White September
(This is a true story, that happened during the
civil war in Jordan in September 1970, commonly referred
to as Black September. This is not a story about death and massacre, but rather
about hope, hence I called it White September)
In the diwan (large hall were men gather in
events and occasions) Abu Ahmad felt that the tension was rising, so he said in
a very loud and firm voice:
Have you ever heard of a family that never had
disagreements? and so this is us Jordanians and Palestinians, a family, linked
with blood, kin, and much more. For decades we carried our weapons to defend
each other, and once we carried it against each other...
Everyone hummed in agreement and a few seconds of
silence dominated the atmosphere.
Abu Ayham, a man in his early seventies, who was
very quiet throughout the evening, sat up right, coughed to clear his throat
and get everybody’s attention and said:
May peace and prayer be upon our beloved prophet.
Paused to allow everyone to repeat the prayer.
He then looked around the Diwan and as eyes
started to centre at him and said:
in September 1970 I was
serving in the royal engineers unit and was based in the Jordan Valley. I was
ordered to move with three of my team, a corporal and two privates, the eldest
was 19, to transfer to Amman. The journey in the back of the old Jeep took most
of the day, and we arrived at the army base at the Signal Unit on the outskirts
of south Amman, just before sunset. We got off the tired Jeep, tired. We were immediately
ordered to move to the Royal Palaces area. the Sergeant said: If I could spare
I jeep I would, but I am afraid you must walk.
Walk, I said to myself, in this hell!
We started walking and he waved us off saying:
Take care!
I did not know if he was serious or sarcastic:
when there is a war going on "Take care” is not the best advice!
It was about 8 miles to our destination, most of
it is a war zone. We walked slowly through the lentil fields, making our way to
Hay Nazzal.
The sun was setting to our left, filling the sky with
beautiful shades of red, while the streets of Amman were also filled with
darker shades of red. The shades of red in the sky were of the day being
murdered by the night, while on the ground it was the ongoing brotherly fight.
We were tired: from the long Journey in the back
of the Jeep, from the lack of food and sleep, from the fear that we were
carrying, we were really tired. While our steps were short and slow, the sun
was rushing to get out of this hell, and darkness was speeding in spreading it
dark layers over us.
We were getting closer to the urban areas, and
the sound of bullets was getting closer to us. The roads were deserted, nothing
alive or moving: just the dark shade of death, and the marking of bullets on
the front of those cement walls. Silence everywhere, makes you wonder: are
these houses empty? or inhibited by death? both death and emptiness share the
same characteristic: quietness.
We continued walking slowly seeking refugee from
the flying death and the descending darkness. Suddenly a few bullets cut
through the air we breathe. Smashing our false sense of safety before landing
into a nearby wall spreading sand and more fear into us. I felt my heart
pumping, the heat inside me was rising and my body was cold and sweaty at the
same time. The soldiers looked at me as “what now?”. I signalled for them to
follow me and we ran into the nearest house.
I pushed the metal door with my foot, and it
opened to a small yard, another door opened easily and we found ourselves
inside the hall of a small building. It was dark and quiet, only the noise of
panting and our fear. It was reassuring because the dead do not breath or fear.
A few long minutes passed and for a moment I felt
time stood still, I forgot who I am and what I am doing here, I even forgot my
name. I did not think that my legs can carry me, I did not have any energy in
my body, but I was alive, and that’s what matters. I noticed that I was kneeling,
I got hold of myself and stood up, checked on my small unit: are you ok? Yes
sir, three times, came the answer.
There was a narrow flight of stairs leading to
the second floor, and next to it a small door although it was not clear where it leads to.
I looked at my colleagues, each one cramped in a
small corner holding their legs close to their body, I said: we stay here
tonight, first sight of day light we move. They agreed immediately.
We started to settle, cigarettes lit, and
everyone wondering in his own world. Outside, the bullets carried on, sometimes
very close, sometimes very far, but never stopping.
More minutes passed and we started to hear some
noise, it was someone groaning, someone who was in pain, but trying to hold it back.
We looked at each other wondering what to do, we tried ignoring the sound, but
it carried on, increasing in pitch and duration. It was coming from behind the
small door next to the stairs. My colleagues looked at me for an answer?
Abu Ayham paused, everybody in the diwan was
gripped by the story, they were all quiet as if they were sitting in that
hallway with him. He looked around and explained:
I was not a leader, I was a junior officer, a young
man with hardly any experience in the army or even life, I did not choose to be
there, I did not choose my fate.
He paused again, lit a cigarette, and continued:
I said to my team: we can ignore this as we have
done so far, but for how long, the night is young and we do not know what’s
outside, and now we do not know what’s inside!
-what do you suggest? They asked.
I said, I will open this door and see what’s
behind it, you stay behind me, if you see anything moving, empty all the hell
you have on you, even if I get it first. They nodded.
I got up, walked to the door as they formed
themselves behind me. I held my M16 closer, stroked it softly as if I was
begging it to protect me, pushed the door opened exposing a narrow flight of
stairs leading down. It was very dark to see how many steps were there, I took
the first step and again stroking my gun, glimpsed at my team a few steps
behind me and they were standing firm with their armours ready to fire. I was
fearing what I might find down and fearing what my friends may do if fear
overtook their senses. I took another step down and shouted with a voice full
of strength, trying to cover all the fear in it: Who’s there? Instantly few
voices came back: women, civilians, women, only.
I looked at my colleagues reassuringly and shouted
again: who’s there? This time, the fear in my voice completely disappeared.
Again: civilians, only women.
I got my lighter out, gradually I started seeing
another three steps down, a small room with no windows, and four people
occupying the tiny space. I could count one old woman, two young women, and a
young girl.
I signalled to my team to stand down, looked at
the women in that room and was assured that their fear of us is bigger than our
fear of them. The older women said: we are here by ourselves, the men left
yesterday. I said reassuringly: I swear
by Allah, we will not harm you, we will stay till dawn and then move off. The
older woman said: may Allah bless you my son. I asked: do you have any food?
She instantly replied: no, nothing, just water. I said: we will stay up by the
hall, and you will not hear from us till we go.
I headed back up to my team, they heard
everything, we looked at each other happy that we continue to live unharmed. We
retreated to our corners, tried to bring better memories into our heads to keep
us occupied from the sound of the bullets outside, and the noises of our hungry
stomachs inside.
More time passed, and time in war is the greatest
enemy, as you do not know if these minutes are taking you to your freedom from
this hell, so they fly quickly, or they are brining you closer to your death,
so they pass slowly.
The groaning from the room continued, increasing
in frequency, and getting louder and louder. We did not know and did not want
to know what was going on. There were many other noises to keep you alert.
Eventually we heard a movement from downstairs,
the little girl opened the door, got out and looked at me, as I was the nearest
to the door, and she said: My sister needs a midwife!
I could not comprehend what she said, so I asked:
what?
She repeated with tears in her voice: My sister
needs a midwife!
I looked at her as if I do not understand if that
was a statement, or a request! She stood there, full of fear, and
determination. And repeated for the third time: my sister needs a midwife!
I popped my head through the door and enquired:
what’s going on?
The older woman said: my daughter in law is in
labour, things not going well, we need a midwife. She repeated in a begging
tone: we need a midwife, now.
I said: do you know what is outside? Death,
that’s what we have. You need to manage. No way to get out, it is death. No one
is safe outside, death.
I realised I was just repeating the word death in
every sentence, but again, it was death, it is worth repeating.
She was crying audibly, she looked at me and
said: she needs help, either get her a midwife or relief her from this
suffering.
I paused, did not want to choose, did not have
the courage to choose.
She said: Oh son, please help! She is dying here
anyway. Please do something, please help.
I said: is there a midwife nearby? I was shocked
when I heard the words I was uttering, and so was my team. We looked at each
other wondering what are we getting ourselves into?
She immediately said: yes, only couple of roads
down the hill.
I said: I am in army uniform, no one here will
come with me, midwife or not!
She said, take the young girl with you, the
midwife will recognise her.
I stood by the front door, the young girl holding
tight to my back, I looked at her and said: run when I run, stop when I stop.
She nodded.
I moved as close to walls as possible and few
meters later we were at the end of the road, she said: right now, all the way
to the end. I walked few yards before started hearing the bullets getting
closer, suddenly I found myself carrying the girl in my arm while running down
the small hill and stopping at the end. The girl looked at me frightened and
excited at the same time and said: left, this road, the house in middle with
the green door. I resumed running with the girl under my arm till we got to the
door, and she shouted: this one.
I knocked and waited, seconds pass very slowly
when you are running from death, so I knocked again. A woman in her fifties
opened a small window in the door and immediately with a big sigh said:
Jordanian army!
I said we need your help and moved the girl
forward. She shouted: oh auntie, my sister is giving birth and she is
struggling, please come with us. The woman looked at me suspiciously and looked
at the girl again: are you ok? She asked. The girl, not understanding what the
women was referring to said: we are fine, hungry, but safe, it is my sister,
please. The midwife looked at us both and after a short pause said: give me a
minute.
I stood on that front door and started looking at
those dark houses in that dark street, I could swear I felt millions of eyes
sweeping my army uniform. I was wondering if one of those many eyes were the
eyes of a sniper. My hands started sweating and my heart racing, the little
girl held my hand as she was also afraid. The bullets continued to fly from
many directions, I could never till which were closer: the AK47s or the M16s!
The door opened and she stood on the
front, I could not supress a smile that came to my face as I saw this heavy
woman standing there, I imagined myself holding the girl under one arm and her
under the other and running! Life can be funny sometimes, even if you are
thinking of ways to escape death.
I said: can you run? I knew the answer but had to
ask!
She said: no, you two run, I will manage my way.
I looked at my young companion and without saying
a thing she glued herself to me as we ran all the way back non-stop. Once
inside the house we stopped and started laughing, I felt as we were children
playing hide and seek in the street, not dogging bullets. Minutes later the
midwife walked in. she gasped when she saw four men in army uniform, did not
say even Salam Alikum, looked at the girl and said: where is your sister?
I sat down with my team waiting patiently, less
than half an hour passed and we started to hear baby crying we jumped, we
started hugging each other. The older women of the house came out, looked at me
and said: All good now, mother and the boy, thank you for getting help. She
said: what is your name? I said: Mohmmad Omar. She replied instantly: and so is
the boy: Mohammad Omar.
Tears rushed to my eyes, it was the first time I
cried in that mad war, in fact the only time I cried then.
The men in the diwan started wiping their eyes
and mumbling praises to God. Abu Ayham lent backward and continued:
The midwife looked at us and said: do you have
any food?
We chuckled: nothing to eat or even smoke!
She said: the woman just gave birth, she needs
food. Paused for a second, then said in a very sharp tone: Now!
I said: what do you suggest?
She said: end of road there is a butcher shop,
has been closed for few days, see what you can find!
(Footnote: old butcher shops used to keep life
stock, mainly chicken and lamb, for fresh slaughter)
I dispatched two of the men to the place, and of
course I ordered them to be careful.
Abu Ayham and everyone in the diwan laughed. He
continued:
They came back with few freshly slaughtered
chickens, which we plucked quickly, and cooked with water, nothing else, not
even salt! Of all the meals I had since, that was the most delicious.
Soon the sun started to unravel the darkness that
covered Amman that night and we made our way to the base in the royal palaces.
Abu Ayham sat forward, poured some coffee into
his cup and sipped it while all watching him not knowing what to say. He cut
through the silence and said:
Years passed, I left the army and started working
with this delivery company. One day I was delivering a shipment to a store in
Hay Nazzal. As the workers started off loading I recognised a green door
opposite the store. It was the midwife’s! I started tracing my steps and
reliving that memorable night. Turn right, up the hill, then I was in front of
that same house!
Nocked, a man my age opened the door, looked at
me and smiled welcoming: are you ok?
I said: more than 20 years ago I spent a night
here!
He grabbed me by the arm and hugged me, walked me
inside and said: welcome home.
An old woman, hearing the commotion, walked in,
looked at me and tears rushed into her eyes: Muhammad Omar! I could not stop
myself from crying and said: yes. She said: this is my son, on that night he
was out with Fedayeen (Palestinian guerrillas)! He hugged me again and with a
big smile pointed to a young man almost my age that night: and this is our
Mohammad Omar.
Abu Ayham put his cigarette out, wiped the tears
in his eyes with his Kufyah and said:
Yes, September is a dark scar in our nation’s
memory, it is the time when we wanted to kill each other. But I like to
remember it as the time we helped each other to give life to a new born boy, a
new memory, a new generation.
Footnote:
I wrote this based on a story of a friend’s
father. Wrote it in Arabic few years ago and have been thinking about
translating to English for some time!
Black September is a very contentious topic to
talk about or right about. Both Palestinians and Jordanians avoid the subject.
My father was severely injured during the war, he
was evacuated with others to Syria. My mum, whom her cousin was killed in the
same ambush that resulted in my father’s injury, took her three young children
at the time and fled Jordan to Syria. My father was sentenced (in absence) to
death by the Jordanian government, we did not return to Jordan till 1985.
For me, when I look at that era, I do not see
heroes and villains, I only see victims everywhere.
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