August 13, 2006

This entry was written by  Ala Hlehel *

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A Deportee Called "Cheeky"
Translated by Yasmeen Hanoosh

On his last televised speech Hasan Nasrallah, leader of Hezbollah, addressed the Arabs of Haifa requesting that they evacuate the city. This request was prompted by the human casualties of the city's Arabs that resulted from Hezbollah's reprisal against the Israeli bombing and destruction of the Lebanese capital, Beirut.

After this request my little brother and his girlfriend had no other choice but to flee. On that same night, around two in the morning, they arrived carrying their necessary deportation gear: a large suitcase, a laptop, cigarettes, and a nice bottle of vodka. In preparation for the resettlement of the dear ones, we, my wife Abir and I, launched a shopping campaign to acquire the necessary provisions by way of welcoming the new Palestinian deportees to our small and humble apartment in Akka: we bought sausage, cheeses, bread, vegetables, cigarettes and vodka.

That same night another deportee joined us: "Cheeky," the cat of Abir's friend and colleague at work. For Abir's friend also lives in Haifa, and like most of the Arabs in Haifa, she decided to comply with Nasrallah's request and evacuate from the entire country. The experiences of the last few years taught us that Nasrallah implements what he says, and thoroughly. Thus, the number of deportees in our Akka apartment reached three persons. We borrowed two mattresses from my dear mother-in-law for their reception: one heavy mattress that transforms into a movable bed, and . . . an inflatable mattress! My dear mother-in-law, for reasons unknown save to herself, had purchased a small carton, and crammed in that carton was a big, stitched piece of fabric that turns into a large and comfortable mattress when inflated.

The problem was inflating this mattress. I had to volunteer - involuntarily - to do the job. That was after I gathered from my dear Abir's body language (she ignored me and dashed into the kitchen) that I was stuck with this task exclusively! But where do I get the air when my lungs are collapsing under the bombardments of the heavy Camel cigarettes?  Thus I found myself, in the auspices of a renewed siren call and two nicotine-lacerated lungs, blowing into a valve in a slack mattress, until my own lungs slacked and my cheeks split from exploding and imploding, so I said, among other things: this war is a bitch!

Yet Cheeky didn't care about my intermittent breathing as she roved around me, checking out the newcomer to her life (even though she's the newcomer) and familiarizing herself with the features of the apartment and the potential playgrounds. Thus she discovered the high window in the corner of the living room, the window overlooking an abyss from the height of four soaring floors. Once "Deportee" leaped (this is what I decided to call her, because "Cheeky" doesn't aptly express the required gravity of the current warfare circumstance) to the edge of that window, dear Abir gasped in consternation - the kind of consternation that follow the arrival of Catiocha missiles in Israel - and she screamed: Cheeky!

Although we were able to contain the situation through a precise physical and emotional maneuver, the horror that overtook Abir made us shut that window carefully and regularly. We also found ourselves sweltering in the heat and humidity of flaming Acre, all of this for the sake of kitten "Deportee," spoiled princess of Palestinian deportation. So I said to myself, as I wiped off the sweat from my portly brow: this war is a bitch!

These are strange days. They are teaching us as Palestinians how to migrate from our apartments and homes, despite the stark differences between the migrations of the 1948 Nakba, 1967 and now. Now we are not migrating due to the promptings of a colonizer who wants to steal our houses, but to the promptings of a plucky resistance combatant who fears for our lives. Nonetheless, a paradoxical feeling continues to color our shared evenings with the deportee guests as we watch Al-Jazeera channel in weary concentration that has not given us a break for the last 30 days.

We are Fine, Tell us about You!

There's a war here and a hell in Lebanon, and our hearts have many tasks, varied and exhausting: looking after the parents, my sister, brother and his wife in our village al-Jash right next to the Lebanese borders, succumbed under the bombardments of Katyusha on one hand, and the fires of the Israeli army on the other hand. The latter had set up the batteries of its Lebanon-bound missiles near the village houses. Our hearts also have the task of looking after my in-laws, who live nearby in Acre, after each torrent of Katyusha missiles is heaped on the city. The heart also has the task of looking after the resistance fighters and on Lebanon's smoldering south. The heart has the task of looking after Beirut and its suburbs and its morale. The heart has the task of looking after friends and acquaintances in Haifa. And it has the task of looking after each other, Abir and I, as we rush to our makeshift shelter when a siren goes off: that foot of the staircase in our gigantic apartment building surrounded by apartments and walls from all directions. We look after the positions of our feet and after our heartbeats and after our ability to hear the tremor of the falling Katyusha. My darling, come closer . . .

They announced a ceasefire agreement last night (Friday). Why are we still so sad then?

Posted: August 13, 2006, 01:44:22 am (UK time)

 Ala Hlehel is a writer, editor and playwright from Palestine. His first novel Al-Sirk [The Circus] won the 2000 A. M. Qattan Foundation Literary Competition and his short story collection Stories in Time of Need won the 2003 Young Writer Award.

Images, top to bottom:

Ala Hlehel in Acre