The Tarweedeh           

     “Blood is the worst thing to wash out of clothes!”

     She slapped the reddened shirt against the rock. Perhaps, if she screamed loud enough in the valley, the echoes would bounce off each mountain, disorient the colonizers. They would have no idea where to look by the time the sound stopped.

     “Ya Andaleeb!” her mother called. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, her thobe folded above her knees. Andaleeb always thought the stream was afraid of touching her skin; she never saw her mother wet. “Tears will do nothing. All you need is cold water and kadḥ.”

     Elbow grease. The frown on Andaleeb’s face was like dye setting on cloth. Is that all this life was? Labor and toil?
 
     “I said the worst thing, Yamma. Not the hardest.”

     “Definitely not the worst thing!” her grandmother interrupted. The other ladies burst into laughter. “Wait until you have a baby, InshAllah.”

     “Fil meshmesh,” Andaleeb responded. Never. Just like the apricot; here and gone. Like Laith.

     Silence fell. Just a moment ago, her grandmother’s playful smile had made her sagging skin look light—now she looked weighed down once more. A widow, a bereaved mother and sister. She had lost so much.

     And now, history had repeated. Andaleeb had experienced all that loss too.

     “Ya binti. Mashee.” Her mother handed over a basket of pristine clothes. “Take these to your brother. He will need them.”

     Andaleeb lifted the basket and set it atop her horse, but mounting herself was a weightier task. Her burden was great. She worried the horse would not be able to bear it.

     Al-Dhahiriya was beautiful this time of year. The valley flecked in gold flowers, decorated a green canvas. On and on she rode until the colors changed. Wheat and barley threads waved in the breeze, cows and chickens grazed. Dunum after dunum of those devoted to the earth.

     She rode into the city where time itself shifted. The Omari Mosque called out for prayer. The Roman Fort stood watch over the residents, silently. The overarching Ottoman vault welcomed her into the open-air market.  It would soon be teeming with goods headed to Al-Khalil and even farther.

     Perfect for a wedding, Andaleeb thought cynically.

     She slowed down her horse. The historic centre—now a makeshift jail—was fast approaching on her right. Fortified from lime, ash, and tears. The guards had already given her trouble about leaving the village once. It was easier when her family accompanied her. Doubtless, they would question her as to why she came back alone.     

     Why give them the opportunity? The sight of them boiled her blood. She faced the direction of the open windows, began to sing.

     “Ya Yusuf! Ya Lay-Lay-Laytuhu!”

     The guards’ murmurs surfaced above her voice like bubbles following the ripples of a stream.

     “There she goes again,” a guard grumbled; arms folded, shoulders leaning back against the open-air prison. He looked uncomfortable in the heat, despite his khaki shorts and above-the-elbow shirt. But he seemed to enjoy her singing. It must be dull, once you imprison your most important rebel, she thought. 

     “A shame,” another guard said, eying her with contempt. He looked different. Dark hair and eyes—an Arab. Traitor, translator. Likely one of those who exposed Laith. “That her fiancé had to be a rebel.”

     She belted louder, “Baka leeleeleesintayn habibuhu!”

     “I’d go mad too, if it was a week before my wedding.”

     “Wa sabara ‘aleeleelee haquleelee leeleeleefituhu!”

     “Oh, she will stop soon enough. All she ever does is weep until she’s hoarse.”

     “Wa leeleeleelaqeetuhu, al-dhubaib tyabuhu…”

     “In a few weeks, watch her wear that dress of hers with a free man.”

     “Wa yarje’eu m’a akhoohu, ilaleelee baytuhu!”

     “Ya Andaleeb” the Arab shouted. “Khalas, enough!”

     She stopped. But that wasn’t enough for the traitor; he marched towards her horse. Her scowl, like herself, unmovable.

     “Would you like to join your rebel inside?” the man asked in Arabic.

     Andaleeb refused to break his gaze. “Bala. Abadan.”

     His face tilted back. That pained him. She could see it all over his face—betrayal, the breaking of a heart. Good. Let him feel how it felt.

     “Translator,” the guard warned. He went on in English, which Andaleeb did not understand. If she had to guess, it was that the Arab had crossed some sort of boundary. Imagine that! Even among colonialists, there were ranks. Funny. Were not all of them the lowest of the low? 

     The traitor responded with a sort of apology, then turned back to her. “The colonel wants to know why you are traveling alone.”

     “Tell the colonel that clothes do not dry well in streams.”

     “Nor do they in prisons.” He folded his arms. Andaleeb could feel her nose wrinkling. He was one of them now, even in his mannerisms. “Will the rest of the women be following after you, or should we escort them personally? There are only so many horses in Al-Dhahiriya. It would be a shame if the ladies had to walk back and forth from the stream on foot.”

     “Asif!” 

     Andaleeb whipped her head around. Her brother was bounding towards them. 

     “Asif!” he called again.

     Immediately, the other guard readied his rifle. She cried out again in protest. The traitor drew out his hand to the other guard, gesturing him to stop. This was someone he trusted.

     “Asad,” she whispered.

     “Asif!” her brother panted once more. He must have spotted the altercation on his way back from the mosque. “I am sorry,” he said. “My fault. Not hers. I wanted these clothes fast. In a few days, I go to Al-Khalil.”

     “Hebron, you mean?” the guard asked.

     Asad swallowed as though he had just finished chewing something sour.

     “Yes. Hebron.”

     “Alone?”

     “No, no. I want to take her with me. She is young,” Asad went on. “Her first love. You understand, Sayf,” he said, eyes darting towards the traitor. Both he and Andaleeb turned as red as the poppies outside the city.

     Asad paused for a moment before addressing the guard again. “But I never liked him. Too much… too much trouble. Even now, he does not go to the mosque for prayer.”

     Sayf scoffed. The guard stifled a smile. “Indeed.” His shoulders released, and his rifle went lax against his shoulder. 

     Asad had an irresistible charm about him, one that only a merchant could inherit from the market. His English, though accented, was still comforting to the colonizer. “My sister—she needs to get away. Washing clothes would make anyone angry.”

     That did it. Even the traitor started laughing alongside the guard. Andaleeb shoved Asad in the side, and he released a fake cry of pain. The other men roared.

     “Yallah, yallah, let us get ready,” Asad said. “Gentlemen… make sure he stays put. If he moves, it will be bad for us all.” 

     More laughter. Asad bode them farewell with a wink, and Andaleeb rolled her eyes. He placed a protective arm around her shoulder, held her close.     

     “Hmar,” she muttered.     

     “Wrong animal, habla,” he responded.

     “Kalb, then,” she said, her frown beginning to disappear.

     “You call me by their names?!” he asked with feigned shock. “You say so many things, Andaleeb, and so very little can be understood.”

     “Oh, I am sure my message got across.”

     “So you told him?” An excited smirk spread itself on his face. With his thick beard and unruly hair, he was truly a man of his name. A lion.

     She nodded.

     “Shatoorah,” he said. “It looks like the nightingale can do more than sing.”                         

                                 ⚘


                              LAST NIGHT

     It was too dark for her to clean the reddened shirt. But it seemed to glow underneath the other piles of clothes she had placed on top of it. And even when she shut her eyes, she still knew exactly what it looked like—each tear, a lashing, and each ripping of cloth, a ripping of his mouth.
 
     Laith yelped with each whip in broad daylight shortly after she had already returned from the day’s washing. And that was intentional, staged even. Sayf had exposed him as leader of the rebels. And not just that—he was the one who helped the other prisoners escape. His record trailed behind him: fathers, brothers, sons, husbands of all ages. He was the alpha wolf leading the pack against the hunters at their doors. When pressured to expose the rest of his countrymen, he refused.

     “Ya Laith, Ya Laith…” she sang quietly.

     Andaleeb heard a knock on the door in response.
She swallowed and wiped her face. Were they coming for her too? Fine, let them. Their engagement was no secret. Perhaps in jail, they had a chance at forever.

     “Ya Andaleeb, Ya Andaleeb.” 

     She nearly snorted. Asad… 

     “Will you let me sing too?” he asked.

     She shook her head. “The tanjeeheh is for you, the tarweedeh is for us.” The saving and the song. “But if you have a plan for him, then I will let you sing all you want.”

     “My sister, when you marry Laith, even the birds will join you!” He sat at her side and folded his legs. “Of course, we have a plan. It was hard, but we managed.”

     “Tell me, Asad,” she urged.     

     “Before, they thought the windows were too high for us to climb. But our younger men climbed them, and our rebels distracted the guards with rocks. So they fortified them with steel. But our souls are made of steel too. So now, we will attack them from the bottom.”

     She quirked an eyebrow, “the caves?”
 
     He nodded, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “Yes. Beneath his cell. The others are already burrowing. InshaAllah, as long as he keeps one part of his cell covered with his prayer mat, he can slip away undiscovered. But we have to tell him that we are coming, and that he should not escape by himself. They will try to find him as soon as they figure out he is gone. And you, too.”

     His smile fell. “You will have to hide with him underground at night. In the morning, we will slip the two of you away to Al-Khalil. I know a skilled craftsman there who needs an apprentice. And we—the rebels—need a song.”

     Her words seemed to come out on their own. They fell as soft as snow, yet burnt like ice. “Ya Yousef, ya laytuhu…”

     “... Yousef?”

     “The guards cannot know I am singing to Laith, so I gave him another name. And besides,” she gestured to the shirt in the corner of the room, “the other hint.” 

     Realization dawned on him. “That’s good. What next?”

     “The one who loved him cried for a year!” 

     Asad looked lost once more. “His father? Or…”

     “Slow down, Asad. Instead of years, I am referring to days. Three days. Will that be how long it takes for you all to dig through?”

     “Hmm. Two. So say lisanatayn. But what about the one who loved him? Habibuhu?”

     “Yes, Yousef ‘alayhi al-salam was loved by his father, Yacoub. So I am Yacoub, and I—”

     “Have been crying like a baby these past few days. Ya Allah, you think you are a prophet just because you weep.” Asad was clearly enjoying himself.

     “What if—what if I change it more? As the days pass, and I sing past him, I exchange sintayn to sinna? Or in our case… one night?”

     His expression said it all: You did not even have to ask.

     So she continued. “But he remained patient at the flower fields!”
     
     “I thought you wanted to go into the caves? Those two are different, he might not get that…”

     “Of course he will. The fields are where we played when we were little. Once he emerges from the caves, he will meet me in the flower fields before dawn. I’ll head there on my way to wash the clothes. When I go to wash clothes… and wait for him.”

     Asad considered the options. The colonizers were not fond of fajr prayer. They normally gave breakfast to their charges long after the sun has risen. That would give Laith enough time to escape, and Andaleeb to leave the city with clothes and a horse. He nodded so she would go on.

     “The wolves met him, tore his clothes—”

     Her brother scratched his head. “You lost me.”

     “The wolves are the rebels. Laith—it means wolf, too. And he is the leader of those wolves. The prison is ‘clothing’ him now, surrounding him.”
 
     Asad still looked stumped.

     “... I am saying you are going to tear through the prison. Like the shirt of Yousef was torn.”

     “Ah, yes,” he said with a smirk. “InshaAllah. Is the song over yet? End it well, Balbal.”

     “And he’ll return with his brothers! To his home!”

     He raised his eyebrow. “Me? Haha! Because I am his brother, in a sense. Ya Rab, this is genius.”

     Andaleeb smiled. “I thought so, too.”

     “But why ‘the house?’ You mentioned the fields earlier. I think you might confuse him.”

     “I am not trying to confuse him.”

     “Sayf?”

     “Do not call him by his name. He is a traitor and nothing more,” she corrected. “‘The house…’ It’s a reference to the House of Allah in Al-Khalil. The Ibrahim Al-Khalil Mosque.”

     His grin was near-devilish now. “For your wedding, huh? The only other mosque is—”

     “The Omari Mosque.” 

     “That is if S, that traitor understands this riddle up to this point. He will think that Laith will have escaped to the Omari Mosque instead of the outskirts of it. … Yalla, I think this will work. Are you going to throw any other distractions for him?”

     “Do not worry about him. I know exactly what to do to divert him.”

                                   ⚘

                              THE DAY OF

     Andaleeb trilled. Wherever there was an L sound, she added more. Trilling as many L’s as she could. Sayf, the other guard, even the villagers had begun to think she had truly lost her mind.

     One would even think she was on her way to her wedding—riding her horse proudly, her face blushing from sheer glee.
 
     “O Yousef!” she cried out. “Woe be to him!”

     The code slipped by them, unnoticed. 

     The guards’ murmurs surfaced above her voice like bubbles following the ripples of a stream.

     “There she goes again,” the guard grumbled. Folded arms, shoulders leaning back against the open-air prison. Still uncomfortable in the heat despite his khaki shorts and above-the-elbow shirt. But despite his displeasure, her singing seemed almost welcome. It was a dull life when you imprisoned your most important rebel.

     “A shame,” Sayf said, eying her with contempt. Visibly different from his new companion. Dark hair and darkened eyes—an Arab. Traitor and translator. Likely, one of the ones who had exposed Laith. “That her fiancé had to be a rebel.”

     “The one who loved him cried for a year!”

     “I’d go mad, too, if it was a week before my wedding.”

     “But he remained patient at the flower fields!”

     “Oh, she will stop soon enough. All she ever does is weep until her voice is hoarse.”

     “The wolves met him, tore his clothes—”

     “In a few weeks, watch her wear that dress of hers with a free man.”

     “And he’ll return with his brothers! To his home!”

     “Ya Andaleeb!” Sayf shouted.

     But there was nothing more to say. Flushed, she shut her mouth. It was an exhilarating feeling. Truly, she had earned her place as the lead rebel’s wife.

     Sayf looked ready to attack. “If you want to remember Yousef, read the Qur’an.”

     “What’s she even singing?” 

     “Something about Yousef. The prophet, Joseph.”

     “Now why might she be singing about that?”
     
     Sayf shrugged. “Ramadan is coming up.” 
    
     The grin on Andaleeb’s face was like a dye setting on cloth.

Photo Courtesy of Jennifer Weigel