Days of Ignorance (17 page)

Yet, in spite of everything, he would never be able to distance himself from her or stop wanting her in the same way and to the same degree that he’d wanted her from the start. He would go on looking into her black eyes and wondering what his life had been like before encountering those eyes and where he’d been without them all that time. And why did he love her so? Did he love her because she was beautiful?

The neighbor girl Maryam had been beautiful, too, but he hadn’t given her a chance. One evening she’d sent one of her little sisters to give him a carefully folded piece of paper. He still remembered the sky-blue color in which the message had been penned, the uneven letters, the hesitantly composed sentences, and the words ‘
I love you
’ written with slanting letters. As he remembered her face, which he’d seen more than once, he’d felt a mysterious warmth flowing from the bottom of his stomach to the top of his throat. He realized that she had intended him to see her in the house when she visited his mother together with her mother, or through the door of their house when it was ajar. He had realized this, and his realization had been confirmed when he read her letter. But her beautiful face hadn’t brought love. Love had remained behind a towering barrier that beauty alone hadn’t been able to penetrate. He’d only said one thing to her. He’d spent long nights thinking about it in an attempt to ensure that it wouldn’t be sharp or hurtful: ‘I’m a man without a future, and you deserve better than that.’

But, if he didn’t love Leen for her beauty, then did he love her because she was white?

He’d always rejected this suggestion, but when he did, he noticed that he would lose his composure like someone heatedly denying an accusation. He’d experienced being loved by a beautiful woman and gently turning her down because her beauty had done nothing to awaken what lay dormant inside him. But he’d never experienced being loved by a white woman – before Leen, that is – and gently turning her down because her whiteness hadn’t touched him. It frightened him terribly because, when it came to her color, he had no history with which to compare his present experience. He wanted to believe that her color had nothing to do with his feelings. Consequently, he would sometimes have fantasies in which Leen was afflicted with some illness that changed her color, and at the critical moment when he discovered – in the fantasy – that her color had changed, he would ask himself theatrically, ‘Will you still love her?’ whereupon a long ‘Yes’ would resound inside him. However, he would pause in the face of that ‘Yes’ without being able to affirm it. He was sure he would still love her even if he were a different color. But what if
she
were a different color? Would he still love her? If so, then would he love her as much as he did now, or more, or less? If not, would it be because of her color and nothing else? And if he loved her, would his love for her be a victory for a torment that had nearly maimed his soul? Did he want to thumb his nose at the other color and say, ‘She’s left you and fallen in love with me!’? What if he asked her, ‘Why do you love me?’ How would she answer him? How would she look at the matter? What would she think he meant? Would she worry? And why, why did he torture himself with these questions and doubts?

He loved her. This was the certainty he possessed at that moment. He loved her because she was the way she was. He didn’t know exactly what ‘the way she was’ meant. However, ‘the way she was’ was different. She resembled nothing and nobody but herself, and he was prepared – or, at least, he thought he was prepared – to take a risk in order for her to remain at his side, so that the feeling he experienced when he was with her – the feeling that he deserved to live – wouldn’t leave him.

8

Google goes delirious

US and British forces launched several devastating raids yesterday evening and early this morning on Baghdad, which has been subjected to waves of airstrikes. According to an eye witness from Reuters, warning sirens could be heard all over Kuwait, auguring a possible rocket attack by Iraq. Meanwhile, the cities of Mosul, Kirkuk and Umm Qasr witnessed several explosions due to a spate of rockets fired by US forces. Newspaper reporters in Baghdad stated that explosions rocked Iraqi President Saddam Hussein’s compound in the center of the capital, where pillars of smoke could be seen rising into the evening sky, and that fires had broken out throughout the area, which was hit by approximately ten rockets or bombs after 9 p.m. local time.

Shiyar * the 19th of al-Mu’tamar,

in the year of the Shock and Awe Campaign

3 a.m.

She pressed the ‘Enter’ key, the site opened, and the words were laid out before her in tidy, sharp relief against a pale green background. She quickly scanned the lines . . .

. . . There are words in classical Arabic which have become obsolete. Arabs have ceased using such words, as a result of which they have died out. They include, for example, the names of the days and months that were in use during the pre-Islamic era (the ‘days of ignorance’) . . .

Chapter One: Obsolete Names for the Days of the Week

The days of the week in the pre-Islamic era were as follows:

These names then died out and were replaced with the names we know today: al-Sabt (Saturday), al-Ahad (Sunday), etc. A certain pre-Islamic poet gathered these names into verse, saying:

I hope to live, but my dying day

will be Awwal, Ahwan or Jubar.

Otherwise it will be the next day, Dubar,

and if I survive that day as well,

then Munis, ’Arubah or Shiyar.

These are the days of our earthly plight,

With night overtaking day, and day, night.

Chapter Two: Obsolete Names for the Months of the Year

The names of the lunar months in the pre-Islamic era were as follows:

There are scholars who disagree with the majority view on the names of these months. Biruni, for example, listed them as follows: al-Mu’tamar, Najir, Khawwan, Suwan, Hantim, Zabba’, al-Asamm, ’Adil, Nafiq, Waghil, Huwa’, and Burak. As for Sahib ibn ’Abbad, he organized them poetically as follows:

If you wish to know how Arabs named

their months in the days of ignorance,

I shall list them for you from the beginning.

Just as we now begin with al-Muharram:

First comes Mu’tamar, then Najir,

Then Khawwan and Suwan in an inseparable duo.

Then Hanin with Zaba, al-Asamm,’Adil,

Nafiq with Waghl and Warnah with Burak.

A comparison between these names and their counterparts in the lists given by Biruni and Sahib ibn ’Abbad gives us good reason to believe that some of them have been misspelled or corrupted. Compare, for example, Wabsan and Suwwan; al-Hanin and Hantim; Rubba, Runna and Zabba’; ’Adhil and ’Adil; Natiq and Nafiq; Wail and Waghil. It comes as no surprise that the names of these months should have undergone corruption given the fact that they dropped out of usage so long ago and were rendered obsolete. The differences may also reflect tribal dialects.

Al-Mas’udi presented a listing that differed in some respects. He listed the pre-Islamic names of the months as: Natiq, Thaqil, Taliq, Najir, Aslakh, Amyah, Ahlak, Kusa’, Zahir, Burak, Huraf and Nuas; that is, Dhu al-Hijjah.

. . .

The Arabs derived the well-known names of al-Muharram, Safar, etc., from events that happened to occur at the time the namings took place. It will thus be apparent to whoever reflects on the derivation of the names of the months in the pre-Islamic era (the ‘days of ignorance’) and the names that came into use later that a long time passed between the two namings of each month given the differing significations each name bears with respect to the specific events associated with the month concerned.

She sat back in her chair, pondering the near-darkness in her room. The only source of lighting was her computer screen. Sighing dejectedly, she closed her eyes and thought about Malek’s face as he lay in his state of oblivion. She also thought about the war that was going to devour so many things. She’d lived through two wars without Malek. She didn’t know whether this was a good sign or a bad one. However, she believed it was a sign. Then it dawned on her – with painful slowness – that everything had been clear from the beginning. It had come and gone before her eyes, but she hadn’t wanted to see. She’d been looking at things without seeing. Or she had seen, but had chosen to disregard what she saw. Now everything was laughing at her in derision, and she couldn’t say, ‘That’s enough!’

She copied what was on the screen, then went to ‘Word’ and pasted it there. After formatting it to print it out, she pressed the ‘Printer’ icon on the toolbar. The printer revved up loudly and started to shudder as though it were having convulsions. She took the sheet of paper that had come out of the printer and stuck it with a colored thumbtack onto a Styrofoam bulletin board over her desk. Then she stood there contemplating it.

For a few moments she saw the days and months removing their masks before her very eyes and revealing their old faces. She saw Shiyar shedding its Sabt, Awwal shedding its Ahad,
’
Adhil shedding its Sha
’
ban, and Wa
’
il shedding its Shawwal. The old faces weren’t ugly. They were just wrinkled from having perspired for so long beneath masks that didn’t belong to them. When she saw this happening, she thought everything had finally been straightened out. It was all she could think about anymore. She could no longer close her ears to the loud clamor that filled her head, leading her to the wreckage she’d been fleeing from for so long:

I remembered someone weeping over me, but found no on . . .
/ Disappointed. / Heh heh heh he-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h heh heh heh! / The rain doesn’t come during the day anymore. / Girls are fire. Thank God I don’t have any! / The Carter Doctrine. / I love you, you’ve hated me. / Cursed. / He danced with me. / If I die and am raised again. / So you think you’re going to fix the world, smarty pants? Just have a good time! / For heaven’s sake, aren’t you ashamed of yourself? / Heh heh heh he-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h heh heh heh! / And if you leave me, I won’t die. / Stupid. / I can’t, Leen! /
. . . who causes His angels to be His message-bearers, endowed with wings, two or three or four . . .
/ Crazy. / Fear thrives on ignorance. /
Let no one treat us unjustly, lest we prove ourselves to be more unjust than the unjust themselves
. / There’s no cure for love. / Heh heh heh he-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h heh heh heh! / She must have done something wrong with him. Otherwise, why would she insist on marrying him? / Mercy has abandoned me. / We’re on the brink of war. /
Wrong done by near-of-kin is more heartbreaking
. / Your eyes are twinkling. / Watch out for Arab girls, son. You’ll see they can’t be trusted. /
I remembered you as the spears were drinking their fill.
/ The Saudis just play around with money. / Heh heh heh he-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h heh heh heh! / Hey, girl, you’re not a Bedouin, so why do you go around with Hejazi girls? / I was dead. / The mask fell off. /
God is greater, and away with the despicable outcasts!
/ If I could stop being in love. / The sound of metal grating against metal disturbs me. / Come, let’s plant a tree. / Oh Lord, why did you create color? / Be mine. / Two swords uprooting a palm tree. / The sugar says to the tea, ‘Ugh, you’re black!’ / Heh heh heh he-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-h heh heh heh! /
They say, ‘Perish not for sorrow, rather, adorn thyself with patient endurance.’
/ Have you seen the make-up they’ve started wearing to wakes? It’s really something! / I might die tomorrow. / The Americans think the Iraqis are going to welcome their troops with flowers. /
I beg thee, long night, be gone and give way to morning . . .
/ Yearning glows like a star that will soon go out. / I lose without hope. / Your eyes are black like my night. / Oh Lord, protect me against the wiles of hope. /
That’s right, we are the Hejaz, and we are Nejd.
/
Draw the sword without fear or dread. / Draw the sword without fear or dread. / Draw the sword without fear or dread. / Draw the sword without fear or dread. / Draw the sword without fear or dread. / Draw the sword without fear or dread . . .