinky cubicles. They had never seen camps. They had never run for their lives through a burning city. They never stood dumbstruck seeing their baba and mama lying burnt to cinders inside a scorched home. They had never heard of a lullaby choked by smoke. Never.  

They do not know these wounded little human beings … with hearts as heavy as the earth … 

It was difficult for me to believe that a world as beautiful as the one in stories existed outside the camp, outside the country, across the river … I had never seen such a world. Storytellers seemed to be the greatest fibbers! But I loved their lies a lot. Listen, the world has still not understood our stories. I swear that the entire Babel of languages of the world, the six thousand and more, cannot encompass those! We are a farrago of novels, essays, poems and tears. 

You, who have never seen wars, having never raced across borders horror-struck, with your home on your back, can never comprehend our lives. We are the truth that you, free people, are loath to write about. You might be remembering the enemy army assemble on the Sinai border and the preparations of graves, expecting a huge loss of Jewish lives. You might be remembering how Egypt, Syria, Iraq and Jordan fought for us and lost the battle. But what was defeated, and gets defeated daily, is peace, amity and us … None, but us. 

Nobody could conjecture that our lives were going to be turned upside down that day. Except those who planned the war. I can scarcely bring myself to recollect those moments. Yet, I will make an attempt. I was eight years old when the city was attacked. Unexpectedly, one afternoon, missiles rained on West Bank. We were at school then. There was a roar of planes in the skies. The relentless sirens were warning about the danger. Shutting the windows and doors, we huddled with our elders inside the building, shell-shocked by the unremitting gunfire, hugging one another tightly … In the wake of a horrendous explosion, the school building shook. People started screaming. I remembered my baba and mama. I prayed, ‘Allah, keep them safe.’ Before the prayer could fly through the door, the reverberations of another ear-splitting explosion began … One part of the school building collapsed. Shrieks and laments reached the skies. Terror-struck children scattered in all directions. Even after the sounds died off, the smoke and dust kept billowing around. 

I discovered Sarah, cowered in one corner of the classroom. Her right leg was seriously burnt and it was difficult for her to walk. Clutching her hand, I dragged her along through the tendrils of smoke. We could find Gazan only after a long search. He was struggling to pull out his friend Salim—his body totally charred—from beneath the benches. There was no fear in his eyes, just a frozen look. He did not want to leave Salim behind. Gazan was toiling with his mu’darris Abu Kalam, retrieving the bodies of living and dead children from the ruins. Sobbing, the teacher embraced Gazan. ‘Go home quickly, my child,’ he cried. We somehow managed to get outside. The gory sight of human remains, perhaps belonging to our friends, was everywhere. One limb here, a crushed head there … a tiny hand still touching a book … another leg … a little body lying on its face, kissing the earth … Was the way home to the left, or right? We stood stunned at the junction where a pool of blood was visible. 

The streets we loved, the beloved square with the fruit shop, bakery, bicycle shop—everything had vanished from sight. The pathways where we used to play were piled with rubble. We saw cattle burnt to cinders in their sheds and toppled roofs. Under an iron pillar, a blood-soaked old woman was raising her hand desperately. We three small humans tried to help her with all our combined strength. The heartless iron pillar did not budge. The old lady groaned and slowly, her eyes closed. She was murmuring something at the final moment. Sarah started screaming for Mama. She could not walk any more; neither could she endure the sights any longer. 

The huge fig tree in front of our house recognized us. The branches beckoned us warmly. We three small humans limped towards the tree. We did not know then that never-to-be-forgotten sights were awaiting us inside. 

By the vessel of knafeh, which Mama had prepared for Sarah’s birthday, her beloved white kitten was lying dead, scalded and swollen. On the porcelain plates, the chicken bones of the musakhan dish were blackened with soot. Nearby, amidst the broken and burnt furniture, like another charred log, lay Baba! I forcibly shut Sarah’s eyes. Leaning against the half-collapsed kitchen wall, were the remains of what looked like a burnt flambeau. It was not easy to recognize our mama. She must have been cooking when it happened.

    We were shattered. Three small humans … little hearts heavy as the earth … our tender feet reddened with blood … 

For weeks, the city reeked of burnt flesh. Sarah lay shivering with fever in the refugee camp. In a few days, Gazan found new friends and started playing and smiling again. Sarah did not play or smile. Even after her wounds healed, she refused to attend school. Most days, she avoided food. Gazan felt famished all the time. He insisted on eating Mama’s knafeh and hareesa. If we stood in a queue for three hours, some bread pieces were granted as rations. Those were hardly sufficient! I would give my portion to Gazan and go hungry. I became used to starving. Every day, I grew thinner. 

On certain nights, I would dream of Baba, who would hoist me on his shoulders, and climb down the hills to pluck the olives. As usual, Baba would be chatting with Mama about the city news. My mama would gently wipe away the knafeh threads dangling from my mouth. I would taste her knafeh again and my hunger pangs would be assuaged. I would kiss Mama’s fingers and find myself enveloped by her scent even after I awoke. The fragrance of butter and olive oil. Every night I prayed to dream about Baba and Mama. 

It was Sarah’s state which troubled me the most. Wouldn’t she ever become the old Sarah again? I also worried about Gazan. Why wasn’t he enquiring about Baba and Mama? Why wasn’t he remembering them? Did that wretched day wipe away every beautiful memory of childhood in the blink of an eye? Still, it was a stroke of luck that Gazan was not hovering at the edge of insanity, seemingly half-alive, like Sarah. 

On that blazing afternoon, as I stood hugging Sarah and Gazan close to my heart, I was no longer an eight-year-old; I had stepped into the age of eighty. Even after the passage of years, when I remember that day, the odour of burnt flesh suffocates me. The skies were filled with vultures those days. Circling around ceaselessly, they still haunt my sleep. 

    Tell me, has such a helpless, terrifying moment occurred even once in your life? Else, how will you understand us? How will you recognize our wounds?

Excerpted with permission from Do Not Ask the River Her Name by Sheela Tomy (HarperCollins Publishers India, 2024)