still Palestine. But Mamdouh had found a place in Kuwait where he was thriving, having ascended rapidly from a laborer to construction foreman. His lack of sufficient schooling was masked by a natural mathematical and spatial prowess. He was deft at reading blueprints and engineering plans, and a well-known Palestinian architect had taken Mamdouh under his tutelage in Kuwait.
“Palestinians are building Kuwait from the sand up,” he told Nazmiyeh. “You should see! My mentor is designing the layout of the entire country. Another Palestinian has already established Kuwait’s military and still another Palestinian has established its police force. The leading doctors and surgeons are all Palestinian and they are running nearly every domestic ministry, from education to the interior.” Mamdouh paused, then announced proudly, “I am going to be an architect.”
With so many childbirths close together, Nazmiyeh was never without babies strapped to her back, clinging to her legs, or dangling from her breasts. Though she complained endlessly of their boundless needs, and she swatted at the older ones like irritating flies when they were too demanding or misbehaved, she was always heartbroken when they left for the sea with their father. She would wait at the sandy Mediterranean shore in the void of their absence, watching the roll of one wave follow another. For the man and boys of Nazmiyeh’s heart, the enchantment of fishing was also in the homecoming to the woman waiting for them with exuberant anticipation, large meals, and, for Atiyeh, lovemaking that went long into the night, changing forms until his soul would ache, depleted by his love for her.
But their delight was always hampered by Nazmiyeh’s despondency when they left. So, during those early years after the Naqba, when Gaza was ruled by Egypt, it was decided that one of the older sons would stay behind when Atiyeh went for overnight fishing trips. It was during one such time in the winter, when twelve-year-old Mazen, her eldest, had remained home as man of the house, that Nazmiyeh had swept through the Nusseirat refugee camp like a tornado, kicking up dust and fury that reminded everyone who knew her why she should not be crossed.
Earlier, just an hour before, Mazen had stormed through the house, tears and fury pumping through his young body, incredulity shaking his voice as he confronted his mother, “Were you raped? Am I the son of your rapist?”
Nazmiyeh stiffened. She stepped away from the vegetables she had been cutting, looked into her son’s eyes, gray, almost as blue as the morning sky. Her firstborn who had suckled at her breast longer than any of the others, now on the doorstep of manhood. She took him into her arms, absorbing his rage and humiliation.
“No,” she began, with implacable calm. “Who told you that?”
Mazen gave her a name.
“I know that boy,” she said and walked out her front door, Mazen following.
She didn’t need to go far before spotting the boy with his friends. He ran when he saw her approach, and Nazmiyeh called to the others, “You better stop him or I’ll cut off all your ears! Every last one of you!”
They obeyed, frightened of this woman’s legendary ire. As she reached the boy, who was squirming to get away from the group holding him, Nazmiyeh grabbed him by the ear and began beating him with her slipper. The more he cried out, the harder she whupped him. People gathered. An elderly man stepped in, demanding Nazmiyeh stop and proclaiming the oneness of Allah to calm her. La ellah illa Allah . She did, for not even Nazmiyeh would violate the social order of respecting the elderly. But she continued yelling at the boy, insisting that he reveal who had told him the filth he was spreading.
Later that evening, the boy and his mother and grandmother arrived at Nazmiyeh’s home. His recoiled demeanor reminded Nazmiyeh of the day Atiyeh, stunned to silence by Sulayman, had come to their home in Beit Daras to
“Palestinians are building Kuwait from the sand up,” he told Nazmiyeh. “You should see! My mentor is designing the layout of the entire country. Another Palestinian has already established Kuwait’s military and still another Palestinian has established its police force. The leading doctors and surgeons are all Palestinian and they are running nearly every domestic ministry, from education to the interior.” Mamdouh paused, then announced proudly, “I am going to be an architect.”
With so many childbirths close together, Nazmiyeh was never without babies strapped to her back, clinging to her legs, or dangling from her breasts. Though she complained endlessly of their boundless needs, and she swatted at the older ones like irritating flies when they were too demanding or misbehaved, she was always heartbroken when they left for the sea with their father. She would wait at the sandy Mediterranean shore in the void of their absence, watching the roll of one wave follow another. For the man and boys of Nazmiyeh’s heart, the enchantment of fishing was also in the homecoming to the woman waiting for them with exuberant anticipation, large meals, and, for Atiyeh, lovemaking that went long into the night, changing forms until his soul would ache, depleted by his love for her.
But their delight was always hampered by Nazmiyeh’s despondency when they left. So, during those early years after the Naqba, when Gaza was ruled by Egypt, it was decided that one of the older sons would stay behind when Atiyeh went for overnight fishing trips. It was during one such time in the winter, when twelve-year-old Mazen, her eldest, had remained home as man of the house, that Nazmiyeh had swept through the Nusseirat refugee camp like a tornado, kicking up dust and fury that reminded everyone who knew her why she should not be crossed.
Earlier, just an hour before, Mazen had stormed through the house, tears and fury pumping through his young body, incredulity shaking his voice as he confronted his mother, “Were you raped? Am I the son of your rapist?”
Nazmiyeh stiffened. She stepped away from the vegetables she had been cutting, looked into her son’s eyes, gray, almost as blue as the morning sky. Her firstborn who had suckled at her breast longer than any of the others, now on the doorstep of manhood. She took him into her arms, absorbing his rage and humiliation.
“No,” she began, with implacable calm. “Who told you that?”
Mazen gave her a name.
“I know that boy,” she said and walked out her front door, Mazen following.
She didn’t need to go far before spotting the boy with his friends. He ran when he saw her approach, and Nazmiyeh called to the others, “You better stop him or I’ll cut off all your ears! Every last one of you!”
They obeyed, frightened of this woman’s legendary ire. As she reached the boy, who was squirming to get away from the group holding him, Nazmiyeh grabbed him by the ear and began beating him with her slipper. The more he cried out, the harder she whupped him. People gathered. An elderly man stepped in, demanding Nazmiyeh stop and proclaiming the oneness of Allah to calm her. La ellah illa Allah . She did, for not even Nazmiyeh would violate the social order of respecting the elderly. But she continued yelling at the boy, insisting that he reveal who had told him the filth he was spreading.
Later that evening, the boy and his mother and grandmother arrived at Nazmiyeh’s home. His recoiled demeanor reminded Nazmiyeh of the day Atiyeh, stunned to silence by Sulayman, had come to their home in Beit Daras to
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