Shariful Hashim S. Mansul
A red lightning breaks the night sky as though cracking an eggshell visible only in a split-second. One, two, four, sixteen, innumerable. A cloud of smoke emerges. A deep hollow whistle. And without a clear sequence, four residential buildings collapse. Another one follows, closer. People start wailing and the view wobbles. More buildings follow. Duration ends.
At quarter to 5 in the afternoon, university offices start closing. Faculty members walk out of their college buildings one by one and head to the parking lot of motorcycles, the main mode of transportation in a town with mostly pedicabs with fares too expensive for the average local to afford. Students who don’t want to go home just yet idle on the field waiting for the sunset, playing guitar, gossiping, cracking jokes. Some just try to connect to the free campus wifi to download pirated K-pop songs, bracing the five, ten, fifteen download errors due to bad signal.
Wahda joins her orgmates in the Sajahitra Publication for a long leisure walk. They’re heading to the newly opened snack house along Street 18 with a 15-minute walking time from the campus. She keeps to her phone watching videos of the new outbreak of indiscriminate destruction and killings in Palestine. Pictures of wounded children covered in dust, hysterical parents running in random directions, Arabic vandalisms in black and red spray paint, ruins after ruins of residential buildings, fill the imagery coming from the coverage of the humanitarian crisis. Why do people love wars? she asks Ayra who is walking beside her. I hate it. Look at this baby boy. Oh my dear.
Ayra, a niqabi who is active in the New Muslimat Madrasah, tilts her head towards the screen. Stop watching too much of those. That’s the reality of things, she stresses. You’ll just be stressed, Wads, and after all, there’s a reason why they are being punished like that. Only God knows. Radzkan, their photojournalist, agrees, nodding. He always goes with the flow without really adding anything to the conversation. That’s enough social media for today, he butts in. She slides her phone into her pocket.
Will Noor still come? Radzkan asks. Yeah, she said she’ll just finish sorting out the test papers in their department and get it to the faculty room. She’s probably preparing to leave by now, Wahda explains. Oh, that’s fast. Well, she better be. I’ll not hold myself back from those beansprout empanadas. Everyone bursts into laughter.
She turns her gaze to the ground, still uneasy. The image of a girl retrieving her books under the rubble occupies her mind. Her big and imposing curly hair hits her too close to home. She wonders if her classmates also tease her for that. What are her interests? Does she like listening to British boy bands, K-pop, nasheeds, or perhaps classical music? Or does she prefer metal for a change? Or does she even like listening to music? What’s the probability of her knowing Rupi Kaur’s poetry and liking it? If she does, I wonder what her favorite lines are from milk and honey.
rivers fall from my mouth
tears my eyes can’t carry
They arrive at the snack house, a small and claustrophobic place with one wall on which the menu is written in big wall-paint strokes. On the table is a pitcher of hot slimy sauce with the color of blush. A waitress approaches them and asks for their order. A platter of beansprout empanadas and four bottles of soda, one to be served later for when their student assistant friend arrives. The snack house primarily only serves beansprout empanadas, a merienda favorite across southwestern Mindanao, that people love to pair with soft drinks over school or office gossip. A savory treat with a kick to end a hectic week.
Waiting for their platter to arrive, Wahda picks up her phone to check out newer updates about the crisis. She watches an explainer on the geopolitical and historical context of the situation. When Ayra notices, she points out that nothing happens without a reason. There is always war in the Middle East because a lot of its people have done something that they are supposed to avoid. Now, they’re facing the consequences.
What do you mean? Wahda asks with a mixture of surprise, sincere curiosity, and irritation. The surprise because how could even one stomach the thought that people, especially the innocent, deserve the indignity of violence. The children, the women, the old and the paralyzed are never spared nor differentiated to begin with when airstrikes shower from their moonlit skies. It comes to anyone and affects everyone.
Those people, the Palestinians, are People of Innovation. They practice a form of Islam that is way different from how the early Muslims practiced Islam. They also have beliefs without a basis in the scriptures, Ayra answers. A loud pedicab passes by, then she continues. They are a People of Innovation, and because of this they are being taught a lesson by God. An imam from Saudi already explained this in detail, but he said that as long as they do not stop from their Innovation, they will continue with their suffering. The best we can do is learn from their mistakes.
Wahda feels overwhelmed by Ayra’s response. She is naive to the clerical rulings and opinions on what’s going on in Palestine, although she considers herself religious. What she knows is that in the world of Muslims, the ummah, they are all brothers and sisters. And aren’t brothers and sisters supposed to look after one another? Sure, there may be differences in their practice and perspective of our religion, but is that a sufficient reason to consider them deserving of their situation? She feels her chest bubbling with an emotion akin to rage but without a specific recipient. Unfair. This is unfair, she keeps to herself.
But the kids, what do they know about all this? Yet, they have to bear most of the punishment that you speak, she says in persistence to Ayra’s explanation but now with a hint of hesitance. She’s afraid to say something stupid about religion in front of her. She directs her eyes towards the platter of freshly fried beansprout empanadas being brought by the approaching waitress. Our beansprouties are here! Guys, let’s eat first. That’s enough. Let our brains rest from the midterm week, please, Radzkan interjects. Wads, can you move the sauce? he tells her, taking the platter from the waitress to place it on the table.
They take turns getting beansprout empanadas from the platter into their small colorful bowls, tearing them like paper into bite-size pieces. The cooking oil oozes onto their fingertips. Do you want alcohol, Radzkan asks the two, after tearing his share of empanadas. He takes the pitcher of sauce and pours it into his bowl. Here, sauces are treated like soups. They ought to fill bowls to the brim, just like satti. And just like satti, they always ought to be spicy. A few scoops into the afternoon snack, Noor arrives. She approaches the group with an apologetic smile.
Sorry, there was a lot of paperworks. Sir added another section for me to sort out right when I was about to finish, she explains.
I knew it. Even to our section, he loves giving surprise assignments. His unpredictability drives us crazy. Ugh, that’s why everyone dislikes him, Radzkan affirms.
Noor sits on the other side of the bench Wahda is sitting on. She puts her bag on a monoblock chair and takes out her stainless steel tumbler. So, what have you been talking about? she asks while getting empanadas to her small bowl, tearing them one by one. Afterwards, Radzkan hands her his alcohol spray. A brief moment of silence pervades the table.
Have you heard about what’s going on in Palestine? Oh God, I want to adopt the children. I feel so bad about them, Radzkan opens up the topic again as he glances at Wahda and Ayra. Noor looks at him and figures out what’s going on, worry hidden by a demeanor of calm.
Oh, yes! My God. I’ve been following the issue since day one. It’s terrible, and the Arab countries are so silent about this. All UN resolutions to end it are so far rejected by the US, even humanitarian aid is blocked because they think it will only be seized by the Palestinian resistance when most of the casualties are civilians in civilian areas. They justify their murder by saying human shield, but the truth is whether you’re a civilian or a resistance fighter, there will always be a certain justification for your murder. You’re either a terrorist, a sympathizer, or a human shield. The entire reasoning makes murder in any scenario acceptable. It’s almost unimaginable how the world has let this happen, let alone conceive it in their minds. Really makes you wonder who controls the world. Noor stops to slurp a torn piece of empanada soaked in the special sauce, suddenly conscious of her too-much-information reply.
If that’s what they’re destined to be, then that’s where they’re destined to be. We can do nothing about it. It’s their fate. There must be a reason behind why God put them in that situation. Perhaps, it’s to teach them a lesson, Ayra responds.
Noor feels her chest tighten. How could someone say and let alone entertain a thought like that? Even if all that has happened and will happen in the world is predetermined in the divine scheme of God, to entail that an entire unarmed population deserves to be wiped out because that’s their fate is straight up unbelievable. Abominable. Where is this coming from even, Noor tries to process it in her head.
But sis, it’s like you’re saying that what the settlers are doing are right. It’s as if they’re just carrying out the supposed divine fate of our brothers and sisters in order to be punished. It’s as if the settlers are actually the good guys. Babies as young as 1 day old are dying from this catastrophe. Are they equally responsible for their situation? It’s too much, Noor complains. She cannot hold it back.
Well, they are a People of Innovation. They practice a form of Islam far different from the early Muslims. If they just stayed true to the path, these things would not have happened. They should start repenting to stop this war, or they will continue to earn the wrath that God has sent them. The grand imams from Saudi have been saying this for a long time. And what did the Palestinians do? Nothing. They continued with their old ways. This is where it should start. Change always starts with ourselves if we want God to help us, Ayra insists.
Since none of them are as well-versed in the official religious view in Saudi Arabia on the Palestinian struggle, Noor cannot respond. She dislikes it when she’s forced to talk about things she doesn’t know. She prefers to keep her mouth shut in such cases. Wahda keeps to her phone scrolling at cat memes while eating from her bowl, although she’s attentively listening to their argument. She is now more confused. She wants to speak, but an aura that stifles variety of thought seems to have overtaken the group. It seems like each word they speak can easily be dismissed, and they, too, for not knowing their religion well enough as Ayra. Radzkan notices that things aren’t going so well.
I really like the sauce. It’s less spicy and more sweet than the ones at our cafeteria, Radzkan inserts. I hate it when I have to sweat just for merienda.
But not for other things, yes? Noor teases him. Everyone is surprised, looking at each other and laughs so hard that the waitress gives them an irate look.
They recede to lighter topics about the school publication and the latest album releases of their favorite K-pop bands. They should be finalizing the topics for the first issue this year of Sajahitra before the month ends. Noticing the platter of beansprout empanadas cleaned, they turn silent. Wahda and Noor keep to their phones, and Ayra small-talks with Radzkan about the student council’s new campus resolution since he’s close to the president.
***
After dinner, Wahda lounges in the living room reading the third volume of the young adult novel series she’s been trying to finish. Her grandfather, in his early 70s, watches TV and turns to Aljazeera. A news reporter in a blue vest with protective headgear appears, a hill of rubble behind him and people wailing, digging, running, shouting, panicking, embracing one another, crying, and praying. His hand approaches the remote control, slow and shaking, and turns the volume up. The reporter approaches a young boy and speaks:
His name is Yousef and he’s 8 years old. Last week, his entire family was killed in an airstrike at a residential area in Khan Yunis. Since then, he and his surviving brother settled in a refugee camp managed by the UNRWA. And today, this refugee camp has been bombed, taking the life of his brother. Yousef now belongs to a growing number of Wounded Child No Surviving Family, or simply WCNSF, in Occupied Palestine.
Wahda overhears it through her headphones. She takes it off to listen and slips a bookmark in her book. She is again overwhelmed by tragedy. She remembers the conversation at the beansprout empanada snack house. No one has any right to blame the victims themselves, she declares to herself. She hears someone sobbing. She breaks from her introspection and sees her grandfather removing his eyeglasses. His face dampened in tears.
Apu’, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Let me get you water, she tells him and rushes to the kitchen for a glass of water. When she returns, she sees him covering his face with his hands, sobbing more than earlier.
Oh, Ummal, he manages to mumble under his sobbing. Wahda closes the TV trying to calm his grandfather. Forgive me, oh Ummal, he continues almost inaudibly.
Apu’, it’s okay. I’m here. I am Wahda, your grandchild, she tries to assure him.
He looks at her and points to the glass of water. She takes the glass and helps him drink, now calming down. After, he gives long and heavy heaves looking at the glass and moving his eyes to the wall.
I have something to show you, he tells him. He asks her to get the blue album from the old cabinet in his room. When she gets back, he tells her to flip it until they reach a certain picture of two boys shoulder-to-shoulder in what seems to be a studio.
Wait, he halts her. He points at the taller boy. This is your granduncle, Ummal. Remember him. He is my older brother. His voice cracks as he mentions his name, ready to sob again but not before she reassures him. Apu’, I’m here. Don’t worry. I’m here. I won’t leave.
Nobody could separate us when we were young. He taught me how to swim, how to catch small crabs by the beach, how to make a stingray-like kite, how to climb the many rambutan trees in our home village outside the town, and many other things. We were like twins even though he was a bit older than me. In terms of bravery, nobody dared. In terms of looks, he was known for it. He pauses and looks at his grandchild straight in the eyes before shortly reentering his memory, uttering each word as if it all happened only yesterday.
When the big war broke out in the ‘70s, he was killed with his wife by people who did not even belong here, just because he held a different view about our homeland like many others before. Your granduncle Ummal was a victim of people who did not even know our history and heritage. They arrived, knowing not a single word in our tongue, and burned everything right before they themselves left and never returned. Do not ever forget your granduncle Ummal. Your Apu’ would not be here today if it were not because of him. He fought a righteous cause. Those Palestinians and their suffering are no different from our suffering before. He stops. His eyes glistens and streams of tears cascade down his chin, settling drop by drop on his white checkered sarong.
Wahda, unable to contain the surge in her heart, joins her grandfather. She caresses his back and starts wiping her own cheeks. She has freed her tears at last, now permitting her facade to come close with her true emotions piling up since the start of the mass slaughter of ordinary Palestinians, some of whom strike her as too familiar.
Beyond words, beyond discussions, beyond arguments, beyond cognition and reason, she reaches a poignant, if not fateful, finality in self-affirmation in what at first were distant confusions mediated by phone screen. She is one with them. History condemns her to be, beyond the distance of geography and the newer hardline interpretation of her faith that only seems to frustrate her most personal realizations.