White Masks Read Online Free
Author: Elias Khoury
at him, telling him the war was over, and three years had gone by since Ahmadâs death. I could see the manâs point of view, and I told Khalil, itâs over for the one who dies. But he got all upset and said that they were dishonoring Ahmadâs martyrdom, that he no longer felt welcome, and that they had changed their attitude. Truth be told, they werenât the same as before - in the early days, they visited us regularly, bringing little gifts with them, but now ... well, they were probably right, the war was over, and more than half of them had quit and gone back to their jobs. Some had even left the country to work in Saudi Arabia or the Gulf, and the âofficerâ had more important things on his mind now.
While it was Khalil who told me this, I knew it made him sad. He hung a poster of Ahmad up in our bedroom and carried on the same as before,
going to work and to the café, and then coming home and watching TV. He didnât say very much, but I certainly didnât sense there was anything wrong. That was about a year and a half ago, in 1979. Khalil seemed reconciled to the situation: there were still a few posters in the wardrobe and there was the one hanging in our room.
But then the fighting started - the war, itâs started up again, I told him. There was shelling everywhere, but he didnât seem concerned. Even the newspapers had stopped coming into the house, as if heâd gone back to his old self. Only that smile of his was gone. Everything was the same as before, except for the smile and the white head of hair.
But then, how shall I put it . . . strange things began to happen whose meaning I couldnât grasp . . . I just didnât understand anything anymore. All of a sudden, Khalil started to change . . . it must have been about three months ago. He just completely changed. Nothing specific happened. Our daughter Nada had a little boy; he was happy about the boy and he went to see her. Nothing happened, but he changed, he became another man. I did everything I could to understand him but he wouldnât tell me anything. He simply said nothing. Then, one day, he left the house, saying he was going to work. He went and never returned. Whether they kidnapped him or murdered him, I donât know - all I know is that he never came back, and he was killed.
Iâll have you know, son, we donât have any enemies . . . no one hates us, why should this happen to him? I swear I donât know. No, no, he wasnât the foolhardy type, even our visits to our daughter in Tripoli were few and far between. Weâre not the adventurous sort, and since the safe route to Tripoli was too long, we just didnât go.
Honestly, I donât know how everything happened, I really donât. I neither see nor understand, all I know is they killed him, they dumped him there, dear God, just like that, naked to the waist... and the garbage . . . Oh Lord, I canât understand it . . . I just donât know . . .
The story . . . ? There is no story. Everything happened so suddenly. We woke up one morning, and he wouldnât get out of bed. He told me he wasnât feeling well and wouldnât be going to work. I went out to buy a few things, and when I got back I found heâd locked himself in the bedroom. I knocked on the door, and when he didnât open, I started to scream, I thought something terrible had happened to him. But then I heard him speak, and he sounded quite normal, saying, everythingâs alright, Iâm just a bit busy. So I left him there and went to attend to things in the kitchen. Then it was lunch-time. I knocked again, and again he didnât open. He said he wasnât hungry; then it was dinnertime, and he still didnât come out. I asked him to please open the door because I wanted to go to bed, but he asked me to sleep in the other room. I tried to peep through the keyhole to see what he was up to, but I couldnât make
While it was Khalil who told me this, I knew it made him sad. He hung a poster of Ahmad up in our bedroom and carried on the same as before,
going to work and to the café, and then coming home and watching TV. He didnât say very much, but I certainly didnât sense there was anything wrong. That was about a year and a half ago, in 1979. Khalil seemed reconciled to the situation: there were still a few posters in the wardrobe and there was the one hanging in our room.
But then the fighting started - the war, itâs started up again, I told him. There was shelling everywhere, but he didnât seem concerned. Even the newspapers had stopped coming into the house, as if heâd gone back to his old self. Only that smile of his was gone. Everything was the same as before, except for the smile and the white head of hair.
But then, how shall I put it . . . strange things began to happen whose meaning I couldnât grasp . . . I just didnât understand anything anymore. All of a sudden, Khalil started to change . . . it must have been about three months ago. He just completely changed. Nothing specific happened. Our daughter Nada had a little boy; he was happy about the boy and he went to see her. Nothing happened, but he changed, he became another man. I did everything I could to understand him but he wouldnât tell me anything. He simply said nothing. Then, one day, he left the house, saying he was going to work. He went and never returned. Whether they kidnapped him or murdered him, I donât know - all I know is that he never came back, and he was killed.
Iâll have you know, son, we donât have any enemies . . . no one hates us, why should this happen to him? I swear I donât know. No, no, he wasnât the foolhardy type, even our visits to our daughter in Tripoli were few and far between. Weâre not the adventurous sort, and since the safe route to Tripoli was too long, we just didnât go.
Honestly, I donât know how everything happened, I really donât. I neither see nor understand, all I know is they killed him, they dumped him there, dear God, just like that, naked to the waist... and the garbage . . . Oh Lord, I canât understand it . . . I just donât know . . .
The story . . . ? There is no story. Everything happened so suddenly. We woke up one morning, and he wouldnât get out of bed. He told me he wasnât feeling well and wouldnât be going to work. I went out to buy a few things, and when I got back I found heâd locked himself in the bedroom. I knocked on the door, and when he didnât open, I started to scream, I thought something terrible had happened to him. But then I heard him speak, and he sounded quite normal, saying, everythingâs alright, Iâm just a bit busy. So I left him there and went to attend to things in the kitchen. Then it was lunch-time. I knocked again, and again he didnât open. He said he wasnât hungry; then it was dinnertime, and he still didnât come out. I asked him to please open the door because I wanted to go to bed, but he asked me to sleep in the other room. I tried to peep through the keyhole to see what he was up to, but I couldnât make
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