It was a mid-august day, the sun blazing the streets of Ramallah. The usual bustle of cabs rushing to catch the next prey, shop owners screaming for costumers, an old man setting at the side of the street selling hand-made Rebabas, old used books on the side boulder-made-wall. Ramallah, as the cab driver had told us, is the city that never sleeps, he said it ostentatiously. If that was true it would be due to the fear of death rather than the love of life. The walls are choking her, and she’s losing blood severely, each time with a different face. And memory is perfidious.
Ramallah has many faces most of them are ugly and somber, except for that one special face that succeeds every time to make me long for visiting it again. Amid the chaos, hope is born. I once read about the chaos theory, which states that contrary to the old belief that science can predict what’s going to happen, that humans can control the events occurring. Yet as I wondered the streets of the old city I realized that that theory can’t be taken as a an interpretation of the status quo in Ramallah, because this wasn’t a normal chaos like the movement of the wind and the emigration of birds in the fall. It was an attempted chaos planned by those who built the walls around it.
After roaming the endless streets and having lunch, I headed towards this big yard in the downtown marker where all the buses and taxis gather. I sat in the first seat behind the driver of an old white and green minivan. We’ve waited about half an hour until the car got full. I sat there thinking of how much time did it take to build the Separation wall and if so who had built it? Surely not Jews because they have soft nails and stuff. I thought the life of the tired sweaty driver, he seemed like the kind of person who curses all the time, I imagined that his biggest fears are putting food on the table, making sure his kids get home before night and to watch television leisurely. He neither thought of the occupation and its throes, how can he stop it or contribute to the demolishment of it, and I wouldn’t blame him. I’m definitely not.
A young kid at the age of 7 maybe burst running into the car and pleaded for the driver to hitch him to the checkpoint, he pleaded and begged relentlessly until the driver announced his succumbing. In ten minutes the car was full and we set to go.
An old man with a slight hump sat in the adjacent seat. He wore shabby clothes and a patchwork boots. He had a tired face and the most beautiful yes I’ve seen. He had a comfortable face and a smooth voice which I heard as soon as we embarked on our way.
Nobody asked him to speak, but he spoke his story. He’s in his 80’s thanks to God, his health is good. He is living under his two sons’ homes, in a shabby little room. He thanks God everyday he says.
His honest words grip my attention; I turn my head towards him and listen carefully. He starts from the beginning
He lived in Lifta near Jerusalem but after the ominous 1948 his family fled, they didn’t want to but after they heard of Deir Yassin’s massacre they got terrified and fled to Jerusalem. He was newly married at that time to the most beautiful woman he ever saw, he held her picture everywhere he went, he slept next to it, conjuring her features gradually, her wavy black hair resting on her shoulders, her big almond eyes which he had always envied, though I think his eyes are more pretty. He rummaged through his little bag and held a red pamphlet-like-paper triumphantly. I looked at it for a long time, when I glanced up we where at the outskirts of Kufor-Oukob. I can’t explain why but her face, this woman’s face-that I don’t even know her name- is tattooed in my memory.
He lost her twenty years ago, on the brink of death he promised that he will look after the kids and he will love life just the way he did when she was there by his side. He fought every day for the hope of his craved moments with her memories and pictures.
While he talked restlessly about her, about the way she woke up early to do the house chores, how he spoke admiringly of her. I wished someday some one will love me the way he loves her.
Love is stronger than oblivion, time and even ocupation. It’s eternal.
AICHA BINT YUSIF 