By Emile Habiby
Translation by Invisible Dragoman.
4.
Return
Over the coming weeks, we will be publishing installments of Emile Habiby’s The Six-Day Sextet, which is available in an open-access, non-commercial translation by Invisible Dragoman. You can find part one, part two, and part three in our fiction section.
It’s our home, Jerusalem is ours,
By our hands we shall restore Jerusalem’s splendor!
By our hands, to Jerusalem…
Peace shall come, it shall come!
-Fairuz
(This is the story of the protests that broke out in Jerusalem’s Old City on June 5, 1968, marking the one year anniversary of the Six-Day War.)
- How did a new month of the year, The Following June, come about?
Each year on Good Friday, the Christians of Jerusalem organize a procession to Golgotha along the historic Via Dolorosa, marching behind a large wooden cross.
I’m here with my friend from Jerusalem, walking the path that thousands of young men and women walked on “Good Wednesday” on the Fifth of this June, the Following June . They walked from the courtyard of Al-Aqsa Mosque to the Yusufiya Cemetery, where they placed bouquets of flowers on the graves of the martyrs.
As for the wooden cross, we carried it on our shoulders.
- What is the mystery behind the name “Gazelles Alley”?
As we walk along, my friend from Jerusalem starts pointing out the landmarks of the Old City:
“Here’s where they started congregating. Here, in the courtyard of the sanctuary, by the ablution fountain…”
Asur, mister! – You’re not allowed. Take off your shoes first!
They arranged themselves in pairs. Boys and girls together, carrying wreaths and bouquets. Two men stood up to address the crowd—one holding a Quran, the other, a Bible.
“Come this way, please. This is the Chain Gate. The procession exited through here… Yes, the gate was wide open.
“No, this isn’t a saint’s tomb; it’s an old public water fountain with an ancient dome for a roof.”
And upon you, peace. Our brother here? He’s from Nazareth. A journalist. Yes, yes, from Al-Ittihad… Yes, things will get better soon…
“They walked up the alley by the Chain Gate… Yes, this is the same alley the government announced it was going to develop. They started kicking out the residents so they could tear down their homes. To our left is the Wailing Wall.
“Not at all. The alley was full of people. They poured in from the adjacent alleys to join the march. They came from the steps by the bakery to the left, and from Souk Al-Attarine to your right.
“Go on up. To your left is where people sit and drink tea. The crowds that poured in through here were coming from Ghizlan Alley—where the houses have all been torn down and the people there scattered to the winds.”
“Ghizlan Alley? Gazelles Alley? What’s the story behind this name? There’s part of a village near Nazareth that’s called Gazelles Pastures. They seized the land there and threatened to tear down all the homes!”
- How did one boy come to have a thousand mothers?
My friend from Jerusalem is preoccupied with his cross. “Here, they veered right. This is Souk Al-Bashoura. No, let’s not go in—we’ll turn left instead and follow their footsteps. This is Souk Al-Attarine.
“It looks just like Souk Al-Shawwam in Haifa used to!”
And upon you be peace and God’s mercy and blessings. This is our brother from Nazareth.
“Yes, I’m from Haifa originally. I remember it. The little honey shop? Yes, I remember it. I might have come into your shop one time or another… Ali? He was my classmate… He’s in Kuwait now? Send him my best. Jerusalem is an elevated city—why did it have to be swallowed by the flood?”
Welcome. And upon you, peace. God willing, things will be okay.
“No, this alley wasn’t so crowded on the day of the march. The shops were all closed so the owners weren’t sitting in front of them the way they are now. Nobody was buying. Nobody was selling. Who’s in, and who’s coming out? They were trading all right—not merchandise, but news about all the arrests.
“We’re following them through Souk Al-Attarine. Here we are—now we’re in Khan Al-Zeit. To your right—that’s Zawiya Way. From here, the river of people came pouring out.
“On your left is Khanqa Way. People came from there, too. On your right is Mufti Way. People were coming from there too.
“This is Watermelon Way and to the right of it is Mulberry Way. They were pouring in from both.
“Here we’re in the square just inside Damascus Gate. The outer square? It’s on the other side of the wall—that’s where the police were amassed. This square was also packed, with men on foot and on horseback. The police lay into them here and blocked them from continuing their march. Only some of the wreath-bearers made it through, in pairs.
“Then the real clashes broke out and everything got confused.”
Neighing. Allahu akbar. Neighing. Groaning. Batons falling. Allahu akbar.
“They dragged the protesters to the police cars. An old mother saw them dragging her son away and cried out, ‘My son!’
“They turned on her to drag her off as well.
“Then a cry went from everywhere all at once, ‘My son!’ They had no idea which woman was his mother.”
“All of the women?!”
“They all became his mother! And they started to fight back by throwing rocks from the rooftops of the old buildings.
“They took the police by surprise. They went from here. Let’s keep going, through the Saadiya neighborhood. They kept inside the walls and came to Herod’s Gate, let’s keep going, till they got to the cemetery, let’s keep going, and laid their flowers.”
- How did a poet reunite his readers through poetry?
Treading lightly across the Yusufiya Cemetery my friend from Jerusalem is contrite, “The flowers have wilted!”
This reminds me of the sonnet Byron wrote about his lover after he’d sent her a bouquet of roses. He wanted the flowers to inspire hope by not wilting in her hands.
I console my friend, “It seems fitting for flowers to wilt in cemeteries.”
“At least the writing on the cards hasn’t faded. Take a look at them.”
So I go up to one and read:
This is my land…
My father was martyred here…
My father told us:
‘Smash our enemies…’
Then another:
We shall return.
Then this one:
The home is ours,
Jerusalem is ours.
And this one:
But do not think of those that have been slain in God’s cause as dead. Nay, they are alive! With their Sustainer have they their sustenance.
Another grave bears the verse:
Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
My friend stops me in front of a tomb with a cave-like opening that bears a large inscription. My friend says “Read it aloud!” So I recite the words on a white cloth banner:
“But do not think of those that have been slain in God’s cause as dead. Nay, they are alive! With their Sustainer have they their sustenance.”
Directly under that, it reads: Your memory is forever, our brother, worthy to be blessed and always in our thoughts!
My friend from Jerusalem continues his story:
“The day after, on Thursday, more than 6,000 men gathered in the courtyard of the sanctuary. They wanted to march to the graves of the martyrs. But they were stopped by police on horseback. The Mufti of Jerusalem and the Archbishop of Jerusalem went up against the hooves.”
I want to learn about those who’d brought the bouquets and wreaths. The names of some of them were not to be found. Others signed their offerings:
From the people of Souk Al-Husur…
“These ones had their houses torn down,” my friend adds.
From the Arab Children’s House…
From the Jerusalem Youth Campaign…
“They are schoolteachers.”
From the girls of Shuafat Middle School…
On a page torn from a school notebook, I read the script of an untrained hand:
“Long live Palestine!”
I read on, now astonished, “Abd Al-Rahim Mahmoud?!”
“The flowers aren’t from him, of course. He died in 1948. This is a line of a poem of his: Two fates await the martyr’s soul: The roses of death and the granting of wishes.”
“That is amazing. He was killed in the Battle of the Tree on the road to Tiberias in 1948. They buried him in an unmarked and unknown grave in Nazareth. Where he lies now is anyone’s guess.”
“Same for this grave. We don’t know the name of the martyred buried here.”
“We know the poet, but not his resting place.”
“We know where this tomb is, but not who’s in it.”
“A poet buried in Nazareth whose verse graces the tomb of a martyr in Jerusalem. His poetry brings everything back together again. ”
- Return
My friend from Jerusalem senses where my thoughts have gone and begins to smile. I see him coursing through the tracks of my imagination, like a dove takes to the sky carrying seed for its brood in the nest.
“Let’s sit down in the shade of this ancient tree!”
So we sit.
“There’s a kid from your town…”
He mentions his name.
“I know him…”
“And he proposed to a girl from Jerusalem.”
“So I’ve heard…”
“But did you know she’s my daughter?”
“No.”
“She’s in high school…”
“He should wait for her to finish her studies…”
“They expelled her for taking part in the Wednesday march.”
“So now she can get married.”
“But he’s in jail here…”
“How?”
“He was with her on the Wednesday march, carrying a wreath of flowers. They locked him up.”
“Oh my God…”
“She and her mother were visiting your town on 1 May when you were out demonstrating and demanding for them to withdraw. It was inspiring. She and her mother joined the women’s march. They were chanting along with everyone else.
“The mother of this boy was on the march too. She was very glad to meet them and invited them over for lunch. That’s where this boy met her. That’s where she met him.
“He told her stories about a demonstration he said happened in your town in 1958, and these stories got her fired up. He said the police clashed with the demonstrators.
“He told her stories about stone-throwing, arrests, deportations, and singing folk songs.
“She invited him to visit her town. She told him to come on June 5th. She showed him that she also knew how to throw rocks—and they expelled her. He showed her that his stories about 1958 were true—and they locked him up.”
“What is the girl doing now?”
“She’s waiting for him at the prison gate.”
He’s a journalist from Nazareth, auntie. A refugee from Nazareth buried around here? On the other side? Near the Dung Gate? Of course, we’ll go there together, auntie. Let’s go.
Part one: Masoud’s Cousin Makes Him Happy
Part two: At Last, the Almond Trees Blossom
An uncopyrighted translation of Emile Habiby’s Sudasiyyat al-ayyam al-sitta, originally published in Al-Jadid (Issues 4-9), 1968. This is an open-access, non-commercial translation by Invisible Dragoman.
Translators’ note:
This translation of Emile Habiby’s The Six-Day Sextet came about in the following way. In a 2017 seminar on Arabic novels, I had the pleasure of teaching a small group of talented students: Kevin Chao, Fouad Saleh, Molly Simio, Andrew Slater, and Uma Mencia Uranga. As a collective final project, each student chose one chapter from this work to translate. I took one for myself. We edited each other’s work for accuracy and style and I edited them again for continuity.
After securing translation rights from Habiby’s estate, we submitted this manuscript to various publishers. Initially, there was some interest but after months of conversation, nothing came of it.
Covid arrived and years passed. As our translation of this remarkable text gathered digital dust on a hard-drive, we learned that there were disputes concerning Habiby’s estate and that the permission we’d been granted was itself likely disputed.
As we faced the likelihood that our work would never be published, we decided to share it in a non-commercial form. Given the author’s political commitments, we imagine that he might approve of our decision, but God knows best.
The striking images, composed by Habiby’s artist friend, Abed Abdi, first appeared in the first Haifa edition: Sudasiyyat al-ayyam al-sitta wa-qisas ukhra Haifa: Matba‘at al-Ittihad al-Ta‘awuniyya, 1970). They are copyrighted and used with the artist’s permission.
This translation is open access. Please feel free to read, store, and distribute for your personal, non-commercial use.