From Saga Hamdan’s ‘Red Light’

This is part of a longer story, “Maryam,” (2022) by Palestinian author Saga Hamdan.

‘Red Light’

By Saga Hamdan

Translated by Sheila Casado Ramírez

The sun rose with a fury, though winter had been short. Then the khamsin winds arrived, as if bringing that to a close, leaving the impression that the year itself was drawing to an end, as though they were hurrying to summer, leaping right over the intimate warmth of spring. I don’t like this weather. It reminds me of the end of school: the exam prep and those final, weary stretches of the year.

The sun’s blazing rays pierced every pore in my body. A policeman in his mid-thirties was gesturing to a little girl, urging her to get out of the way of the creeping cars. I was slumped against the steering wheel, waiting for the red light to change, resenting the sun as its searing rays struck my hands, leaving behind dark brown lines.

I glanced at the watch; its hands now moved at the pace of a turtle that had decided to curl back into its shell to finish its midday nap.

It was longing that scorched the heart in the flames of anticipation. It was waiting that hurled a gnawing thought into the soul, as if the clock’s hand wished it could turn back and stretch every minute into an hour.

I thought myself cleverer than time, which bargained with me to come back to life at a glance from your eyes. I decided to cut it off before it could slice my heart to pieces, unable to swallow the bitterness of your absence.

I drove off, despite the unbearable weather, and set out to prepare the things you love. Of course, only after leaving the house brimming with the scent of incense—that “shy happiness” as you liked to call it—and with scented candles lined up on the dining table, ready to be lit for the very first time, without fear of their being spoiled. But today, all limits are lifted. How many times will you return from your travels?

Today, I realize this whole process didn’t come with any instructions.

In your last call, barely an hour ago, you told me you’d be here at exactly five. But I heard the mischief in your voice, and since I know you by heart, and by soul, and by time and by love, I know you’ll come earlier, hoping to surprise me. And because I am wiser than you, and wiser than the slow and deliberate time that wears away at my heart, I will surprise you, too.

I stopped at the first shop to buy that dark chocolate so bitter I’ll never understand how you enjoy it, though what can I do? Today is your day, and there is no harm in small concessions; concessions that extended to the florist, too. You don’t like calling him that, because “flowers are the face of love and love is nor for sale!” Your words echoed in my ears as I walked through the door, and since you never offered me another name, I’ll keep calling him “florist” for now.

What’s worth mentioning, however, is that I got you jasmine, the flower you adore, and ignored the roses that irritate you, though I prefer them myself. I left the florist—I mean, the “merchant of love”— behind as he called after me with greetings and insisted I pass them on to you.

I put the bouquet and the chocolate on the seat beside me; we are getting ready to meet you after your long journey.

Time still stands, and because I vowed I would not let it win, I started the car and drove to the hairdresser. Don’t worry, I won’t cut my hair: we made a peace treaty about that when I reluctantly agreed to your pleading: “Would you cut this mass of dark hair? Would you uproot the night from the clamor of life? Would it make you happy if I stayed awake, and that the birds of longing could not sleep?” You spoke with enough poetry to get me to agree with the illogic of your sweet words. Fine, I’d only have it styled.

The red light lingered. In that pause, I seriously wondered what would happen if I drove wearing my summer gloves. I don’t want my soft hands to turn into a patchwork of colors. I was diving into the details of this small dilemma when a long number rang; I laughed when I saw it and thought “My God, have I become important enough for such special numbers to call me?”

A rough voice murdered the innocence of the scene. It was an electric wave that shocked the soul and faded into a shiver that ran through the body. The laugh lines around my eyes vanished, and my body contracted, as if in the first days of winter.

The call ended. My eyes were fixed, the phone was glued to my ear and my mind gave no clue as to its reaction. The sun went out and the clouds raced toward their resting place, as if they longed to help me by weeping into my eyes.

By what right? What had I done?

I remembered that they didn’t need a reason to detain you, and that making up cases was easier for them than breathing. They claimed your interrogation had taken too long, and then came the order to arrest you.

When would your first court date be? Some people said it was only then that I’d be allowed to fall upon your chest and weep. Did they say our meeting could last only ten minutes under the soldiers’ watchful gazes? And then, how many life sentences would it be—two, three, thirty-seven?! What difference did it make?

What if the interrogation was harsh, and they lashed your exhausted body? I know your spirit is stronger than their attempts, but what if they went too far? What if they isolated you from life, from other people? Can you even breathe when they’ve trapped your soul inside two cubic meters?

Suddenly, it struck me: I didn’t know your favorite poet! Could I ask you this through the receiver, the one that carried my voice through glass panels and two meters of air? And what if you were puzzled by the question and it took too long to answer, and then a soldier snatched the sound from us, leaving us unable to even hear our own breathing?

What if they denied my visit in the first place? Maybe they would allow me to only step across that threshold and hear them say, “No visit” in their broken accent, an accent that betrays their hollowness and refuses to acknowledge they are intruders on this land and its Arab soul.

We will find a way to embrace, inevitably. Why shouldn’t I send you messages? Or have they blockaded the words, too?

Love cannot be bought. Yet, as you say, it cannot be given as a gift, either. It is a dictatorial power, leaving no room for choice or offering. And while the jailer occupies your body today, you have occupied my heart; and although its occupation is fleeting, yours takes root, growing deeper in my chest with every passing day.

Vehicles swarmed around me, then scattered, unleashing a storm of horns over my car that stood, stunned, in the middle of the street. I only came to myself when a policeman was shouting at me, throwing a traffic ticket into my face.

I stepped on the gas, clutching the ticket and the weeping jasmine flowers.

I headed to the hairdresser and cut my hair.

I wanted to go home, but then I realized that, at that exact moment, it had become nothing but a dwelling, a temporary stop, a house one stays in for no reason.

And when I turned the key twice in the lock, it came to me:

How can I sleep alone when I’m afraid of the dark?

Read more work by Saga Hamdan here.

Saga Hamdan is a Palestinian author and social health researcher from Gaza, currently based in the UK. Her work centers on memory, survival, and life under siege and genocide, and has received multiple local and international literary awards.

Sheila Casado (born in Málaga, Spain, 1997) holds a joint degree in Translation and Interpreting and Humanities from Pablo de Olavide University in Seville. She also completed a Master’s in Contemporary Arab and Islamic Studies at the Autonomous University of Madrid, where she is currently based. Her translations of short fiction have appeared in the literary magazine Banipal, and some of her poems have been published in Casapaís (2023). She currently works as a translator and editorial illustrator.