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zaher omareen
and plunder everything .
. . They ’d leave a trai l of
tragedy and destruc tion
in their wake . . . And the
only men lef t alive in their
homes were over f i f t y.
Well, winter set in that year
like you wouldn’t believe:
it was cold enough to snap
iron nai ls. And what did
we hear, in the bleak dark
middle of one of those black
nights? A knock at the door.
Your uncles jumped up in a
frenzy – one of them hid in
the water tank, one of them
in the kitchen lof t between
sacks of grain, and one of
them wriggled in under the
junk up on the roof. We
were all saying ‘Please God,
don’t let it be the army.’
–Why hadn’t my uncles run
away like everyone else?
–Because your grandad
didn’t let them. He said ‘If
death is what God’s written
for you, then at least die
here in my arms and under
my roof.’
Anyway, so your granny
went to open the door,
because during the Events
the old women always
opened the door, while the
men hid themselves. And
guess who she saw on the
doorstep?
–Who? The army?
–No, she found Salamu
there – he was looking
for pomegranates for his
pregnant wife! Your granny
said to him, ‘If only I had
some, Salamu! I promise
you, if I had any at all they’d
be yours, I ’d give them to
you with all my blessings,
I wouldn’t scrimp at all . .
. but why don’t you go and
see if our neighbours the
Siqa family have got some?