Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

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?

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