Far beyond, yellow sun rays fell obliquely on the Kidron valley, lazily spreading across the mountain slopes and the huge cemetery ensconced within white-stoned walls, where the ancestors had their final repose. The sorrow of the tree layers – almonds, oaks and cypresses – cast shadows, keeping guard over the eternal sleep of generations. For ages, they have been lying in wait for Yahweh, for his appearance at the summit of the Mount of Olives. Asher was waiting too, on top of the mountain, where death lay hidden in ambush.
Asher was now near the Lion’s Gate of Temple Mount, on the slope of the main path which circuited the Old City. Ramadan was coming to an end. Beloved Sahal would arrive for the prayers in Masjid Al-Aqsa. But it was not known how he would gain an entry, since the whole Al-Aqsa complex was surrounded by the police. Asher felt as if Sahal was cycling through the crowd in Sultan Suleiman Street, manoeuvring through the twists and turns, whistling all the while. Just like the old days.
Asher scrolled down a Twitter handle depicting the horrifying scenes of the raid in Masjid Al-Aqsa complex. Smoke and dust billowed over the mosque and its surroundings. Exploding grenades, unending screams. People were running helter-skelter, racing towards the mosque and rushing outside, seeking refuge. Stones were being pelted all around. The shoter – the police – had chased a few protesters to the wall and were taking one into custody. Asher was shell-shocked. That face was familiar – he had seen it somewhere!
Caught in the clutches of anxiety, Asher read through the news updates, one by one. There was a report from the Hadassah Medical Centre about treating a Jewish girl who had a head injury. Also, pictures of injured police officers.
“Why are they targeting our Aqsa Mosque in the holy month of Ramadan?” someone called Javed raged on the Facebook page of “Warrior of Light”, bubbling and frothing with fury. “I was praying inside the mosque. Suddenly, the sound of gunfire! They are starting a religious war.”
The sunlight was fading, but Asher’s inner heat surged forth. He was exhausted after wandering about in search of Sahal through the day, enervated both in body and mind. But there was no question of withdrawing without finding Sahal’s whereabouts. Sahal’s poem was wailing from the depths of Asher’s heart…
For aeons, emerging out of the Galilee,
Transfiguring into islands, oh my sorrows ...
Would it not come,
The time, when these mounds of earth turn into volcanoes?
They looted and pillaged,
Those old, wine-hued twilights, dawns ...
They stole forever,
The night-time lullabies of mamas
The fingertips of babas ... the light ... laughter ...
An altercation broke out, distracting Asher from his thoughts. A youth was pelting stones at vehicles. A white car was chasing him to the edge of the footpath. He narrowly escaped being crushed! Out of nowhere, an infuriated gang of youngsters appeared – the keffiyeh, chequered black-and-white scarf, wrapped around their heads. Palestinian youth. They tore open a car’s doors in an attempt to assault the old man inside the vehicle. The driver was Jewish. He had a kippah, skullcap, on his head. Asher stood devastated. A siren rang, as if sniffing an impending disaster. In a matter of moments, the police rushed towards the crowd. The youthful throng scattered, and fled from the spot. In all nooks and corners of the city, especially Temple Mount, there were cameras. And there were police officers stationed every hundred metres. Some of them in mufti.
A stone flew past Asher, and he flinched.
“Where is your mask? Why are you standing here? Go home! The lunatics are on the loose!” a policeman, running past him towards Lion’s Gate, yelled. Watching him, Asher felt as if a burning torch was on the move.
“Lunatics,” Asher repeated, with self-loathing. He remembered a prophetic warning that the city wall would catch fire and all the eight doors would be devoured by flames. Asher, caught in the frenzy, shivered at the thought that Temple Mount would turn into a volcano, spewing venomous smoke.
The wait for Sahal seemed endless. Where was Asher supposed to check now? Or was it better to stop the search? Asher remembered once having entered the Safa Marwah Coffee Shop in the Muslim Quarters, accompanied by Sahal, to meet Suleiman. Even after months, he could recollect Suleiman’s posture as the latter gazed at the fading evening light. He had a very discernible limp, and a peculiar gait, leaning towards the right. Asher could visualise, even now, how Suleiman posed a question about archaeology and Sahal looked at him in astonishment. Maybe Suleiman would be able to provide some helpful information. He could not recollect the street where the cafe was located since the complex comprised four hundred and one alleys.
Sahal’s phone was still switched off. A shocking thought, like a sharp-edged stone, impaled Asher’s heart. Was Sahal caught and taken into custody?
As he dithered due to the uncertainty of the situation, his phone rang. It was Leah, his sister. She was frantic with worry.
“Ahkh, Eema is heartbroken after seeing the news. Hamas’s drone hovering over Ashkelon…”
“Akhot, tell Eema that all’s well here. Ashkelon is so far away. I am in the flat,” Asher consoled her.
“Liar! You are at Lion’s Gate. You have been caught live on video.”
“Really? Please don’t tell Eema. Who posted it?”
“No idea. It’s a WhatsApp forward. A car trying to run over someone.”
“Leah, Sahal is in danger. He is in some place nearby. I have to find him.” Asher fretted.
“Don’t be stupid. This is not the time to find him. Get back home, Ahkh.”
Leah sounded hassled and grave.
Throwing caution to the wind, Asher crossed Lion’s Gate. He made his way slowly through the narrow pathway of the Muslim Quarters. Safa Marwah Coffee Shop remained hidden from his view. Darkness was creeping into the alleys and the intersections were quiet. There were no street vendors, no visitors either. Most of the shops were shut. Asher presumed that the cafe must have closed too. A staccato of gunfire could be heard resounding from afar, blending in with the endlessly wailing sirens. An unbearable dread seized hold of him.
Excerpted with permission from Do Not Ask the River Her Name, Sheela Tomy, translated from the Malayalam by Ministhy S, HarperCollins India.
