Deir Al Lauz

Omar Utters a Letter, a Number, and a Rifle And Basheer Gathers Rain Drops Omar and Basheer loved their land, but each in his own way. Omar swore revenge on whoever forced himself on the purity of the resisting land, while Basheer tilled the land with his plough, sprinkled seeds in it, and brought it to life. Year after year he gathers the tears shed by the clouds and collects them in vials of nostalgia. He waters his seeds and waits patiently. He supplicates to God and waits once more, he makes his prayer and waits. He sings and waits. When finally the first sprigs appears, he let out prayers thanking God the almighty with fervor, and cares for his plants and waits for them to grow. He waits for spring to pass and turn into summer with its golden wheat combs, which turned into autumn with its green olives of the holy land of Jerusalem that can be pressed into that beautiful golden lava of pure olive oil that brought tears of joy and content into his eyes. Poetry and prayer were the languages of Basheer. But Omar had his own language of a letter, a number, and a rifle. When Omar speaks his students listen intently, when he writes on his board his students write in their books. He teaches them Arithmetic and Algebra. In the altar of Einstein he performs his rituals of mathematics and algebra. Omar reads his rifle, as he waits patiently for his enemies to pass as to shoot them in their chests. He is a mixture of revolting Guevara and Saint Augustine who was an eternal searcher for the meaning of time. He ties the past, present, and future with letters of doubt, for there are three facts in the mind which are: that the present from the past is the memory, the present from the present is listening and attention, and the present from the future is anticipation. As the mind predicts, listens, and remembers; and that is how time is measured. The impressions we make in ourselves on our daily events that hold on in our minds even after these events pass is what measures time. Therefore either time is that impression, or what is measured is not time. Omar learned from Einstein that time is relative. As he says: “the people of my nation are like the twin paradox. One of the twins stayed in Palestine and lived a boring life of routine, and the other moved into isolation with the speed of light, and longed for change, he started a revolution wherever he set foot and forgot his own brother who suffered from the occupation that lead through hunger, despair, and feeling of strangeness in his own land to give up his children to serve the enemy. Basheer is the Sufi, and the Sufi, is drunk with his faith, which let him seem crazy to some people. As he was the son of time who had no tomorrow in his agenda, he lived his day ready for eternity. A Sufi does not remember what was, as his life is a permanent advance and retreat. Always asking and desiring afterlife, dreaming of it and of a liberating existence that frees him from the illusion of time. A place with no waiting or anticipation, a place with only one truth, a place that promises eternal happiness for whoever seeks His company, as there is no tampering in His existence. Omar and Basheer despite all their differences complete each other. Omar cleanly shaved and with trimmed hair, meanwhile Basheer with an uncared for beard and frizzy hair. Omar had eyes glowing with the fire of revolution while Basheer’s eyes were calm as the eyes of a monk. Omar adored a holy land, and Basheer was a recluse to the higher heavens.   Bidwen Baheya Plants a Rose Time for me is measured by the number or tears and laughs, the number of people who passed through my life, the number of words that were said and are going to be said. My life started at the age of fourteen, the day Abu Omar married me. That day we came in a parade of cars from Beersheba, when we arrived at the entrance of Der Al-Lawz, my dad was determined that I be celebrated on a camel’s back with a saddle that my mother had decorated with beads and wool tassels died in red. I was dressed in a black silk dress embroidered with red, and a veil adorned with golden coins was covering my face. Even though my clothes were heavy, I felt light in my body and soul. I was floating on a cloud of the mixture of fragrances of wheat from the fields, musk from my skin, and henna enveloping my hair. I was surrounded by the color red, I felt my blood glowing. I was a princess that had come out of the stories of 1001 nights. I entered Der Al-Lawz in the afternoon and the newly harvested golden wheat was shining under the sun of June. My belongings reached Der Al-Lawz before me in chests on the backs of three camels. All people young and old came to watch and celebrate me. My wedding was like a fairy tale, three nights of dancing and singing. Many sheep and calves were slaughtered. I was filled with joy and happiness, safe in the loving presence of my mother and father and waiting eagerly to meet my husband. I saw my husband only once for a few minutes when he came to ask my hand with the “jaha”, which means a group of the elders and educated of a family who come to solve problems or ask for a girls hand in the Arab tradition. My heart fell for him; he was a young man with flames of desire and compassion in his eyes. I had heard a lot about him before I met him. As my father and his father were partners in their carpet trade before the year of 1948.