The Woman From Tantoura by Radwa Ashour Read Free Book Online Page A

She didn’t believe it. She said that we had misunderstood, because if the station was in Jordan the Jordanian army would have closed it and done what was necessary before entering the war. “It doesn’t stand to reason that they would leave the enemy behind them and move forward. I’ll check with Abu Sadiq and figure out what happened from him.”
    Suddenly she said, “Turn on the radio, Ruqayya.”
    Wisal’s mother added, her face still flushed from crying, “Maybe there will be news of Qisarya.”
    I turned on the radio, and we stood listening to what the announcer said. Moments passed. I signaled to Wisal and we left the house, running. I don’t remember whom we met or who said what or when we came home or when we were able to sit with Sadiq and Hasan so they could explain the details we had not understood. But I remember the lanes of the village, that they were noisy. I remember bits and fragments of what people said, people who it seemed had suddenly become generals planning the movements of the forces. One said, “The Egyptians will advance on the coast road and enter Tel Aviv.” Another thought it was likely that they would head for Hebron and from there to Jerusalem to lay siege to it from the south, while the Jordanian forces would besiege it from the east and the Syrians or the Iraqis from the north. They would catch them in a pincer movement. A third said, “I don’t have confidence in King Abdallah, they say he has reached an agreement with the Jews, and even if he didn’t … how can we rest easy with the army when its leader is an Englishman? God protect us.” A fourth asserted that the Syrian forces would head for Haifa and liberate it. A fifth squatted on the ground, grasped a stick from a tree, and drew a map of Palestine on the sand, going on to explain his conception of the movement of the armies: “They’ll cut them off here, separating the south of Palestine from the north.” He moved the stick again, cutting the map lengthwise and saying, “Andfrom here they will isolate the Zionist gangs in the west from the ones in the east.” His companion took the stick and drew a larger map in the sand, designating the cities and towns and movement of the forces. The names multiplied and the directions and movements and who would do what all mixed together. I whispered in Wisal’s ear, “I don’t know the map of Palestine except for the location of Haifa and Jaffa and Gaza and Jerusalem.” I did not tell her that I suddenly regretted my lack of interest in studying geography, which had seemed boring and meaningless to me.
    That night I waited up for my father’s return. He came in and I made supper for him. I asked him about Samakh as he was eating. He said, “It’s in the Jordan Valley, south of Lake Tiberias. It’s a few kilometers south of the Syrian border, but because of the train station there Samakh has become the border crossing between the two countries. The traveler stops and they stamp his papers, and customs agents inspect his things.”
    He finished his supper and said, “A cup of tea, God bless you, Ruqayya.”
    It was not his custom to drink tea at that late hour. I fixed the tea for him and took it to him. He said, “God bless your hands. Sit down, Ruqayya, sit down.”
    He took off his head cloth and headband and put them aside. He took off his sandals and sat cross-legged. He moved a little to support his back against the wall. I was glancing at him furtively as he sipped the tea. His mood was different from that of the young men whom I had seen in the afternoon. I recall how he sat, the features of his face, and I ask myself, was he happy? Was he sad, or perturbed and waiting?
    How did he move from talking about Samakh to talking about the Haifa–Daraa and the Daraa–Damascus lines, and how did it bring him to talk about his father’s hajj journey on the same line, the Hijazi railway line? I was listening to him, fascinated by what he said. Fascinated by that rare