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My wife gets into bed in the second-floor bedroom after putting the baby down in her crib, and I stay downstairs to watch TV, zapping till the news begins on the Israeli cha
I keep on pressing the button with the up-arrow on it to switch cha
I’m not too crazy about Al Jazeera. From the little I can see, they spend hour after hour talking with experts and commentators, broadcasting news that everyone’s heard already, news that most of the Arab world is used to hearing and likes to hear. They never mention the names of Arab leaders, never do any investigative reporting about rulers or important figures in the Arab world. They don’t want to upset anyone, least of all the oil magnates in the Gulf, with all their money — the money which, when all is said and done, pays for these cha
I switch just in time to the news on Cha
The doorbell rings. It’s my mother and my two aunts, my father’s sisters. “They’re here in honor of our new house,” my mother says.
“Welcome,” I say. “My aunts are here,” I answer my wife. The doorbell has awakened her and she wants to know who it is.
“Congratulations, mabruk, ma-sha’Allah, may this house be filled with children,” they say, and drag their big selves inside. I pull along the two bags of presents they’ve brought us.
My wife comes down, trying not to show how a
“She’s in her crib, you can take a look.” My aunts follow my wife up the stairs. The two of them have trouble climbing, and the older one has to rest every other step, grasping the railing, panting, muttering, “ya Allah,” and taking another step or two. The younger one pauses every fourth step. Both of them complain about the stairs. Once they’ve taken a quick look at the baby, they slowly make their way back down and settle into the armchairs in the living room, wiping their brows with the white kerchiefs they’ve been wearing, and trying to catch their breath. It takes quite a while till the older one manages to say, “She’s adorable. Looks just like you,” and the younger one adds, “May God bless her with a brother. Is there anything on the way? You need another one, and it’s better for a woman to give birth while she’s still young. I stopped having children at twenty-eight after I’d had eight. It’s better for the woman, ’cause you never know when she’s going to stop getting her monthly.”
“Insha’Allah,” my wife says diplomatically, and heads for the kitchen to get our regular guest kit, the one that all the villagers serve. A bowl of fruit, some nuts, cold drinks. Then she’ll urge them to please help themselves, the way she’s supposed to, and they’ll have to eat or drink something, and toward the end of their visit she’ll offer tea or coffee, a cue that it’s time for them to leave. Tea and coffee must be offered even if they get up to go before you’ve had a chance. You’re always supposed to say, “What? Leaving already? You haven’t had your tea yet.”
Nobody wants to mess with my aunts. You’ve got to make sure everything is done by the book. Otherwise, the attack will be particularly brutal. My wife knows this, and she’s careful to do things the right way, except for that scowl that has me worrying that my aunts may catch on. “You needn’t have bothered,” they say, the way everyone does.
“The fact that you’ve bothered gives me strength,” my wife replies, and passes the test with flying colors.
They’re tough ladies, my aunts. Everyone in the village knows it, and tries not to do anything that might make them angry. They’re first-rate gossipmongers, great at bad-mouthing and criticizing anyone they don’t like. In many ways, their impression of our house and of us is crucial to us.