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Ghada Karmi is a Palestinian writer living in London, most recently the author of In Search of Fatima, a memoir.
BURAN a short story
a Levantine exclusive
Ghada Karmi
“You look so sad, granddad,” the young girl said. “What’s wrong?” The old man seemed to bring himself back from a faraway place. She came and sat next to him and looked into his sad, old eyes. How much would she understand if he told her the story, he wondered? He didn’t know himself why the memories had come back, why he was so haunted still. A whole lifetime had passed, a history utterly unimaginable to him and that other young girl then, long ago. He had not thought of her for years after that last visit but kept the memory of her tight shut inside him, in a secret compartment of his inner self. But she was back in the forefront of his mind and he realised that he wanted to talk about her, even though it would only be to this youthful, untried granddaughter who might not understand.
Damascus, 1923. He had been a young student, perhaps seventeen or eighteen. He was unsure of his exact age because people did not mark birthdays in backward places like his hometown - large village it was really - not far from Jerusalem. Some fifty years before he was born it gained the status of a Qaimmaqamiya - a "township" in the Ottoman administrative structure - and was headed by a Turkish governor. Once, when he was seven, he saw the governor striding through the town’s main street. So splendidly was he attired in velvet trousers and golden watch chain, embroidered waistcoat and fez and so imperious was his bearing, not to speak of his enormous waxed moustache, that the little boy thought he was the Prophet Muhammad himself.
When he was fourteen, he went to school in Damascus. This was not unusual in those days, since there were no borders between the Ottoman provinces, no passports or visas needed; neither Syria nor Palestine as they are known today existed, and moving about was easy. His father placed him in a well-respected school, Maktab Ambar, where he spent a happy adolescence in a city he loved, once upon a time the splendid capital of Islam’s first rulers, the Umayyads and nothing like his own prosaic hometown. He was nearing the end of his time at school when his father had said, “you must think about going to college, Saleem”. Sheikh Abdullah had in mind the theological academy of Al Azhar in Cairo, where he himself had graduated in Islamic jurisprudence.
But Saleem had other ideas and had already decided to go to the English college in Jerusalem.
By 1923, the world had changed: there was no Ottoman Empire any more and in its place were new British and French rulers, very different from the Turks; there were borders now and divisions between people. Jerusalem, which throughout his life had been a backwater for pilgrims, scholars and holy men, was now the seat of British rule in Palestine. The British brought Christian missionaries with them and also a new type of foreigner, Jews from Europe who spoke different languages and who, people anxiously said, were up to no good. The British helped the Jews to settle into the country in manifold ways, and this worried people more. The missionaries established schools and academies of which the Christian Mission Society (CMS) College in Jerusalem was a notable example. Saleem wanted to matriculate there and was especially proficient at English and Mathematics. He planned to leave Damascus as soon as his last examinations were finished.
In that summer of 1923, Damascus seemed hardly touched by its change of government. To Saleem, it was still the same intensely Arab and Muslim place, full of history and tradition, that he had always known. On that afternoon, he decided to go to his favourite bookshop, the one by the great Umayyad mosque. In the cool darkness inside and as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw a veiled woman. She had her back to him and was trying to reach for a book on a high shelf at the back of the shop. This was the part where the science books he sought were stocked. As he drew level, he saw that the woman had the book and was trying to read it through her thick black veil. “Of, it’s no good, it’s no good,” she exclaimed with annoyance, plucking at the material. Seeing him, she suddenly turned towards him and said,
“I wonder if you would kindly help me. I need a certain book, but I can’t see well enough to find it.”
“Of course,” he responded and within a short time, he had located it and also bought it for her.
“You are very kind. I will pay you for it.” He shook his head. She said, “Where are you from?”
“Maktab Ambar,” he answered.
“I am at school too,” she said, “but I’m not very good. Especially not at Maths.”
“That’s my best subject,” Saleem said eagerly. By this time, they were outside the shop. She hesitated, standing there in her hijab. They must not linger.
“What is your name?”
“Buran,” she answered. And then, “Will you help me with my studies?” She asked. He agreed with alacrity. But he thought, where on earth in conservative Damascus could they meet? As if she read his mind, she said quickly,
“You’ve been so kind, I want to thank you properly. Will you not come and visit us at home? There’s only me and my mother. My father’s dead and I have no sister or brother.” He marvelled at her boldness – respectable girls did not initiate conversations or meetings with men. And it excited his curiosity about her.
He said he would walk her home there and then. She lived in a poor area of the city, and as they came to the small house deep inside a narrow unpaved alley, he wondered how they survived without a male provider. Her mother was small and plump, and because she was old, only her hair was covered. He thought she might be angry at Buran for bringing a stranger home, but she welcomed him warmly, as if he had been a son. Later he realised that, poor as they were, the mother must have been anxious to see Buran married to some nice man.
“Saleem is going to help me with my maths, mother. Isn’t that good of him?” The mother nodded enthusiastically. And so he started to visit them every Friday, his day off school, and help Buran with her studies. She was always veiled, but on his third visit, she suddenly said.
“I’m going to take this thing off. I hate wearing it!” And with that, she put her hands to the back of her head, unpinned the veil and let it fall over her features. Saleem stared. He had felt that she was beautiful from the first moment in the shop and he now saw that she really was. Her hair was thick and dark and her skin was ivory- pale; she was slender like the branch of the ben tree. He discovered that she was sixteen years old and the centre of her mother’s life. Whoever loved one, must care for the other.
Saleem was overwhelmed. He had been catapulted into something of which he had no experience and did not know what to do. He ate with them, told them about his family, his town, his plans for the future and all his interests. He had a brother who wrote poetry, and, Saleem, despite his love of maths, had a literary bent too. He now started to write sonnets to Buran, which he never showed her. If he was not with her, he constantly thought about her. His life was now tied to hers as if she had always been there.
And so it continued for one year. When the summer of 1924 drew to an end, the time came for him to leave. He had a place at the CMS College in Jerusalem and he could not delay. Though Buran had been aware of his plans, they never spoke about it. But now he said,
“You know that I must leave for Jerusalem.” She said nothing. “I have to go for my future. It is important.” They were alone in the sitting room. In all the time he knew her, they had never kissed, had scarcely ever touched. Now, she put her hand on his and looked into his eyes,
“I love you. I will marry no one else but you.” She said solemnly.
“And I love you and promise to marry you. As soon as I have secured a future for us. It will only be for one year. I will try and send word to you about me. If I find some traveller to Damascus, I will send you messages.”
“And I will do the same,” she replied. “I have an uncle who sometimes goes to Jerusalem.”
They sat very close. Silently, she turned her head towards him. He looked at her, breathless, expectant. She said, “do you pledge yourself to me?”
“I swear it by God and give you my oath.”
And then her mother called out from the kitchen. When he told her of their decision, she looked relieved but also sad.
“Please look after her,” she said, “she’s all I have.”
If she feared he would forget them she could not have been more mistaken. He was not only deeply attached but also felt responsible for Buran and her mother. He could never abandon them now, even had he wanted to. CMS was interesting; he liked it and studied avidly. The college’s mission was to “spread Christianity amongst Muslims and Jews”, and indeed there was a small number of European Jews in his class, but neither they nor the Muslim students converted. It was a bit of a joke between them and the Jewish students were friendly without any of the tension that was beginning to appear outside. By 1925, Jewish immigration into Palestine was increasing at an alarming rate. The country was becoming more Jewish and Arabs accused the British of actually helping the Jews. Violent clashes ensued, brutally suppressed by the British police. People were being killed.
Saleem was largely oblivious to this. He concentrated on his studies and dreamed of Buran and thought about getting a job to support them. His final examinations came in June and he was desperate to finish. By then he had not seen her for nearly a year and had managed to send her only one message. He never knew if she received it, but consoled himself with the knowledge that he would leave for Damascus as soon as his results came through. He matriculated successfully, his happiness only marred by yet another of those clashes between Jews and Arabs. The Jews marched on the Wailing Wall, demanding its ownership, which inflamed the Arabs. The violence was worse than ever and many innocent pilgrims were killed. Saleem was glad to escape and went home briefly before setting off for Damascus. He told no one of his real reason for travel, waiting to see Buran first.
It was early afternoon when he reached Buran’s road. He thought he would burst with excitement and longing. As he approached her house, he saw people standing outside, veiled women in black. Surprised, he hurried and was in time to see a woman he did not recognise at the open door.
“My name is Saleem. I wanted to visit the family here,” he said. Before she could respond, another woman, barely recognisable as Buran’s mother pushed past her.
“Thank God,” she cried, grasping his hand. “Thank God you came. I would never have found you, you would never have known.” She was distraught.
He waited, fearful and frozen. The house was dark and bare. The mother sat him down and said, “Buran is dead. We buried her yesterday. How could I have let you know?”
He stared at her, incredulous and numb with horror. The other woman gave him a small cup of bitter coffee. The story was short. While he was packing to go home from college, unknown to him, Buran was in Jerusalem too. Tired of waiting for news of him, she persuaded her mother to let her go with her uncle on one of his visits there.
“I couldn’t stop her. She was determined,” wept her mother.
They reached the Old City and ran into a scene of such wild shooting and chaos that Buran’s uncle decided to return. But she ran on. A single shot hit her and she fell. The uncle did not dare move her. She was bleeding
“She kept calling your name, ‘I want Saleem, I want Saleem’. They brought her body back to me, I never even saw her die.”
“Who killed her?” asked the granddaughter, her eyes moist. He focused on the present. “Probably a British soldier, at times like that they shot without thinking. But what does it matter who it was?” he said half to himself. Identifying her killer would not bring her back or the part of him that died with her that day in Damascus. .
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