The Words of My Father by Yousef Bashir

Author:Yousef Bashir
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781912208180
Publisher: Haus Publishing
Published: 2018-03-11T16:00:00+00:00

11

The Sheekum

After a month of surgery, my wound stabilised sufficiently and my pain eased enough so that my father could leave. He said he needed to get back to his school.

“Why do you have to go to school if the students are not coming?” I asked. I was keeping up with the news as best as I could by watching CNN on the hospital television in the hallway by the reception desk. I knew the Intifada was still happening.

“Yousef, we must never let other people get in the way of our education. If the students do not come,” he said as he stretched out his hands, “that is their choice. But the school will not be closed. That is my choice.” He cared deeply about his school and was very committed to making it a model school in Deir el-Balah and perhaps even the whole Strip.

For the next three months, my mother took his place. She would sit by my side and do things for me the nurses had no time to do, like helping me to eat or shifting the curtains if the sun was in my eyes. Sometimes when there was nothing for her to do, she would wander around and mingle with other Palestinian women at the hospital. The families of these women had stayed in 1948 and were now living in Israel. Their presence gave me a sense of comfort and hope. My mother always came back with stories. I listened to her as she told them, but I had a hard time keeping track of everybody.

Sometimes my mother helped me change my bandage, but I preferred the nurses. It was like when she took me to buy new clothes or gave me a shower. She had a suggestion and I had a different suggestion, so we just ended up going back and forth. Then I got in a bad mood and blamed her for it. For some reason, I was more open to being tough on my mother than I would ever dare to be with my father.

My mother and Seema got along well. They spoke Arabic together, with Seema speaking in her sweet Baghdadi accent that I loved to hear. They talked about their children, and all kinds of woman things, like what creams Seema thought my mother might like or what shampoos they used. I watched them closely. “My mother is a Palestinian,” I told myself. “Seema is an Israeli. They are just talking woman-to-woman like they have known each other for years. Why can’t everybody be like them?” All the nurses liked my mother. At night, when she slept on the same couch my father had used, they made sure she had everything she needed.

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