became clear: her father’s.
“This is my understanding, and I honestly believe …”
There was no formal recognition of the two women as they entered the room, but Haj Hassan, wearing a dark maroon tarbush, acknowledged his niece with a slight duck of his head, and the French priest tipped his glance to her very quickly before adding to something her father had said. Widad offered Fatima the remaining chair and sat on a footstool. Fatima looked curiously at the Frenchman. His black robe had a dirty hem, and his beard, entirely white, was stiff like the bristles of a brush, and his brow wiry and expansive. The sky was grey in the windows, though outside it was blue; on the table lay a tray of biscuits and coffee, and on the stool beside Haj Nimr a large unbound book with uncut pages.
“Some of the women are going to take food and bullets,” said Widad.
“Who are?” said Nimr.
Widad shut her eyes.
“I hope that you, at least, are not,” he said.
“Take bullets where?” said Fatima. A glance passed between Hassan and Nimr, and she was swift to add, in a languid tone that belied her intention: “I saw the aeroplane, outside.”
The effect was achieved. Hassan turned to look at her. “You could see it?”
“Yes, it was flying over that way.”
“Fa … they killed one of them, you know.” He turned back. “One of the British.”
“And where are they now?”
“Hiding,” said her mother.
“The point I wanted to make,” said Nimr, with the tone of one who has suffered a long interruption, “is that one cannot be too stringent about these things.”
“What things?” said Hassan.
“Just as it is better to decentralise a government,” said Nimr, “so it is better to decentralise the application of religious laws, according to the needs of the civil society.”
“We have literally been having this conversation for years,” said Hassan, reaching for a biscuit.
Fatima appealed to her mother with her eyes. Widad refused to look at her, and lifted her chin.
“When you exist within the state, civil laws, religious laws, they are like laws of nature,” said her father.
He was now addressing only the French priest, who appeared to be the sole person listening. Hassan was brushing crumbs off his chest, oblivious to the piece of stewed fig lodged on his chin.
“Only when we step beyond and observe the edges, can we see they are buildings made by men, and they do not extend to infinity.”
“B-buildings!” Hassan sputtered, “made by, by men!” He looked to the French priest to share his incredulity—but the priest had eyes only for Nimr.
“The fellahin have this love,” Nimr went on, “of local saints and walis and leaders that are not, ya’ni, halal. But this is how laws stretch and change shape at the edges of the Islamic world.”
Fatima stopped longing for the conversation to end. She had collected the necessary pieces, and now she dived in headfirst. “Baba, Haifa is not the edge of the Islamic world,” she said. “And the followers of Qassam are not only fellahin.”
Her father studied her. Over the years, Fatima had earned the right to hold opinions that differed from his. She had become renowned for her reason, and her status during such discussions approximated that of a widow, who had earned her authority by age and the death of others. Except that no one had died, and Fatima was only thirty-two. Nuzha, by contrast, was never present during conversations like these and presumably would not know what to say if she was. All the same it was an expression of her youth that Fatima occasionally went too far. To contradict her father outright, and in company, even if that company consisted only of a relative and a holy man. She caught her breath, unsure if she should feel encouraged by the fact that the Frenchman beside her was nodding vigorously.
“She is correct,” pronounced the French priest. He had a heavy accent. “In truth, I was in Haifa only last week, and I found that most people who are interested in the sermons of Qassam are workers. Railway workers, harbour workers, postal workers. It is only recent, this support among the villages.”
Haj Hassan squinted at the priest’s beard, and his own jaw wobbled in anticipation of speech. “I can assure you, Abuna Antoine.” He raised a hand. “That these workers were originally fellahin. Fa, they are villagers who moved to Haifa when they lost their land. Hata I don’t know if worker is the right word, fa, most of them