 |
Selected Works |
|
Selected listing of Ghassan Kanafani's works:
|
The
Slave's Citadel
Had he not been too distressfully ragged I would have though him a poet. For the
site he had chosen for his ramshackle hut of wood and beaten out jerry cans was
truly magnificent. It was by the edge of the sea that raged and surged at the
foot of the cliffs. The waters swirled with a deep-throated gurgle. His face was
gaunt. His beard was white with streaks of black hair. His eyes were hollows
under bushy brows. His cheekbones protruded like two rocks that had come to rest
either side of the large projection that was his nose.
Why had we gone there? I don’t recall. We had traversed a rough and
featureless terrain in a small car. We drove for more than three hours before
Thabit pointed through the windscreen as he gave a shout “there’s the
slave’s Citadel.”
The Citadel was a large rock. The base of which had been gnawed away by the
waves so that it resembled the wing of a giant bird with a head that had curled
into the sand and with one wing outstretched over the waters.
“Why do they call it the slaves Citadel?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It’s probably a reference to some historical event”.
Thabit pointed towards the beach. “Do you see that hut?” he said. He turned
off the engine and we got out of the car. “They say that a mad old man lives
there.”
“What doe he do in this deserted place all alone?”
“What any other crazy old man would do.”
In the distance we could see the old man squatting on his heels at the entrance
to his hut. His head resting in his hands he was staring out to sea.
“Why do you think he’s mad?” I asked.
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
Thabit found a spot on the beach that was to his liking. He levelled the sand
and dropped the bottle of water to the ground. He took food out of a bag and
slumped down on the sand. He began to eat. “They say they had four sons who
struck rich. The boys then quarrelled about who should care for the old man.
Finally, the old guy was thrown out and left here to rot.”
“Is that what made him crazy?”
“I don’t know. He’s not far away who don’t you go ask him?” Thabit
turned to arranging a small stack of dry driftwood. He lit it to make a fire.
Then, he poured water into a metal container and set it on fire.
“The important point to establish is whether his abandonment was the cause of
his insanity”. I persisted.
Thabit blew on the fire then rubbed his eyes as he sat up on his knees. “I
cannot bear the sight of him,” he said. “That a man should spend his life in
work. Should exert himself day after day and hour after hour; should for seventy
long years earn his bread with the sweat of his brow; that he should live his
days in hope for a better future; and for seventy years should go to sleep each
night - and for what? So that he should spend the remaining days of his life
cast out like a dog, alone, squatting on a beach, like that. Look at him. He’s
like some animal that’s lost its fur. Is it right that after seventy years all
he gets is this?”
He started at me. Then spreading out the palms of his hand in front of me he
continued his tirade. “Try and imagine it: seventy useless, meaningless years.
Imagine walking for seventy years along the same road, in the same direction.
Constrained by the same borders. Limited by the by the same horizons. The same
everything for seventy years. It would be very unbearable.”
“You don’t know that’s how he feels,” I objected. “Maybe we should ask
him?”
We approached the old man. He raised his eyes to us and coldly returned our
greetings. We sat next to him glancing into the half opened door of his hut. We
could see a bare mattress. In the far corner was a rock on which lay a heap of
unopened clams. We sat in silence for a while. Then the old mans feeble voice
asked “Do you want to buy some clam? I sell clams.”
“Do you collect them yourself?” Thabit asked.
“I wait for low tide and then go in search of them. I gather them up and go in
search of them. I gather them up and sell them to people who are looking for
pearls”.
Thabit and I stared at each other.
“Why don’t you look for the pearls?” asked Thabit.
“Me?” He seemed puzzled by the idea as though the thought had never occurred
to him before. He shook his head and fell silent.
“All right, “ I said. “How much would you sell that pile for?”
“Cheap, very cheap. You can have them for two loaves of bread.”
“Those clams are way too small to have pearls in them.”
The old man looked at us with his lustreless eyes. “What do you know about
clams?” he demanded sharply. “How do you know which one contains a pearl.”
Then turning away from us he relapsed into silence.
“Do you know which is the one?” I asked.
“No, Nobody knows,” he said toying with some shells that lay in front of him.
All right,” I said. We’ll take a pile.”
“Take them for two loaves; he said barely concealing the joy in his voice.
Thabit and I carried the pile of clams back to where we had previously been
sitting.
“”He has the eyes of a madman,” said Thabit. “If he’s not crazy then
why wouldn’t he open the clams to find the pearls for himself?”
“Maybe he’s already tried enough times and now prefers to watch others try.”
It took us several hours to open all the clams. We piled the gelatinous insides
of the empty shells around us, then burst out laughing at our won foolishness.
That afternoon, Thabit made more tea and suggested that I offer a cup to the old
man. Feelings of anxiety stirred within me as I approached the man. He accepted
the offer and invited me to join him as he sipped his tea with relish.
“did you find anything in the clams?” he asked.
“No, we did not. You fooled us.”
He shook his head sadly and took another sip, “I fooled you to the value f two
loaves,” he muttered as though speaking to himself he shook his head. Then
suddenly he turned to me. “What if those clam shells were your life? OI mean
if each shell were to represent a year of your life and you opened them one by
one and found them empty would you have been as sad as you are about losing
couple of loaves?” He started to shake all over. At that moment I was
convinced that he was insane. His eyes lit up with an unnatural brightness under
his bushy brows. When I tried to stand he gripped my wrist strongly with his
frail hand. Then he spoke to me. “Don’t be afraid. I am not as mad as you
think. Sit down and I will tell you something.” I sat down. “The happiest
moments of my day are when I can watch the disappointment on people’s faces.”
He fell silent again and stared out toward the horizon, as though it had not
been barely a moment ago that he had spoken to me. Then he turned to me again.
“I knew you wouldn’t find anything. These clams are too small to hold the
seeds of a pearl.”
Once more he fell silent and stared out towards the sea. Then muttering to
himself he said. “The tide will ebb early tonight. I must be off to gather the
clams. Tomorrow others will come to buy them.”
Puzzled I rose to my feet. The citadel was now a dark shadow against the fading
light o the setting sun. I joined Thabit who was sitting drinking his tea by a
mound of empty shells. I watched the old man chase the receding waterline as the
low tide exposed more of the clams for him to collect.