Sayed Kashua - Dancing Arabs

International Praise for Dancing Arabs:

A beautiful and moving novel The great innovation in Sayed Kashuas book is the sense that every line is the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Haaretz (Israel)

An astonishing book without self-righteousness [Kashua] illuminates the hell of anguished cohabitation and the prejudices that foment fear.

La Liberte (France)

Mixing slapstick and desperation, war and daily life, grand political scenarios and individual tragedy Dancing Arabs captures the double bind of Arab-Israelis.

Panorama (Italy)

Dancing Arabs is a delight despite its bitter truth. Kashua and his anti-hero laugh, and in that is more heroism than in any explosive belt.

Neue Zuricher Zeitung (Switzerland)

[Kashuas] hero does not have a God. He does not threaten with violence, nor does he ask for pity. His life is a masquerade ball, and though he betrays himself, disguises himself, and pours himself from one character to another, he is always honest. And no reader, foreign or local, can remain indifferent to his truth.

Dorit Rabinyan, author of Persian Brides

Anyone who wants to understand what is happening to the Arab society in Israel has to read this excellent first novel. It is difficult to imagine an empathy greater than the one displayed by this writer towards his family, his childhood landscape and his people.

Maariv (Israel)

A striking satire.

Die Welt (Germany)

DANCING ARABS

SAYED KASHUA

Translated from the Hebrew
by
Miriam Shlesinger

Copyright 2002 by Sayed Kashua
Translation copyright 2004 by Miriam Shlesinger

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

First published in the Hebrew language by Modan Publishing House, Ltd.

Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Qashu, Sayed, 1975
[Arvim rokdim. English]
Dancing Arabs / by Sayed Kashua ; translated from the Hebrew by Miriam Shlesinger.
p. cm.
eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-5558-4661-9
1. Children, Palestinian ArabFiction. I. Shlesinger, Miriam, 1947 II. Title.
PJ5055.38.A84A8713 2004
892.437dc22 2003067765

Grove Press
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003

DANCING
ARABS

Grandmas Death Equipment

I was always looking for the keys to the cupboard. I looked for them every time Grandma went to visit the home of another old woman in the village who had died. The old brown cupboard was like a locked trunk with a treasure insidediamonds and royal jewels. One morning, after another night when Id sneaked into her bed because I was too scared to fall asleep, I saw her take the key out of a hidden pocket shed sewn in one of her pillows. Grandma handed me the key and asked me to take her prayer rug out of the cupboard for her. I leaped out of bed at once. What had come over her? Was she really letting me open the cupboard? I took the key, and as soon as I put it in the lock, Grandma said, Turn it gently. Everything is rusty by now.

White dresses were hanging in one section, and in the other were shelves with towels, folded sharwals, and stockings. No underpants. Grandma didnt wear underwear, just sharwals. The sheepskin prayer rug was on the bottom shelf. Shed made it herself: bought the sheep on id el-fitr, skinned it, salted it, and dried it in the sun. On the top shelf shed put an enormous blue suitcase, the one shed taken on her hajj a few years earlier. Whats she got in there? I wondered. Maybe a few more of those policemens outfits, like the ones she brought back to us from Mecca.

I pulled the rug off the shelf and spread it out on the spot where Grandma always said her prayers. She would pray sitting down, because by then it was hard for her to kneel for so long.

Grandma lives with us. Actually, we live with her. She has her own room, with her own bathroom and a basin for washing her hands before saying her prayers, and she never passes through the living room or the kitchen. The way she sees it, anyone who wants her has to go into her room. She would never dream of invading Mothers territory. And if my parents would rather not talk to her, thats fine too; she has no intention of striking up a conversation. It used to be her house once, until my father, her only son, took it over, added a few rooms, got married, and had kids of his own. Of Grandmas four grandsons, I was the only one who would crawl into bed with her. I almost never slept in the room I shared with my brothers. Id always wait for my parents to fall asleep, and then, very very quietly, Id sneak into Grandmas room, into her bed. She knew I was afraidof thieves, of the dark, of monsters. She knew that with her I felt protected, and she never told me not to come, never said, Dont crawl into bed with me anymore, even though it was a twin bed and more than thirty years old. Every morning Id wake at dawn, when Grandma would be saying her prayers. Id never seen the key. Shed never asked me to bring her anything from the cupboard.

When she finished praying that morning, she turned to me. Did you see where I hide the key? Youre the only one Im telling, and I want you to promise me not to tell anyone else till the day I die. Then youll open the cupboard and tell your auntstheyre bound to come here when Im deadthat all the equipment is in the blue bag. You understand? They mustnt use anything except that equipment. Promise?

I promised.

And its time you stopped being afraid. Such a smart boy, what are you afraid of? Hurry up, off to your room before your parents wake up.

Now Im the one in charge of Grandmas death. She must know something I dont. Otherwise, what would she need death equipment for? And what is death equipment anyway?

After that morning when Grandma told me where the key was hidden, I started racing home every recess. I only had five minutes, but we lived really close to the school. When the bell rang, I could hear it from our house, and I always made it back to class before the teacher had covered the distance from the teachers room. I was never late. I was the best student in the class, the best in the whole fourth grade. Every time I ran home, I imagined my grandmother lying in her twin bed with her four daughters standing over her, weeping and singing the very same songs they sang when Uncle Bashir, Aunt Fahtens husband, died or when Uncle Shakker, Aunt Ibtissams husband, died. I knew I mustnt miss Grandmas death, and I always prayed that Id make it back before they buried her. I had to get there in time to tell them about the blue suitcase. I had to tell them about the death equipment. Nobody knew where the key was, not even my father, her only male offspring.

At night, I continued sneaking off to Grandmas bed and sleeping beside her. But instead of being afraid of the dark, of thieves, and of dogs, I started being afraid that the woman next to me would die. Her large body no longer gave me a feeling of security. From that point on, I started sleeping with her to protect her. I would wake up very often, holding my breath and putting the back of my hand to her mouth. So long as I could feel the warm air, I knewNot yet; death hasnt come yet.