Prologue

 I was at a campsite at the foot of Mt. Hekla during the Merchants' Day weekend, where a TV had been set up. On TV there was a screening of a concert in honor of the band Bee Gees and upon hearing one of the songs this story popped up in my mind and refused to budge until I had put it on paper. 

 

Tragedy

Her slender hands touched the soft fabric of her gown. The light from the lamp hit the pale blue silk and it sparkled in a beautiful pattern. She had owned this dress for a long time, and she often wondered how it was held together after all these years. Not only was its condition remarkably good, but it almost had just become another memory from her past. Because she had left her home in a hurry. One suitcase, coat and her ID. The dress had been lying on a chair in the living room, where she had put it down after her morning shower, the last in that life. Although she was certainly still alive, something inside her had died that day. For some reason she grabbed the dress on the way out and gingerly stuffed it into the large coat pocket. She moved her eyes from the material to her hands. Her blotchy and uneven skin saddened her, for despite the finesse she still possessed, they showed her age. The dress, and herself, had gone halfway around the globe. They had been forced to leave the home, the country, and go to new homes where they would be accommodated, together with others “similar”. She stayed there for several years. She never learned the language properly and she was shocked by the attitude towards those she had always considered her fellow brothers. Eventually, she moved to the west coast of the United States, as far from the past as she could imagine. And for several decades she was able to forget it. And more importantly, she forgot him. Then, one summer evening, when she was sitting on her balcony, a song reached her ears. A flow of memories shook her and brought tears to her eyes. She didn’t cry out loud, rather they fell like waterfalls of joy and sorrow that had been gathering water for decades.

It had never occurred to her to change her name when she moved. Even though it suggested the origins she had bid farewell to many years earlier, she couldn't imagine anglicizing the name and suddenly becoming a different person. Despite everything, she still bore the mark that the country had left behind.

A scar on the upper arm, from a fall from a bicycle at the baron's palace. Spots that had followed her since birth. A cut on the forehead after an unsuccessful climbing trip up a tree in the garden at the Vitaly Magar synagogue.. 

The world was very different then.

It had never occurred to her to turn back either. She knew some who had gone but they could not hide their disappointment. Although it was relatively safe, some wounds could not be healed. Her parents had always emphasized that.

Her childhood had been quite carefree. There were occasional anti-aircraft sirens heard in her early childhood, they grew louder for a while, and then they stopped. They thought their lives could perhaps continue. Even though the sirens didn’t sound in the air in preparation for the disaster, the voices were loud enough. And in the end, the actions kicked them out.

It‘s tragedy

   

                                                 The disaster.

 

His personal disaster resonated in the song Tragedy with the Bee Gees. He thought it was funny sometimes. In fact, there was only one recognized disaster that mattered, and that was the disaster inflicted to his nation in 1948. 

                                                                                                  „Naqba“

The word had a dark sound in his mouth. Stuck in the throat and then fell forward and out of the lips. Although it may have seemed incredible at the time, his family held on to their land with such strength, like a mother to her child in the face of guns and tanks, that no one would have been surprised if they had disappeared from the face of the earth then and there. But they didn't. The houses all around crumbled into nothingness, his mother never recovered from the lost friends and silent streets, and he tried to bear it. Ridiculous? Maybe. While the olive trees lived, they moved on in the constant pain of their situation. But then someone, somewhere, decided to remove their water source. He protested. Others were shot. The olive tree ended its life, uprooted from the flesh of Palestine. Life went on and on very slowly. Dreams were worthless in the prison of the home and after a long struggle he was granted permission to work in Yaffa. The maps no longer showed his village and by then the burial place of friends and family were under a highway. Where did you go mother, you who smiled so sweetly? He caressed her arm as he left, but she had stopped smiling. She sighed, asked God to bless him, out of politeness and old habit. They later met only in his dreams. She disappeared when the house was razed to the ground and his collection of glass balls disappeared into the foundations of a new settlement. 

After all, all human beings still have their personal tragedies, and their personal joys. That's how he saw it. Perhaps his existence was a thorn-strewn ordeal, but in between, happiness hid, like sweet dates. When he had moved to Yaffa, he had numerous moments where he forgot his ordeals and got to feel human. Although only for a split second. He transported fruit from place to place and saw more of the world than he had imagined. Even though the world was but one city. 

The disasters of his life involved oranges and the dance floor. The smell and the memories could bring him so close to the event that he could almost feel her touch.

He behaved well and sometimes went over to Tel Aviv. He kept silent, made few impressions and tried to wipe the piercing faces of the soldiers from his mind. The 1960s were coming to an end and spring was in the air. How often did he think about returning home, from this false happiness – if you could call this happiness? Home did not exist, it was somewhere beyond, it was forbidden, disgusting, shameful. But he was alone, and he wanted to go home. 

Goin' home

I just can't make it all alone

 Forced transfer

Her parents were in denial, much more than their neighbors. Eliya and André Haroun were born in Cairo. Their parents were born in Cairo. Their children too. They knew nothing else. The beautiful streets of the city of the sun had carried them on their arms since childhood. Heliopolis. The name was dreamy and so was the life there. They did business, did not discriminate against anyone, and now they were to be kicked out. Many had gone in the dark hours of night and had to leave everything behind. They preferred to be quiet.

Their determination to stay put meant they were unprepared when the mob came, banging on the door and yelling at the Jews to get out. The agitation was such that in the frenzy most of the personal belongings were left behind, although the bags were ready in the living room.

If they wanted to save their daughter's life, they had to accept this travel pass, which allowed departure but no return, and say goodbye to the country for good. They were no longer considered part of the people and the neighbors looked away, kept silent. Their silence cut like a knife between the shoulder blades. 

Umm al dunya, mother of the world, wept silent tears at their departure. Like many who left her, they looked back with broken hearts. The golden age of modern Egyptian culture followed their footsteps to other continents. 

They settled nicely in a new place, in a promised land that was safe for them. Despite her longing, her parents were fine, but she searched for something she couldn't find. They did not want to recall much from the past and were quick to learn the way of thinking of a new foster country.

The language was different, she understood it, which was practical, but she didn't learn it well. She could not love in any other way. Emotions got stuck like a lump in the throat, which was only loosened by the sonorous mother tongue. Unlike her parents and neighbors, she preferred the company of the enemy.

She took a job in a coffee shop in Yaffa and went out at night to forget. The eagerness to forget later created memories that grew heavier over time. Especially the memories of him. 

 

When the feeling's gone and you can't go on

It's tragedy

When the morning cries and you don't know why

It's hard to bear

With no-one to love you you're

Goin' nowhere

         حب

Their love and its end culminated when he grabbed her hand in the street and asked her to be his. All the stares that followed and all the rumors that could sprung from it. She pulled her hand back and hissed at him. 

He knew very well that she had the nation, the army and the authorities watching over her and that their love could never be accepted. In this place it was dangerous. His soul shattered into tiny pieces as she continued to hurry away. She hurried from him to protect him.

 

                                     And herself. 

 

When you lose control and you got no soul

It's tragedy

When the morning cries and you don't know why

It's hard to bear

With no-one beside you you're

Goin' nowhere

 

The scent of oranges

The cafe in Yaffa served fresh oranges, among other things. His job was to transport them there and then move on. But in this particular cafe, now lost in the labyrinth of time, there was sunshine that warmed his heart. Sunshine that cured the homesickness for nowhere.

Just as photographs of shattered dreams and untimely deaths can evoke tears, a single person's smile can erase despair and melancholy. For the time being, he therefore tried to be slow, arranged the oranges carefully and brought out all possible arguments to talk to her. At first she looked away.

In her mind, Samir Jabra was intriguing. Nothing but that. However, she had the feeling that he had more in common with her than others she met with at the time.

She, like a golden mango on a hot summer day, like a star from an Egyptian movie and he thanked God. One day he found out that she spoke like them too. Then she enjoyed talking to him, the language fell like a spring breeze on her cheeks and she found herself again. The self that had remained in Cairo. Lily Haroun was graceful and intelligent, foreign yet more understanding of his situation than the few women he had spoken with in Yaffa. 

They didn't meet often outside the cafe, but sometimes they stood together in silence at the back gate. He offered her a light, she smoked to prolong their time together. Over time he heard bits and pieces of her story, it was enough for him to nod his head in understanding for her to realize that in this country that welcomed her so well, he had fled his home. Like she had done in Cairo.

Her apartment, personal belongings, even her clothes, were now in the hands of some new residents. His personal belongings were probably under the surface of the earth, in no man's land. Untouchable by both.

He couldn't count the nights he lay thinking about her. But they were many enough for her to know deep down that their feelings were reciprocated. 

 

 

Here I lie

In a lost and lonely part of town

Held in time

In a world of tears I slowly drown

Goin'home

I just can't make it all alone

I really should be holding you

Holding you

Loving you loving you

 

A night of insomnia

His misfortunes had brought him to this place. All the events of his life had prepared him for this temporary dance floor. He closed his eyes and imagined freedom. Freedom to walk out and go home. But his home was a thousand pieces of broken concrete, and in total oblivion he danced illegally in Tel Aviv.

Her tragedies made her homesick. Homesickness as a new country rarely healed, sometimes, not often. Or maybe she just wasn't open to it. She was unusual in her friendliness and curiosity towards everyone. Maybe it was her childlike innocence. But in the dark, on the dance floor, they were all equal. No one’s origins could be heard in the noise. 

It was then that their bodies met, and the electricity sparked in their gaze. She looked down but immediately looked up again and met his brown eyes. His deep breaths faltered, but as soon as they touched, they both relaxed. The song enveloped them and the high notes prevented their different communities from stopping the dance.

 

Their only dance and a future that never happened.

 

Night and day

There's a burning down inside of me

Burning love

With a yearning that won't let me be

Down I go

And I just can't take it all alone

I really should be holding you

Holding you

Loving you, loving you

 

 

The way it ended

Many years later he himself resided in Egypt. He tried to forget the ways that brought him there, and they will not be mentioned here.

Shortly after their encounter on the street, she stopped coming to the cafe and was basically never seen there again. The orange scent faded and he flustered from the job. She moved to America, but didn't have the courage to tell him. She finally found peace and quiet on the west coast and lived there alone ever since. 

He never knew what had become of her.

Instead, he imagined another world, where he would have traveled to Egypt on a Palestinian passport instead of living there semi-illegally. She would have most likely still lived there. Maybe he would have met her in a cafe in Korba. Perhaps he would then be a well-to-do olive grower on his father's farm in the beautiful village that was.

Sometimes he would pass by the dilapidated Vitaly Magar synagogue in Heliopolis and imagined the orange scent he associated with her. In his mind, religion was not important. His opinion was that they were made to lead people forward and not to tear them apart. But that was exactly what they had done. 

Maybe she could have made a spur of the moment decision to return there one day. After hearing a song that reminded her of her childhood, she bought a plane ticket and was suddenly there. For the first time since they were forced to leave. The border control agents welcomed her on an unfamiliar passport, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Then maybe she'd get into his taxicab, and he'd recognize her in an instant.

In what dimension was this existence? She had disappeared from the back seat and into the crowd. He jumped out of the car, wandered around and searched for her. All those faces merged into one and he could swear it had been her. It was her. He smelled an overpowering smell of oranges and no longer knew what was facing up or down 

The car was still running, and the cassette was playing an old familiar tune. 

 

Tragedy

When the feeling's gone and you can't go on

It's tragedy

When the morning cries and you don't know why

It's hard to bear

With no one to love you, you're

Goin' nowhere

Tragedy

When you lose control and you got no soul

It's tragedy

When the morning cries and you don't know why

It's hard to bear

With no one beside you, you're

Goin' nowhere 

Tragedy...

 

 

 

Fin

 

  

Post scriptum

 

On page 8 of the book The Poetics of Ancient and Classical Arabic Literature: Orientology by Esad Durakovic, it says: 

[...] in Arabic-Islamic culture, time is understood as cyclical or circular (al-zaman al-da‘iri), composed of individual moments. [...]  This understanding is strongly differentiated from the understanding of time in Judeo-Christian culture, which is linear [...]. These different interpretations of time establish different relations towards it, be it historical time or the temporal orientation of individuals within it.

 

Time is a cycle. But it seems as if everyone is always on the edge of their seat, waiting for time to come to a certain end so that problems affecting ordinary people can be solved.

When will time return to the starting point for those who love across political lines, religion and injustices, so we can heal all our wounds?