In My
Father's Garden
By Wafa Abu-Shamais
(All In One)
It was exactly one o'clock, an hour after
midnight. My husband and I had been watching a movie on TV. As
soon as the movie finished, I went to bed. My husband said that
he wanted to catch the news headlines, which he told me would
not take more than five minutes, and he promised he would come
to bed immediately after. I got into bed and as soon as I placed
my head on the pillow, my dream began. It was the longest dream
I've ever had although it lasted only five minutes.
It seemed I was ready then, and the dream was
waiting for me to close my eyes so that it could start. All of a
sudden and without any introduction, I saw myself in my parents’
house with my children. My parents live in a two-story house,
where they occupy the first level and one of my brothers lives
in the second.
It was Friday and our weekly family
gathering. My two brothers and sister were present, along with
their children. There were ten grown-ups and fifteen children.
All the Friday activities, from preparing lunch in my mother’s
busy kitchen, to having lunch and feeding the children, to
washing and drying the dishes, to drinking coffee and having
dessert, flashed quickly in front of my eyes. How amazing that
things that take hours, months or even years to happen in real
life can pass by so quickly when repeated in dreams. Maybe that
is why realities hurt more than dreams, since they take so much
longer and we live every minute of them. Everyone seemed happy
and thoroughly enjoying themselves. Faces of young children and
adults flashed by in varying positions, colors and sizes,
sometimes chattering quite noisily, and yet sometimes they were
in black and white, mute. Some pictures flashed so quickly that
I couldn’t remember them later, while others floated in slow
motion.
I have always admired the producers and
directors of dreams. They are great people who work hard in
order to produce a winning dream. Of course they wouldn’t be
doing a great job without the help of our eyes, the cameramen.
In movies, directors and producers deal with real people, while
in dreams, they deal with images of real people. This fact alone
makes dreams more interesting than reality. In my dream, time
was passing very quickly, almost like heat lightning over the
hills..
It was around seven in the evening, and we
were waiting for the day to cool down so that we could go to the
garden which my father had worked so hard to create. For many
years, the piece of land adjoining the house had been neglected,
and it was ugly, almost like a junkyard. There were rocks of
different sizes scattered all over the place; many dead and dry
trees, and little that was thriving. There were no roses, very
few green plants, and birds rarely visited the trees. We didn’t
want to walk in it or even to look in its direction. Moreover,
we never allowed our children to play in it for fear of insects
or other vermin.
After his retirement, my father threw his
entire being into changing this ugly area and making it thrive.
He brought a gardener from a remote village and enlisted his
help with this barren piece of land. My father had heard that
this man was not only an experienced gardener but also famous
for building pools with fountains and falls. My father loved
that idea: the sound of water would be splendid, he thought. The
gardener, forty years old, was the right man for the job. It
took him twelve months, four entire seasons, to use all the
verbs of hard work: cleaning, clearing, cutting, digging,
removing, weeding, measuring, arranging, building, restoring. My
father was very generous with him. In addition to a weekly
salary, the gardener was offered daily breakfast and lunch, cold
drinks, hot drinks, and fruit.
We all thought my father was not only wasting
his money, but his own time and effort as well. He used to help
the gardener and work with him, carrying away dried weeds and
branches, clearing out stones and rocks, and even swinging a
shovel or ax to uproot dry plants and grass. Once he injured his
finger, and once again he stepped on a nail. This made my mother
angry, and many times she told him to stay inside and let the
gardener do all the work. She would fume whenever he came home
with his clothes dirty and torn because he had once again worked
with the gardener. She washed his clothes and cleaned and
complained over and over about his muddy shoes and damaged
apparel.
But my father was stubborn and refused to
listen. He thought it was a wonderful idea when the gardener
told him that the pool would look more beautiful if built with a
certain type of stone instead of the brick they had planned to
use. These stones were rare and expensive, small and reddish
with irregular shapes and holes and other carvings in them. My
father ordered them from a nearby village and the gardener was
as pleased as if he were building his own pool.
The age difference between my father and the
gardener was about forty years, but they got along well. There
was respect and understanding between them. The only condition
that my father had placed on the gardener, who was otherwise
given free rein to build pools and fountains, walkways and
places to sit and relax, was that the big olive tree that was in
the garden remain undamaged. That tree was more than five
hundred years old and a heritage to my father from his
great-grandparents. It was huge, with three large, spreading
branches and evergreen leaves, a symbol of life and hope and the
ability to survive and withstand challenges by man and nature
throughout the years. Despite all life's hardships, severe
weather and natural catastrophe, that tree had survived. It had
lost many branches over the years but stood very high and added
greatness to the house. Furthermore, its olives were
magnificent. They were quite large, half green and half black,
and very delicious when pickled. When the harvest was good, my
parents would have some pickled and the rest made into oil. The
olives along with the oil would then be distributed among all
the members of my family, in portions large enough to supply all
of us for the entire year. Had the olive tree been in the way of
building the pool, my father would have changed his mind about
building it.
Every Friday when we gathered in my parents'
house, I used to have a look from the window at the garden. The
gardener would be working, but the improvements and changes from
week to week were quite small and hard to discern. Work was very
slow, and my brother used to joke that it would take the
gardener so long that we might all be dead, and my father out of
money, by the time he finished. I envied the gardener. I thought
my father had spoiled him. My father was a very polite man with
great patience and caring for people regardless of their status,
position, career or age. When talking to a child, he was as
sweet and pleasant as a child could be, and when talking to a
doctor, he excelled with his medical knowledge. One would admire
him when he addressed a simple man like his gardener in a low
and soft voice. My father was a great man, and he had an
appealing charm: people both liked and respected him. The
secret, I think, was his special combination of self-esteem,
serious features, a hidden smile, experience and wisdom.
Work in the garden seemed to last forever.
There were occasions in which the gardener was absent for
various reasons. Once he was sick, and once he took his child to
the doctor. Other times, he couldn't come because of the
closure, which made leaving his village to come to the city very
risky. Once or twice, their work stopped because of curfews
imposed either on his village, or on our city. He didn't show up
on rainy days either, because building and rain did not match.
And then on hot days, he was very slow and took many naps under
the olive tree.
The gardener was a jack of all trades. He was
the builder; he was the electrician who wired the lights and
lamps, and the plumber who installed the water pipes for the
fountain and the waterfall that ran down the wall. He also
suggested building a barbecue place shaped like a cottage, with
two chimneys on the roof, a fan in one corner, and a hole for
the charcoal in the middle, and he also added a small building
for keeping tools and other supplies.
The entrance to the garden was a huge arched
gateway built of soft rectangular stones. The garden itself was
arranged into three levels, a higher one for small trees and
bushes, then the pool, and then a flat area with roses and other
flowers surrounding a patio with seats and tables. The gardener
left spaces with arched tops in the walls, and in them my father
planted creeping plants that cascaded down the wall tracing
lovely patterns with their green leaves and varied flowers.
Right in the middle of the second level was the beautiful pool
with the fountain in the center that sprinkled water upwards.
Tiny rivulets then trickled, in a slow and soft manner, through
the holes in the stone and down the wall to the pool Sprinklers
sprayed water in an arc right in the center, colored spotlights
caught and reflected the water that was running up and down, and
what we thought would be a monstrosity turned out to be a
magnificent, living piece of art.
Meanwhile, my father was busy planting
plants, flowers, small trees and bushes. He now spent his time
and money on sand, fertilizers, seeds, containers of varying
sizes and shapes, and the right plants for his garden. The
plants were very beautiful,, some of them really rare and
expensive, and their flowers were breathtaking. My father bought
books on keeping gardens and flowers, so that he might take good
care of them and learn more about where and when to plant them,
how often to irrigate, and so on. He was so happy, and found
great enjoyment in his new endeavor, becoming almost an
encyclopedia on jasmines, gardenias, daffodils, roses and many
others.
It was amazing how few plants failed to
thrive, maybe two or three in all. When my father touched the
dead soil, it turned into life, and soon the plants grew large
and the flowers bloomed. He spent hours and hours in that
garden, planting, uprooting weeds, and watering with great
generosity. He bought four tables and a dozen nice chairs, and
placed them in different locations. He also bought a large swing
and placed it on one side.
The garden was a garden to me, a playground
and park for my children, but heaven to my father. It was his
world: he had changed from a TV addict to a nature addict. So
many times, he would go to the garden alone. He would put on the
lights and let the water run and then just sit in one of the
chairs for hours, relaxing his body and calming his mind. My
mother, quite the opposite, really didn’t like to go to there at
all because it required going down a flight of stairs and her
bones are weak and her joints hurt. But going to the garden had
become a habit for my father: if we couldn’t find him in the
house, then he would be in the garden lost between the roses,
planting a new plant, or carrying the hose and watering the
plants.
We never thought that the garden would become
an attraction to our children, but they loved it also. We began
to spend our Friday gathering in the garden, we took lunches
there, made barbecues and even made coffees and teas. Even my
brother became convinced that it was a great idea, and the
garden became his favorite place for private time with his wife
and children.
Oh, the garden. I can talk forever about the
garden. There we had lunches and sometimes dinners, discussed
family matters, political issues, work and children; we even
received visitors there. We used to spend hours and hours
talking, laughing, gossiping and watching our children running
about and playing with water. It was a great pleasure for my
father to sit there amongst us talking to us and watching our
kids scream and shout and play around him. Had they been playing
and making noise in the house, he would have been annoyed. But
there in the garden, and inside his heaven, things were
different.
He would talk and we would listen to him. We
loved listening to his stories from the past, his tales from the
present, and also his vision for the future. He was a great
storyteller, and a great future-teller, and fascinated everyone
with his talk, his presence, his sense of humor and gentle
ironies. The garden seemed to reveal even more of the hidden,
greater parts of his personality. Relatives and friends invited
themselves to his garden and spent enjoyable times amongst
nature, the nice smell of flowers, and cool air beside the pool.
His generosity as a host was fascinating. He once invited the
gardener, and the two of them spent hours by themselves talking
and discussing various matters of our hard life, the closures,
the separation wall, work and unemployment, concerns for our
children, and many other things that I would never think of
discussing with my gardener. The garden inspired him and
revealed his kind heart, sensitive feelings and humility.
One whole year flashed swiftly and yet in
slow motion before my eyes. And the one year, the twelve month
span, the four seasons, the hard work, the indelible memories of
my father and his garden all went by in my dream and took only
seconds.
Some of us were still in the kitchen
finishing the dishes, and others were talking while drying and
putting them away. The men were relaxing in another room, the
kids were running to and fro, and my father was taking a nap
despite all the noise. It was around 6 o'clock when I saw myself
offering coffee. We were all in the sitting room then, and I was
seated next to my father when I asked him to tell us what had
happened the night the soldiers took over his house. My father
didn’t seem to like the idea, but upon my insistence he finally
agreed, and began:
"It was 9 p.m. and your mother and I were
about to finish our dinner when the door bell to the main gate
rang. Your brother and his family were outside and we were in
there alone. It rang again, and I had to answer it since your
mother went to the bathroom. Before I opened the door, I spoke
on the intercom: 'Who is it?'
Then the answer came: "Soldiers, open up
quickly and without noise." I pressed the button to the main
gate and told your mother to hurry up, and then I went down the
stairs and put on the lights to the entrance. There was banging
on the main gate. Then I remembered that the door was locked
from inside which meant I had to go back down the stairs and
open it myself. So I went down the stairs again, and unlocked
the door. Then the door was pushed open by a soldier pointing
his machine gun directly at me, and I was quickly surrounded by
six or seven soldiers who ordered me to go up to the house. I
went up the stairs with one soldier in front of me holding his
machinegun and pointing it up the stairway in case someone was
on the stairs.
Your mother was paralyzed when she saw the
soldiers. She couldn't even speak when one soldier asked her who
lived here. I had to answer, and only then did I get a close
look at the soldiers' faces. All of them had their faces
disguised with green, blue, red and yellow paint. They all had
huge helmets on their heads, machine guns in their hands, and
bombs and bullets on their belts. They were also carrying big
bags on their backs. Their military clothes were so huge and
loose that they looked fat and short, though I knew they
weren't. They looked and acted like soldiers in real, live
combat, right here in our house.
The chief asked about who lived in the flat
upstairs. I told him it belonged to my son and his family. He
wanted me to go up there with him. 'But my son isn't in. He is
out." He refused to believe me, pointed to me to lead the way
upstairs and insisted I open the door, even though I told him I
did not have the keys. At this point, it occurred to me to tell
him that I was responsible for what I was saying, and that there
was nobody inside the house.
That seemed to convince him and he then
pointed for me to go down to my house. Your mother and I were
then ordered to stay in the hall while the other soldiers
inspected the house. They opened all the doors and checked all
rooms. Then they led us into the living room, and told us to
stay there. We were not to answer the phone or make any calls,
and if we needed to use the bathroom, we were to knock on the
door and ask their permission. One soldier then closed the door.
We were frightened because we didn't know
what was happening outside, or what the soldiers were doing.
There was no noise outside except the sounds of them setting the
trigger on their machine guns as they got ready to shoot. There
were, of course, no beds in the room, and sitting in the chairs
for a long time was quite tiring for both of us. The room was
small and stuffy and, wanting some fresh air, we knocked on the
door to ask for permission to open the door, but there was no
response.
It was one hell of a night. We were sleepy
and exhausted but so afraid of what they might do that we
couldn't close our eyes. Helpless, frightened and bored, we
would sit for a while and then get up and walk a bit to stretch
our aching joints. I remembered that I had read about human
shields, but never imagined I would experience being one myself.
The telephone rang four or three times and we knew it was one of
you calling to make sure we were alright, but we dared not
answer. I felt I was suffocating and at one point unconsciously
opened the door, forgetting that there were soldiers outside. To
my surprise, one soldier was lying on his back on the floor,
with his hands on the machinegun on his tummy. Suddenly he woke
up and jumped, stopping at the threshold with his rifle to the
ready. I went back to my chair and sat down slowly as he looked
at us and then closed the door.
We stayed there till six in the morning. It
seemed at that point that they had left, quietly, secretly,
without informing us. Although we were drained and exhausted, we
still couldn’t sleep. Your mother started to clean the bathroom
since it was in bad condition after they had used it. It smelled
and was dirty and the floor was wet. And it wasn't until you
girls stopped by around eight that we finally learned that the
reason for taking over our house and keeping us hostages was to
safeguard the way for a group of soldiers who wished to pray, in
the middle of the night, in the middle of the street, where they
claimed there had once been a religious place.
.
As my father finished his story, I thought I
heard a sound outside, so I went to the balcony and looked down
into the street. It was very dark but I could see the lights of
a vehicle approaching. It seemed to be a truck, and after it
passed the gate to the house, it stopped. I couldn't see it
then, but I could hear the brakes, the opening of the doors, and
the clattering of metal objects. Then I realized that it was a
military vehicle and that soldiers were coming out of it and
back into to my parents' house. "Not again," I said silently as
I turned to go warn my family. We waited for the banging on the
gate, but there was none. My nephew, who had been playing in the
entrance to the house with the other kids, came running up, and
entered the room breathless, speechless and pointing. I quickly
went down the stairs to make sure the other kids were alright
and as I reached the entrance, all of a sudden I was face to
face with a heavily-armed soldier.
He was alone, which seemed odd: I had been
expecting a group of eight or ten. But he looked just as my
father had described the others, right down to the stripes of
paint on his face. He was holding his machinegun at the ready,
and I was very frightened. I stood there in front of him,
waiting for him to speak. I thought he was the chief and he was
waiting for the other soldiers to follow him. I took a quick
look at the gate and to my surprise, it was still closed. How
did he get in? Could he have jumped over the wall? I didn’t
think so. The wall was twelve feet high. We both stood there for
what seemed like forever, inspecting one another and guessing
what would come next. Then, finally, he spoke:
"I was sent by my chief to get the bread."
-"What bread?" I asked.
-"Our bread.".He answered.
-"But we don’t have your bread. There must be
a mistake." I said.
- "No, it is here, and you have it" , he
said affirmatively, and then continued: " See, we ordered bread
from the Super Bakery. You know, the bread that is mixed with
olive oil and thyme. We ordered the bread a long time ago, and
when we didn’t get it, we went to the bakery and they told us
that it was delivered to this address. So, you see there is no
mistake.
I thought then I said quickly:
- "Maybe you would like to see the owner of
the house. I am only visiting my parents, and I have no idea
about any of this."
- "OK.". He said.
He nodded and moved his machine gun in a sign
that meant “go ahead”, so I turned and started my way upstairs.
After I climbed about ten steps, I turned my head back carefully
and had a quick look at the soldier to check whether he was
following me. To my surprise, he was right behind me but he had
changed. How could that have happened? There was no sound, no
voice, no strange movement, but now his head was bare, the
colorful paints had disappeared, and his machine gun was nowhere
to be seen. He looked about forty.
My legs kept moving up the stairs but my head
was still turned back and I felt my eyes grow wide with
surprise. The two things that hadn't changed were his military
suit and his boots. He was a soldier with no weapons. I reached
the front door and entered: everyone else was in the sitting
room, waiting for us. I stepped into the room followed by the
soldier. The room was still, and children seemed to have
disappeared. My father was right in the middle of the room
sitting in his usual chair. The soldier went directly to him but
before he could speak, I said,
"Dad, this soldier says he has come to take
his bread”.
Father: "Bread? What bread? Why do you
suppose we have your bread?"
Soldier: "Well, you see, it is not exactly
'bread'. It is 'land'. You know, your piece of land.
Father: (adjusting his hearing aids) "My
peace of mind?"
Soldier. "No, your land; the little garden. I
am here to take it. I was sent to take it. It is the last piece
of land that is not with us. We have to take it."
Father:. "You mean, to 'confiscate' my land?"
Soldier: "No. Confiscate is a wrong choice.
The better choice is give and take. You are ordered to give, and
we willingly take."
Father: "Do you want me to give you my land,
just like that? I bought it with my own money .I have worked
with my hands to make it a beautiful garden. My blood dripped on
its soil, and my sweat got mixed with the water I used to
irrigate its flowers. It is part of me. It is me. You can take
me, but not my land."
Soldier: "I understand what you’re saying.
But I have to do my mission. Let us think of a way. I suggest a
little game between you, the owner of the land, and me, the
soldier.
The soldier quickly took out a pack of cards
from one pocket and a red marker from another. He drew a line
right in the middle of the room and two lines maybe four feet
from that one. Then he started to explain the game.
Soldier: "This is our playground, and each
one chooses his own area. We have two rounds. I flip a coin to
decide who will start. In the first round, each one stands on
the starting line in his area, then throws the card to the other
area. Then we measure the distance that the card has covered
away from the middle line. The one who covers more distance is
the winner of that round. As a result the one who wins the two
rounds is the winner. And the winner takes the land."
Father: "Well, I am not ready. I want to
change my pajamas.
Soldier: "No, no need to change. It'll all be
quick."
Father: "It is not fair. You are fully
prepared, and I am not."
Soldier: "You have no choice but to play."
Father: "What is the name of this game?"
Soldier: "‘I always win’ is the name of this
game."
Father: "Who set the rules of this game, and
who is the judge?"
Soldier: "There are no rules. There are only
my rules, and I am the judge."
Father: "What if we get even? You know, get
equal? Who wins?"
Soldier: "I still win."
Father: "What happens if someone breaks the
rules of the game?"
Soldier: "A committee will be formed after I
take your garden, and everyone has the right to object
afterwards."
Everyone was watching silently and in great
amazement. My father stood up and stepped behind the line near
his chair. The soldier gave my father some cards. I thought he
was going to divide the cards evenly, but the soldier took more
cards and stood behind the line opposite my father. I noticed
that the area where the soldier stood was smaller than my
father's and realized that his cards would cover more distance,
since the distance between his starting line and the middle line
would be shorter.
We were waiting for the soldier to flip the
coin to decide the beginner, but the soldier suddenly said “I’ll
start”. The soldier threw his card which flew swiftly in the
air, swung, flipped, and went down quickly into my father's
area. It was a strong throw. Then the soldier jumped forward in
a steady manner. I thought I should go and look for a measure.
But the soldier simply placed his hand in his inside pocket and
took out a tape, and from another pocket a small notebook. He
was prepared and fully equipped. He measured the distance from
the red line in the middle away into my father's area and said
as he wrote down in his notebook:"1m. and 50cm." Then he gave a
signal for my father, saying, "It is your turn.”
My father got ready and threw the card as
hard as he could. It was not a bad throw for a man in his
eighties, but the card flew so softly that I could see its real
size, color and all that was printed on it. I heard my sister
exclaiming: "Oh, look, the card has our flag on it”. The card
was flying in slow motion, and there were pictures of people and
faces of famous leaders. There were children, old men and women,
and young people, too. Some I knew were still alive, while
others had died years before. The people on the card were moving
in great harmony, as though in a pageant. The card was landing
slowly, like a feather floating in a fine breeze, when the
soldier suddenly jumped to the other side of the room waiting
for it to land. I thought that the card would hardly cover any
distance at all but, to my amazement, the soldier measured a
total of 1m. and 40cm. Then he pronounced himself the winner of
the first round and I ached for my sad, determined father.
The soldier told him to switch areas, so my
father took the opposite side facing the big window in the room.
After both men got ready, the soldier said he would start since
he had won the first round. It was a very strong throw. Although
the card flew high and started to flip we could see the
soldier's own flag in addition to another big flag on one side
of the card. Oh, my God, he had been cheating! He was using help
from outside: that other flag belonged to a super source. As the
card went swinging through the air swiftly and freely, I could
see pictures of his leaders and other famous people from abroad,
and I realized he had also been cheating on weight
Not surprisingly, the card landed right on
the edge line, and he jumped up and down happily. I imagined him
as a soldier from the middle ages wearing a gown, with a belt
around his waist and a sword in one hand and a shield in the
other. As he moved to the other side to see the card, he threw
his body in the air and flew in a circle with his loose gown and
landed just like a parachute coming slowly to the ground. Right
after he landed on the other side, he measured the distance
which was 1m. and 90cm. Everybody gasped, and opened their
mouths. But no one said anything. We were totally amazed. Then
the soldier recorded the result in a self-confident tone.
It was my father's turn and he got ready and
stood behind the line. The soldier was clearly the winner so
far, and my father had to get a distance of 2m. just to break
even. It was a big challenge and I was doubtful, but my father
seemed calm and confident. He got ready, bent his body forward,
took a deep breath, and threw the card, which launched itself
like thunder. My sister swore she could see fire coming as the
card struck the air, a silvered line of light passing so swiftly
in front of our eyes that we could hardly follow it. The card
didn't loop to the ground, but flew through the iron bars and
out into the garden. Again everybody gasped in amazement.
The soldier barked angrily, "To the garden!"
and quickly headed out the door. We all followed, a few paces
behind. "But who won, father or the soldier?" No one seemed to
hear my question, no one else seemed to care.
When we reached the garden, the chairs were
arranged around the pool in a semi-circle and everyone sat down.
But the soldier seemed to have disappeared. Where did he go?
Then he suddenly appeared behind us and far away, wearing a
loose white gown. He had grown taller and thinner, and his hair
was long and light. The garden grew larger as he strolled in a
haze from one place to another .He was surrounded by white
clouds and white birds flying around him in a fascinating slow
motion. For a while I thought he had become prophet Jesus with
the white crown over his head. It sounded like he was preaching
and talking to a group of people .Was he really Jesus? I
couldn't tell. He was moving in a peaceful and glorious way and
the garden kept getting bigger and prettier, with groups of
people in white walking quietly, heading somewhere.
Suddenly, he appeared again right in front of
us. We were astonished at how he could do it and this time, too,
he was different. He was shorter, with dark hair and there was
something odd about his nose. He was holding a stick with a star
at its top in his hand. He moved his stick upwards, then hit the
air gently, and we were surprised to see a huge theater. The
lights on this theater no longer looked like the lights of the
garden; they were heavenly, and had no source, or size, or
shape. They were pure white, somehow both foggy and transparent,
and very clear. A woman in a loose white gown stood in the
middle of the stage; she seemed to be singing but we could not
hear her. The soldier then went behind us and moved his stick
and another huge stage appeared in front of us and the garden
grew even larger. On the second stage, people were dancing
elegantly in magnificent slow motion. They were also wearing
loose white gowns.
The scene was breathtaking, and we sat in
silent amazement. In one corner I saw our children, who were
playing but somehow making no noise. They looked like little
angels, with crowns of white flowers and white long gowns. The
whole garden was happy, peaceful and silent: the singer was
mute, the dancers flew in the air and touched their feet to the
ground without a sound, and children were active but noiseless.
Everyone was busy looking in the direction of his or her choice
and all were charmed and overwhelmed by the view. The soldier
approached the wall and let his stick touch the little arched
window, and the little window changed into a huge cave. It was
dark inside but the door was alight and in the doorway stood all
sorts of birds and animals, looking very healthy, shiny and
clean. Sheep, cows, goats, chickens, pigeons and many, many
creatures all walked about in a submissive way as if expecting
and waiting to be slaughtered.
The scene was captivating, and then the
animals and the birds disappeared into the garden, where now
appeared trees bearing shiny fruits of various colors, sizes and
shapes, glossy as though light came from within. The pool
suddenly grew larger, and the water from the fountain grew
richer and its splash was splendid as it mixed with white light.
There was white everywhere now, and water was falling down in
small falls in some places and sprinkling softly in others. The
sound of water was like soothing music, relaxing the body and
calming the mind. The garden was no longer a garden, but kept
becoming ever more spacious. It became Eden. Suddenly, there was
a huge ball of light emitting a dazzling light to every space
and every corner in the garden. It was glorious, unlimited in
size and dazzling in grandeur. We all kneeled and prayed "God is
Greater" for such glory.
As I was occupied and taken by my thoughts
and the surroundings, I looked around and saw a huge, dark,
endless wall cut through the garden and destroy everything. The
view changed utterly, the lights and the white clouds all
disappeared, the sky got darker, and our Eden had changed into
Hell. The garden became a bare, ugly place, lifeless and
jeering. The wall had separated me from my family and I could
hear them cry, but couldn't reach them or see them. I felt
lonely and trapped. What had happened and who did it? Was it the
soldier who had changed our heaven into hell? He must be
possessing great strength and almighty powers.
I don't remember what happened then, some
time must have passed, but then I recall waking up slowly to the
sound of someone in pain. I followed the source of pain and to
my surprise I saw the soldier. He was clutching a huge root from
the olive tree, and his body was dangling from the roots, not
far from the ground. The big tree had shrunk in size while its
roots remained huge and steady in the ground, and it had been
cut in half from the top on down. The soldier was not wearing
white anymore, but was back in his uniform, swinging his body
backward away from the roots and then hitting his face and body
forcefully against the roots, soil and rocks. I could see blood
coming from his forehead, hear his groans, and feel his terrible
pain. He could have spared himself all the pain and suffering by
letting go of the roots and jumping the short distance to the
ground, but he kept swinging and banging himself into the tree.
I could focus on nothing else, and then the
top of the tree turned into a huge screen and a flash of light
spotted onto the leaves and branches as though from a projector.
On the screen then flashed many pictures of the soldier
committing atrocities. He was a killer exploding the head of a
child in one, and torturing an old man in another. One picture
displayed him demolishing houses and making whole families
homeless, while another showed him driving a bulldozer and
uprooting beautiful, ancient olive trees. Then he was taking
part in building that huge endless wall that separated families
and caused so much suffering. Pictures of sad, wretched people
kept appearing, and dead bodies and crying faces.
I took a quick look at the soldier's face: it
was dripping blood but showed no emotion, and he was still
hitting his face against the tree. It came to me that he was
torturing himself out of guilt for all he had done. Overwhelmed,
I felt both sad and sorry for him. He was a man, a magician, a
saint, a soldier and a victim. He was all in one. We cried for
ourselves and for the soldier screaming endlessly in pain and
guilt. There was complete silence, and then he cried out the
word "Yahoo" and kept repeating it, over and over again. I
thought perhaps it was his name.
We were all half-awake and half-asleep, going
about in circles with our heads somehow revolving in the sky
over the garden. Our bodies melted and became invisible. Our
souls flew like feathers and we all became part of the garden,
the flowers, the birds, the water, the olive tree, and part of
Yahoo. All melted together then, we turned into a huge white,
foggy ball that flew up high and disappeared in the grand space.
Suddenly, there was a huge sound that
awakened everyone in the garden. It seemed to be coming from the
main gate to the house. My father went to open the door, and
came back followed by two soldiers who looked just like Yahoo
had when he first came in. One of them was a General and the
other an ordinary soldier. The General spoke to my father.
General: "Where is the soldier that came to
your house ten minutes ago?"
Father: "There he is." (pointing to him)
"Yahoo, you have visitors."
General: "What? Yahoo! But your name isn't
Yahoo. What took you so long? And where are your helmet and
weapons?"
Yahoo: "Something happened. I cannot explain,
sir."
General: "What happened? What are you doing
here among these people? Where is the bread you were asked to
get?"
Yahoo: "But, sir our bread is not here. They
never had it .They are decent people, sir. They have been kind
to me."
General: "Can't you see? These are nasty
people. You look tired, soldier. What is that blood on your
face?"
Yahoo: "We have been very bad to them. I have
seen myself paying for what we did to them. I was in great pain.
They were crying all the time."
General: "No, they can't be good .They have
taken our bread. They must pay for what they did."
Yahoo: "Why don't you stay here with me,
sir?"
General: "What? You must be crazy.
(addressing the soldier standing behind him), "Soldier, get him
ready and let's go."
Yahoo: "But sir, I can't go .We are in the
middle of the play."
General: "Well, I am going to end this play
right now, and this is going to be your last scene. Soldier,
(again addressing the soldier behind him), "drag him and follow
me. I'll be waiting in the vehicle."
The soldier grabbed Yahoo by his collar and
dragged him without any difficulty towards the gate, then pushed
him into the vehicle. I followed them without being noticed, and
overheard the conversation between them.
General: "Soldier, make sure Yahoo stays in
the vehicle. Chain him." (The soldier carries out his orders,
and follows the General to the front of the vehicle).
Soldier: "What do you intend to do with him,
sir?"
General: "Get rid of him. He is a sham and
shame to our people. He was sent as a soldier to get our bread,
but turned out to be a sympathizer with the enemy."
Soldier: "What do you mean sir?"
General: "He must be killed."
Soldier: "What is his crime? You know, sir,
just for the records."
General: "From a soldier to a sympathizer to
a first-degree anti-Semite."
The General then moved forward to the front
part of the vehicle where Yahoo was sitting with his hands
chained. Yahoo looked up at the General and said:
Yahoo: "I am ready for death."
General: "Aren’t you afraid?"
Yahoo: "No."
General: "Do you confess you crime? Just for
the record."
Yahoo: "I am not guilty. I am tolerant."
The soldier who was recording their
conversation interrupted them.
Soldier: "Sir, what do you want me to record
as the cause of his death?
General: "Write down 'friendly fire'."
Then the General pointed his gun at Yahoo
and shot him in the head. Yahoo died immediately, but there was
no blood..
At that point, I woke up terrified. What had
happened? Was it a dream? Was it a nightmare? Or was it real? I
could not tell. I looked at my watch, and to my utter amazement
it was five after one. Oh, my God, only five minutes had passed
since I went to bed, closed my eyes and started my dream.
My husband entered the room and said, "Are
you still awake, darling?"
"Well, I do not know". I said. "I really do
not know ".
wafash2000@yahoo.com |
