Out of It Read online

  Out of It

  Selma Dabbagh

  Gaza is being bombed. Rashid – a bright, unemployed twenty-seven-year-old, who has stayed up smoking grass watching it happen – wakes the next day to hear that he’s got the escape route he’s been waiting for: a scholarship to London. His twin sister, Iman – frustrated by atrocities and inaction around her – has also been up all night in a meeting that offers her nothing but more disappointment. Grabbing recklessly at an opportunity to make a difference, she finds herself being followed by an unknown fighter.

  Meanwhile Sabri, the oldest brother of this disparate Palestinian family works on a history of Palestine from his wheelchair as their mother pickles vegetables and feuds with their neighbours.

  Written with extraordinary humanity and humour, and moving between Gaza London and the Gulf, Out of It is a tale that redefines Palestine and its people. It follows the lives of Rashid and Iman as they try to forge paths for themselves in the midst of occupation, religious fundamentalism and the divisions between Palestinian factions. It tells of family secrets, unlikely love stories and unburied tragedies as it captures the frustrations and energies of the modern Arab world.

  Selma Dabbagh

  OUT of IT

  For my parents Claire and Taysir for teaching me how to observe and to feel respectively.

  PART I

  GAZAN SKIES

  Chapter 1

  These were terrible times, but the email changed everything.

  The night before the flares had started at around eight, Rashid was sure of that much. Before them, there had just been the insistent tattering of gunfire somewhere in the background. His perception was cushioned and brightened by Gloria’s leaves by then, so that when the flares actually kicked off, he had been stoned making the dry air fill with toxic smoke and the falling lights squirm around on his eyeballs long after they had faded.

  By the time the heavy stuff (Baadoom! Baadoom!) had pounded in on them he had been well and truly blitzed and in that state he sometimes found himself almost willing those bottom-of-the-stomach explosions to burst forth after all that stuttering gunfire: Just do it, why don’t you? Go on, come out with it! There had been a missile with a light so bright it lit up the whole strip, right up to the fence. Smoke had blown back at the sky and seeped along the ground close to the lights.

  The strike on the hospital was possibly half an hour after the flares, maybe more. It felt as though it had taken out his guts with it. That could have been when he had really lost it. There was a vivid point of being where he had let himself go. It was imprinted on his mind, an instant of reaching in his soul, when he had found himself leaping up on the roof next to the water tanks, teasing the locust heads of the helicopters. Hey you! Can you see me? Here on the roof! Can you see me?

  That was the moment. He could not remember anything after that. That was it. Blank. Stoned, utterly stoned. The thickness of it was still there like a fungus under his forehead.

  He had awoken with his legs splayed out under his bed in imitation of a shot man, face and floor tiles sealed together by a membrane of spittle. He came to with a headache, that told him that he should suffer as he was a disgrace, was good for so damn little and so on and so forth.

  This had been when he woke up.

  But now, fifteen minutes later, he was something new and somewhere different. He no longer cared about any of the indignity that could be associated with passing out under his bed. All that was before he had logged on and downloaded. Before finding it there. Having it here.

  The email had changed everything.

  He had been transformed.

  Now he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, bare to the waist, face wet, arms spread. Supreme.

  Here he was, reflected back at himself: the eternal man in a body of youth. His forearms, face and neck were darker than the rest of him, but Rashid ignored the sallow skin that created the ghost of a T-shirt over his chest, the one that cut across his arms. He disregarded the underdeveloped muscle tone and there were days when he would think the word wasted, wasted, and feel his flesh shrinking under the surface of his skin. This was a morning when he saw only his collarbones that framed it all, the swoop of biceps and triceps on his arms, the stomach definition that needed no work for it to stay like that and the scrub of dark hair from his navel down to his jeans. ‘Pathway to heaven,’ Lisa had said tracing along it with her fingertip, ‘pathway to heaven.’

  And at the thought of her, her laugh, Lisa! It exploded within him again and he could feel himself fly, up, up, out of all of this. See himself fly, an Olympic diver in reverse, Icarus in the sky, Jesus on a hill – it was all confused – fly up, out, over all this.

  All this what?

  All this bonery. He knew how the earth would look from up there: like dried-out coral, ridged, chambered and sandy. He knew as he had traced his finger over the satellite pictures of it when dreaming of escape. From up there it was hundreds and thousands of habitations reduced to scratches on a bone. At that height, the line that fenced them in would barely be made out, nor would the checkpoints, not from up there, but even from that stratospheric distance, the contrast with the other side would be stark. On the other side, that side, the place they came from, that had been theirs, the one that they weren’t allowed to even visit any more, it wasn’t bones, but a blanket: an elaborate blanket of modernist design. It was patterned with rows, circles and stripes, each shape coloured absolutely as though painted with the tip of a cursor and the press of a button. Mud brown here, a dash of hunting green there, some rust-coloured lines for border definition. That side glinted. Solar panels and swimming pools twinkled in the sun.

  To hell with them.

  To hell with them.

  He was out of there.

  Flip, flip, flip for he doesn’t fly, he is flipping now over the sea, the White Sea, al bahr al abyad, the Mediterranean, and it’s so blue and alive with fish and dolphins leaping, leaping like him: over, up, out of it all, into the sky and away.

  Right the hell out of there.

  Out of here.

  For ever.

  Well, at least for a year.

  Chapter 2

  The comment came from nowhere, but after it was said Iman had been unable to treat the meeting in the same way. The chairwoman had smiled approvingly at her notepad and that was that.

  ‘But you’ve just turned up here,’ was all the woman had to say, ‘you’re new to this.’

  Which was where it was. Where, Iman felt, it had always been, although no one had said it before. Iman was the outsider, the returnee and as a result she did not deserve to so much as comment on what was going on there.

  ‘Swisra,’ someone was saying behind her, Switzerland. They were talking about her schooling. That was completely unacceptable. Iman turned on the woman who had spoken, but instead of being intimidated by Iman’s stare, the woman was now explaining Iman’s background to the women near her. ‘Her father was with the Outside Leadership,’ the woman was saying. ‘She teaches at a school. Only been back for a year or so.’

  ‘But what if I have? That doesn’t exclude me does it? Maybe I have something to add anyway?’

  She had to handle herself as though he was watching her, she thought. ‘This is how I dealt with it,’ she would tell him if he were to ask later, if she saw him again. ‘I stood there and I told them.’ But told them what? They were watching her now, not all of them hostile, some of them encouraging, most of them curious, but none of them seemed to appreciate the magnitude of the insult. Didn’t they see that she was being pushed out?

  ‘I may not have been here long,’ she strained to be dignified rather than haughty, to be calm rather than hysterical, ‘but I am here now and I am not planning on leaving. I should still be able to have
my say.’

  ‘Sah!’ Umm Nidal, who Iman and her twin brother Rashid, referred to as Grande Dame, now usefully decided to deploy her clout, ‘Sah! She’s right. She should have her say.’

  ‘Your point?’ the chairwoman asked, scratching between her roots at her scalp with the end of her chrome pen and squinting. She always needed to squint to take Iman in.

  ‘My point is that we can’t keep waiting for one great opportunity to present itself, because it won’t.’ Iman took a breath calm, calm. ‘We need to decide on small, manageable steps that are realisable and doable. It is better to do something, no matter how small—’

  ‘Thank you,’ the chairwoman said. ‘Thank you, Miss Mujahed.’ She nodded at Iman for her to sit down.

  The Women’s Committee’s fortnightly meeting was being held in an unfinished, windowless basement room in one of the newly built universities in the city and they had been there all night. The walls were bare breeze blocks, the floor uncovered cement. It was the type of room you would find in a holocaust museum, Iman thought. The plan had been for the seven o’clock meeting to last no longer than two hours, but the bombing had started unexpectedly at eight and the decision had been for them to stay. And to stay. And to stay some more.

  Iman had, for the most part, embraced being stuck there. She had gone upstairs and found the caretaker’s wife in a closet-like room on the second floor, and, armed with a bag of keys, they had together found a couple of rugs in one of the offices that they brought down for the Committee members to sit, lie, or sleep on. They had boiled water in a saucepan and found cups for tea and sugar (Bravo, Iman! Bravo!) which she had brought in on a tray. She had helped with the sharing of the working phones between the women. She had complimented a couple of the women, joked with others. She had done so much. She did not deserve that comment (You’ve just turned up here), that reminder of who she was. That she was not wanted.

  It was now nearly dawn, and sitting down, Iman realised how depleted the women looked: dread had dulled them. Most of them had barely participated in the meeting. Many had just followed the movement of the planes overhead with their eyes. Others had slept. Only the chairwoman had not let up for a second.

  Iman coiled up her hair to form a rest against the wall. What would Raed say about the Committee? She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Raed, who was so interested in what she had to say, who found a wryness in her that others missed, who had opinions on everything and every opinion seemed to intrinsically, magically concur with her own.

  To escape from the Committee’s pettiness and the bombing’s complete lack of pettiness, Iman found herself retreating back to thoughts of Raed, to the sensation of the touch of his arm against hers. It had happened months ago now, in a flat in the Beach District. There had been a party and the sofa had been too small for the number of people on it and she had been pushed up against him. She had, of course, heard of him before and he was the older cousin of one of her students, but that had been the first time that they met. At one point he had pushed the side of his foot close against hers and left it there. She was sure of it. And then a look had followed the touch to show that it was not an accident. Just the thought of his look, his touch, even months later, could change her breathing pattern.

  If it all became a bit too much, she went back to sitting on the sofa. Or she went further forward and thought of a kiss that had not happened yet, but one that would surely stop the world when it did.

  It was emotional distortion by boredom. She could not even remember his features any more, they seemed to have become worn down by the number of times she had gone over them in her mind.

  She needed to get over it.

  But two weeks ago he had been injured and ended up in hospital and she did not know him well enough to visit and her brothers didn’t know him at all. She asked his cousin about him, but there was a limit as to how much information could be got out of a seven-year-old. He’s good, Miss. He’s healing well, Miss. Do you like my picture, Miss?

  What would he say of her participating in a group like this? Would he condone it or think it a waste of time? Her older brother, Sabri, thought it important, and she normally went through the conclusions and recommendations with him afterwards. She never bothered to discuss the Women’s Committee in any seriousness with Rashid. No, Rashid, they’re not getting any better-looking in case you were going to ask.

  When she had first moved to Gaza and joined the Committee, she (Fool!) had been so keen. She had brought home agendas, written out topics and underlined them: Role Models or Empty Mascots? The Role of Women in the Front’s Hijacking Operations of the 1970s, Embracing the Other? Determining the Women’s Committee Policy towards the Islamic Resistance Movement. She had made pages upon pages of notes. But in meeting after meeting, the same topics had divided the floor into the same factions and the same excuses had been given for the same inaction. But what can we do in this situation? With these circumstances?

  Damn the circumstances.

  The circumstances would never change if they didn’t do anything.

  But do what? ‘We should,’ Raed had said, in such a simple way, as though describing how to play backgammon to a child, ‘fight them with what they fight us with. It is the only way. The religious movements understand this. We are being too soft, which is why we are not getting anywhere. Our strategy makes no sense.’

  Making tea during a bombardment had made her feel like she was part of a meaningful movement. And that was where it was at. She was too soft was where it was at.

  Iman noticed that Manar was watching her from across the room. Diligent, devout Manar. And what did that understanding smile mean coming from her? That slightly greasy face in that tightly bound headscarf. What, Manar? Do you have something to say now? Why don’t you say in then?

  The chairwoman had started her summation. Iman leant over her knee and her hair fell in matted clusters down her back. Not one point, Iman realised, not one word, let alone one idea that Iman had said was in the conclusions.

  The chairwoman declared the meeting over and left. As soon as the door shut behind her it was as though the room’s centrifugal force had been released and a panic spread through the women: Where did they strike? North? No, east from here. Of course, the south, they always do the south. They say they are using new planes, different bombs…

  Within seconds the previously docile Committee members were all clamouring to leave, waking up the others, picking up bags, someone took the tray with empty glasses. Manar came forward to help Iman fold a rug. Troubled girl, Iman thought as she looked at Manar, hoping that by doing so she could dispel the hold that Manar seemed to exert over her, as she did on the rest of the Committee.

  Manar joined Iman in rolling up the other, larger rug. Despite her overexaggerated humility, Manar definitely had airs. Iman had noticed that she did not, for example, even deign to read the agenda when it was circulated, instead she just waved, almost imperceptibly, to indicate that it could not be of interest to her although she found it charming that it was to others. What gave someone the confidence to feel that sense of entitlement and superiority? No one knew anything about this woman. She hardly spoke and yet since she had arrived at the Committee everyone seemed to have changed. No one joked about not fasting in Ramadan any more, instead many women said that they did, and rather than discussing that old topic of how the veil objectified women, they now spent their time having heated discussions about the oppression of women in the West.

  Iman studied Manar: she didn’t have a bag and wore no make-up. The only sign that she cared about her appearance at all was her eyebrows that were badly plucked. There was a general beigeness to her, an asexual studenty casualness under her long floor-length dark coat that she had buttoned back up. With it on she was back to being an oval of plain features edged in black.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Manar said, indicating the door as they picked up a rug each.

  Outside, the crackling amplifier had started the dawn call to
prayer. Prayer, the muezzin cajoled, is better than sleep. And sleep, Iman thought, is better than meetings.

  ‘Aren’t you going to pray?’ Iman asked.

  ‘I’ll do it later.’ Brown dust and crumbles of concrete from the rug stuck to Manar’s outfit. ‘I’ll help you with these first.’

  They found the caretaker’s wife and returned the rugs in silence. Coming down the stairs, they didn’t speak to each other either and Iman felt a rush of foreboding come over her, like the realisation of a childish superstition. Today would be the day, Iman thought with a lurch of fear that felt like taking a step to nowhere in a dream, when something truly awful would happen to her family. It would occur to spite her for refusing to acknowledge the severity of the bombing. It would get her back for trying to shrug the whole thing off. They could have got them. They could have hit the house. Iman realised that her hands were stiff on the banister and that her teeth were clenched against each other in her mouth.

  In the entrance hall the caretaker’s daughter was already mopping at the creamy floor tiles with a mop. The reassuring sound of water, mop hitting plastic bucket, water being spread across tiles, was echoing around the walls, up to the high ceilings. Iman took in the rectangular gilt clock, the enlarged photograph of the President and the boxed-in noticeboard displaying students’ results. These were all comforting – the girl would not be able to continue mopping the floor if Iman’s family had been hit in a strike, surely?

  It was at the doorway that Manar turned to Iman. ‘It’s not what you came back for is it?’ she asked. ‘You didn’t come back for this.’ It was getting light outside and through the glass doors Iman could see the smoke. The girl with the mop no longer seemed particularly reassuring.

  No shit, Iman could hear Rashid saying. You think someone would come back for this? ‘What do you mean?’ Iman asked.