Chapter 6. The City Beneath the Sea #3
“I’m good—I might need your help with something.” Haifa turns on the overhead lamp, hoping that the extra light will help illuminate the writing. “Can you translate something for me from Arabic into English?”
“Taba’an.”
“It’s not long,” Haifa amends. That familiar feeling of guilt settles in her stomach. “I can drop it off whenever you’re free. Don’t worry—it’s not that important.”
“Of course, of course. Bring it by. Anytime this week—I’ll help you translate.”
“Thank you so much, Sara. Thank you. Really,” Haifa says, but she can already hear Sara waving her off.
In the beginning, the word haunting was never uttered.
The soldier drowned in old age, a kindness undeserved—I didn’t know, I didn’t know—and in death, his body laid the way for the others, carving the pathway to the sea, and no one said the word haunted.
But they kept coming.
They formed a wall of endless supplanters—living atop flesh—and the remembrance fell to me. How could I—how could I forget—they had endured senseless violence and I was the only one who could remember. The city and I—haunted.
And I began to consume.
Despite choking on the drowning water of anger, I consumed and suffocated them too, slowly at first, and then as quickly as they settled—for why should they not drown with me?
—the taste of flesh the only thing to cut the pain of remembering.
They sputtered in the water, the anger consuming us all, their claws in my chest and their blood in my throat, not understanding why.
Why—
As if they do not walk atop bodies, as if they do not live over death.
And if they were there, living over these graves, my own family could not return. The children, too—yes, the children, for if their children slept in the beds, how could my children return? The family came then, the one with the little girl—
She saw the reflection of my children in the mirror, saw them as she saw herself—children, innocents—and one night, filled already with the visions of those who lived here first, she drew a bath slowly and stepped in as it filled around her ankles; she looked up into the wall, into me,
I opened my maw for her and she saw inside of me.
She watched the deaths and the expulsions, the horrors and drownings, and she screamed, she wailed, it became too much for a child—
And she put her own hands round her neck and the walls drew closer, she could not live atop the brittle bones, atop the massacres.
She saw what was inside of me and it killed her.
To the ones I did not consume, the truth buried them alive—an unbearable agony that they could not reconcile. We drown together, an all-consuming, bottomless hunger that begs for a different past, a different reality.
Now, they spit the word haunted at me.
The bodies pile, limbs upon limbs, and my purpose is single-minded, intentional—there must be room for my family—and they fall into my mouth, into the churning, angered sea, into Death Herself, but now,
one has finally returned.
I claw at the settlers who come to gawk at the bones they stand on—Yes, come closer! Breathe me in!—and my purpose is redeemed, my life fulfilled, for one has finally returned, Nuhad’s eyes, and now that she is here, again, finally,
I promise, I promise, to stay empty for her return.
The fading view of Rania’s figure is proportional to the vibration of her legs pounding through the pier, and it’s only for these few moments that Marina can sense her presence before she detaches from her completely, becoming a speck in the distance.
Marina attempts a deep breath, the air feeling shaky in her throat, and reminds herself that the water isn’t high.
The waving little flags in the distance are green.
The waves are mild caresses brushing against the shore. She breathes.
In.
Nuhad had a journal. She had a secret journal, living beneath the tile of her stolen home. It holds an account of her life. Of everything.
Out.
The hunger for knowledge overwhelms—she feels it in every interaction she has here. Everyone else knows their history. Except for her. She needs to feel whole.
In.
She looks down at the beach in an attempt to distract from these thoughts.
It’s far easier to become consumed by others’ lives, real and imagined.
There are people down there as little dots in colorful bathing suits splashing one another in the water and huddling together underneath beach umbrellas.
They wave their arms and jump over the small waves that roll in, falling down and letting the water crash over them.
They are all wearing sunglasses. It is difficult to imagine an impending storm amid this picturesque scene.
Out.
Her imagination spins out from beneath her, weaving a thread of make-believe: he could be a doctor, she could be a marine biologist, they could be a surfer disappointed by the calmness of the day’s waves.
Marina leans back on the bench for the first time since she sat down.
A pair of young children—they look like twins—run past her, and the pounding echoes from their feet into her arms. It’s far easier to be preoccupied with others. They know themselves.
In.
There are Palestinians on the street: construction workers wiping their brows from the heat, patrons drinking coffee at a café, waiters serving diners. Small, defiant flags wave from their businesses and stickers make their mark against the backs of their cars.
Out.
Something catches her eye—a sign near the entrance of the beach.
The text is small and difficult to read from her distance, but as she squints, the English letters mostly form.
She can fill in the blanks herself. BEACH ACCESS: ISRAELI RESIDENTS ONLY.
Beside the sign is the cashier at the front, handling payments and checking IDs.
Her nails dig into the soft skin of her thighs.
In.
The sun is bright, and Marina shields her eyes with her hands.
In this half-light between open and shut, her vision fades to a chalky beige.
The sea recedes and the beachgoers walk and jump over freshly turned soil, and as Marina squints, bright corners of plastic bags flash against the glare of the light.
Her heart catches in her throat as she pieces together the disturbed earth and blaze of bags—the beach is no longer a beach but a mass grave.
She sits back up, and when she blinks, the sand washes over it again.
The dreamy summer scene superimposes itself over the nightmare.
Out.
A car passes, and its license plate glares with green lettering, loudly labeling them as Palestinians. It yells out—Look, people (possible terrorists!) from the West Bank!
In.
Behind the scattered Palestinians, there are the old buildings. Marina can see their yellowed stone without squinting.
Out.
She wonders if they, too, have bullet holes in their walls.
In.
and suddenly marina is taking in too much air entirely, she is gulping it down, waiting for the release and it isn’t coming; now the water is up to the edge of the pier—she knew it would find her, of course it would—and it winds its way around her ankles, and suddenly, before she can run, marina is bound by the strength of the sea.
her eyes search desperately for rania, as hungry for her as she is for the exhale, but she is nowhere to be found, she is not coming back, she has shown marina death by zionism and then abandoned her to her greatest fear.
the air locks itself inside of her now, afraid to come out in this choking, smothering city, and marina cannot breathe, and now the water is up to her calves and she can feel the pull, the strength behind the waves.
her mouth is open but no sound is coming out; she wants to scream and howl for help but everyone on the beach is ignoring her as the water inches up slowly—she is drowning and why would the israelis help?
the only good Palestinian is a Dead Palestinian.
the water is up to her hips, its powerful icy grasp curling around her shrinking stomach, and marina reaches for the bench to ground herself but it is gone, swept away into the churning mouth of the mediterranean sea.
this is the storm. her lungs burn with the fire of air bubbling inside, waiting for its expulsion; since she landed in tel aviv she hasn’t been able to breathe, she’s choked endlessly: on the air, the settlers, the grass, her own vomit—and now, she’s suffocating to death.
the tide pulls at her and she is not strong enough to resist, and so it takes her, sweeping her with salt and unforgiving swells into the sea.
saltwater stings her eyes with barbs; they are open and marina can see the scorched earth below, she can see the dead bodies, she can see the sea that is not sky blue but rather blood red—it is flowing with the dark liquid and the israelis are on the shore and they are perfectly fine, comfortable!
, tranquil, laughing and splashing above the mass graves that they walk atop.
marina’s breath finally releases, her vision clouded by the bubbles rising from her mouth, and she sinks to the bottom, where the reflection of the real city lies beneath: the old haifa, the one that her grandmother grew up in—it’s still down here!
she tries to scream, yell, for someone to come save the drowning city and the drowning people inside and the drowning girl, but she cannot—her oxygen is depleted, she is underwater, she cannot scream anymore.
she sinks to the house, her grandmother’s house, it welcomes her in but there are piles of bleach-white bones in the bloodred sea and the familiar, long shadow hovers around it, seeping from its windows and the cracks in its stone; she gasps, wanting to dive deeper but too scared of reality, and her lungs claw her insides for more air, but there is none to give, they have taken the air, too,
and she sinks further. her vision fades to black.