Ansam Abu Sitta’s ‘Behind the Walls’

This short fiction comes from Ansam Abu Sitta’s collection Bench of the Reserves; you can read more about the collection from translator-writer Nada Hodali.

Behind the Walls

By Ansam Abu Sitta

Translated By Nada Hodali

He ducked his head slightly, secretly wiping off his tears with the edge of his sleeve. He stayed wrapped up in a fetal position in hopes of easing his pain, his head just barely poking out from arms that were wrapped around his knees. His mask of masculinity slipped off in a moment of weakness. Right then and there, he wanted to act as shameless as a baby in front of the other inmates…

All the pain that was needling away at him sat in the spotlight when her angelic face appeared before him on that visit. He had longed for that visit. And yet, in the depths of the night, it provoked his restlessness and his breakdown.

As for her, the walls were closing in on her until she was trapped. But she was a woman, a woman just like the others, standing barefoot, her knees slightly bowed as she bent in front of her mirror…

Like a lone flower that bloomed on a faraway farm, her fragrance went unnoticed for ages. Hugging the grass with her knees buckled, the same way her warm fingers encased the broken curves of her face, melting away from its former modesty: Do you think… Am I still young? Beautiful? How did I look behind the glass that stood between us?

Soon after, her eyes followed the wrinkles on her thin face, pleading for the wrinkles to arrive as late as possible. Her hands begin to tremble as she swept up her flowing hair. The hair shared her fate, and she plunged into a new obsession: looking at her locks, which were carpeted with grey, and silently pulling them out… tearfully, bidding them farewell.

The anxiety that lived inside her was the sole entity waiting for such a moment. It freed itself from her body as she dropped to the floor in her room, finally giving away. She was now used to her fallen body writhing with anger and frustration!

She was used to wiping away her tears, alone every morning, for she was a woman. She paid no heed to breaking down alone in her small room, which stood in the corner of the house, and she thought that she would rise up again, once she pulled herself together. Yet her emotions were scattered, uncontrollable. Was last night the most savage of them all? Or was it the accumulation of all the previous nights, of her finally letting everything out?

For this was the first time that the walls had lost control and she was the one defeated by her moans. Her wailing to took this as an opportunity to escape, bumping into the house’s old furniture until it slammed into the door of Um Jaber’s room; she stopped the prayer beads between her fingers and listened to the wails. She quickly stood up, leaning onto her cane as she repeated: “Mariam… Mariam… Oh God, have mercy on her.”

Her cane was trying to hang on tight to her thin hand; it slammed the floor with every step, refusing to betray the old woman, right up until she held the doorknob and entered the tragic scene!

***

Mariam was curled into the fetal position, like a baby with the umbilical cord wrapped around it, much like all the old sonograms scattered all around. She pulled the pictures tightly to her, afraid they would disappear. Perhaps, if she pressed them hard enough, they would connect to her bellybutton, and life would spring up within once again!

Um Jaber never imagined that Mariam was in such a state; she couldn’t stop the sobs emanating from her. She mumbled incoherent words as she slowly got closer, sitting in front of her without saying a word. “Patience, Mariam… A lot of time has passed, little of it remains.” Was she feeling nervous about repeating her usual line?

She used the dubious silence to caress Mariam’s head, gently patting her shoulder. Maybe her late realization had led to this silence, the uselessness of words, even if they were eloquent. After all, what word dares to comfort the heart of a woman who has lost her youth waiting… one who is still waiting?

As a woman just beginning to understand Mariam’s fear, she understood that only a brief period remained, one that somehow carried the weight of the years that have passed. As an old woman who understood the situation, she pulled Mariam’s face up to her shoulders, planting a kiss on her forehead, her eyes glued to the pictures.

These were images that had endured a lot; stripped out of mercy, crying out with the fullness of aching memories that shamelessly reminded her that eons had passed. For the smiling faces in those images had changed, marks of old age were now visible, a burst of laughter was replaced with smiles. Wiping her salty tears with the back of her hand, with a deep sigh, she said:

“Oh how exhausted I am! I am drained, auntie! Why has this exhaustion not left me? Does it not feel ashamed to have accompanied me through all these past fifteen years?”

“No, my darling. Don’t say this,” Um Jaber put in.

Mariam continued, “But I am a woman! I will not lie to myself. My biological clock is running out. Age has no mercy, auntie. It keeps running with no thought for me.”

After numerous tries, Um Jaber was able to get Mariam out of her room. She thought a breath of fresh air would do her good and help her thoughts dissipate. Mariam had no choice but to comply. They sat in the back yard, surrounded by the green olive trees with their heavy branches, the fragrant lemon trees peeking out from behind them. Pigeons sat atop the almond trees, birds singing with their usual liveliness. Mariam did not pay attention to anything. In her eyes, she saw a dry, thirsty yard standing before her, showing no signs of life.

Her heart became brittle, for she could not control it as it weakened while she followed a chicken with her chicks roaming around, picking at the ground. It was as though they were digging at her memories with her husband from fifteen years back.

Back then, they were like any other couple having a conversation, drinking tea under the morning sun. Many topics came up, but what stayed rooted in her memory was when he admitted to wanting to have children. She smiled as his laugh echoed in her ear. “I cannot imagine you among them; you will look like a chicken with her chicks!” Tears trickled down her cheek as she recalled how he jokingly he’d said this.

Tears streamed down her face as he away wiped his tears; the effect of the memories that he could read off of her face on that visit. Who knew her like he did? Who would understand those looks besides him?

For how could he not understand what she wanted simply by looking at her eyes? Without her mumbling a word, anguish and sorrow struck through his heart. His eyes followed her sad apparition between the cold walls. How can he comfort her? Embrace her?

For a wife miles away from him was crying under the trees. He was here, trapped within these walls. It was August tenth today, their fifteen-year anniversary. Her thirty-seventh birthday.

His heart ached with sorrow. Is she ok? His brain was scattered, enveloped by questions. She tried to convince me that she was alright during the visit, while I know for a fact that she wasn’t. Did I wrong her? Is she in pain? But I asked for a divorce years ago so she could leave me and live her life as she wishes. She said no and stayed put. Should I have insisted? But she was hopeful that I would leave this prison. She was my warmth in the cold of this harsh weather, my light in the darkest nights.

From far away, the sound of Um Jaber’s cane snapped Mariam out of her thoughts. She wiped her tears and stood before her, attempting to zone back into reality. Patting Mariam’s shoulder, Um Jaber said, “I don’t know what to tell you, dear… However, I pray day and night for God to grant you something better in return, my daughter.”

Mariam understood that she should enter the house, but Um Jaber stopped her and said, “Mariam, I know that it’s difficult. Hang in there. Try to pull yourself together, dear. The family will be coming today, and I don’t want anyone seeing you in this state.”

Mariam nodded and headed to her room to change. She stood before the picture on the wall and whispered, “She asks me to get it together? Is it that easy? It’s as though I’m made of steel, that I’m not human. Years ago, I was deprived both of you and of tears.”

***

Within two hours, the house was filled with Um Jaber’s three sons, their wives, and their children, as well as her two married daughters, Fatima and Hana’, with their children.

That said, the gathering formed an incomplete picture. Colorless. During those visits, Mariam imagined Jaber sitting at the forefront of the gathering, given that he was the eldest brother. His voice breathed life into the house and the decorations up on the wall. She imagined herself running behind her little rascals in the back yard, telling them not to climb the trees, scared they would fall over.

“Auntie Mariam, where are your kids? I can’t find them anywhere when we come to visit!”

One of the grandchildren innocently interrupted her thoughts.

“Look! Every one of them came with her children,” the child said. “Where are yours?” Only innocent curiosity peeked through.

His mother came in. Her hand struck his face as she ordered him to stop talking.

Mariam went to apologize. “It’s alright, don’t worry,” she said, playing with the boy’s hair.

He shook his confused head, eyes glimmering with tears. It was as though his eyes reflected Mariam’s heart. “I’ll go bring some tea and biscuits.” She began walking to the kitchen, busying herself in hopes of resisting her feelings. Then she stood still, behind the kitchen window, staring at the swaying lemon branches, not noticing that Fatima stood by the door, not knowing what to say. With such sorrow, she asked, “Are you crying?”

Mariam turned around and did not say a word.

“Don’t mind him,” Fatima said. “He’s just a boy who doesn’t understand anything.”

“I know.” Mariam felt her words burn, stuck in her throat.

“Promise me, though. After a while, you’ll explain to him that his uncle has been a prisoner for the past fifteen years. Explain to him that, if I had children, they would have been older than him. Can you tell him that I did not leave my husband for anything, not for my own need to be a mother that leaves me aching day and night? That I sold all my gold to pay for IVF after Jaber successfully smuggled his sperm, and that still, I miscarried? Could he understand that I will never be a mother? That the dream of motherhood is dying? Will he understand that, when Jaber is released, I will be imprisoned by my sorrows, that I will have run out of time?”

This was the day when everyone realized the reality that could not be denied. The child’s words were a wake-up call. Everyone retreated to their own corner, thinking about their impotence.

Days passed as usual. No one knew what was going on behind the walls. No one saw the tyranny and cruelty of time, how it creatively tortured them and the way no one sensed it. How it simply slept at ease amongst their family members. And yet they were always present there, alone, behind the walls!

The dark nights passed, mercilessly announcing the passage of two months since that visit. She stood in front of the mirror, rubbing her belly, wishing that a bump might appear once again. Carefully caressing it, with tears streaming down her face, she muttered:

“I’ve waited for you so impatiently, my little one. I suffered a lot to feel you moving inside of me, to hear your heartbeat, which would reminds me of my essence and existence. Why would you leave me? I wish you could have stayed. I wish you could have been here, in place of this deprivation that eats away at my innermost self.

“For the walls are still cold, and wishes are still helplessly knocking on the walls of the tank, with no one to answer!”

Ansam Abu Sitta is an award-winning Palestinian writer from Gaza whose work explores memory, displacement, loss, belonging, and the intimate ways conflict reshapes everyday life. She holds a bachelor’s degree in Chemistry and Methods of Teaching from Al-Aqsa University, and works in education and research, alongside her writing. Her stories and essays move between personal experience and collective memory, finding in ordinary lives and details a way into broader human questions. In addition to her short-story collection Bench of the Reserves, her work has appeared in several Arab publications, including القدس العربي. She won third place in the 2022 Palestine: A Homeland and a Cause Short Story Competition at the Arab level, second place in the Fatima Al-Khatib Short Story Competition in Gaza, and first place in Al-Aqsa University’s short-story competition.

Nada Hodali is a Palestinian literary translator working between Arabic and English. She holds degrees from Birzeit University and Durham University, BA English literature and MA Translation Studies. Committed to amplifying Arab voices, her work has appeared in journals such as ArabLit Quarterly, Mousse, and ANMLY, as well as with Interlink Publishing and TBA21. She has translated authors including Sahar Khalifeh and Najem Wali. Her recent projects include 30 Seconds from Gaza by Mohammad Sabaaneh (2025) and Safaa and the Tent by Safaa Odah (2025).

Also read Nada Hodali’s On Ansam Abu Sitta’s ‘Bench of the Reserves’