In The Name of Money

The year 1975 was different for Tamara Jasim than the previous one.  The lack of college in Adissa, a small village in South Lebanon, where she was born nineteen years before, forced her father to send her to Beirut to finish her education.

            Springtime had arrived.  She was happy that the academic year at the French University, where she was studying Political Science, had ended.  She drove south toward her village, choosing the most traveled route, the coastal highway.  In spite of the heavy traffic, she was relieved there were no more officers, no more lights, no more sign directions as most highways were in the south.

            She stopped her car in front of her father’s villa, a giant amid dwarfs.  Its lavishness contrasted with the poverty of the village houses.  Plants and trees formed a thick vault above her luxury dwelling.  In Beirut trees and plants were confined to gardens, but here, in Adissa, they invaded the streets, avenues and houses.

            Jumane her eleven -year-old sister, a blonde with green eyes, came running, greeting her with kisses.

            “Where is everyone?”  Tamara asked, putting her arms around her sister’s shoulders.

            “Mama is with the cook in the kitchen, and Papa with Kamal hearing the news.  A few minutes ago, he was roaring, telling Kamal how Christians were frustrated as the government announced they will grant the unlisted Palestinians a Lebanese nationality.  Kamal told him it is just a rumor that needs to be justified.  But Papa insisted, I don’t believe so.  There is no smoke without fire.

            “Enough,” Tamara said, holding up her hand to stop her sister’s blabbing.  “Politics is boring, and you are the last one to pay attention to it.”

            As they went into the house, she hesitated to enter the library, and walked toward her room.

            “Aren’t you going to see Papa and say hello to Kamal who came especially to see you?”

            “Later.  My shoes are hurting me.  What is new?” she asked.  Reaching her room, she changed her high heels to more comfortable shoes and placed her miniskirts over the back of a chair.

            “Papa has hired a Palestinian man to work on the field.  His name is Hassan.  He is handsome,” Jumane said, smiling maliciously.  “All the girls of the village are crazy about him.”  Filled with enthusiasm, her sister told her about going to the beach with her mom.  “I was happy being close to the seashore.  It was such fun sitting on the wet sand.  Mom told me not to go near the water.  I guess she wanted to protect me from the high waves.  I liked so much to play with the white foams, hold them in the palm of my hand, and blow them like little bubbles.  The sun was hot.  Mama applied a sunblock over my face and body, yakee, I felt sticky all over and the oil stained my blue bikini which Mama bought me with another red one I had at home.  The red one was extra treat she told me.”  Then she went telling a weird story.  “I had the strangest dream last night.  I dreamed I was dancing on the horizon at dawn.  I spun and spun like a ballerina, but no one was there to applaud me.”  She stopped abruptly.  “You are not listening.”  She made a face and left.

            Her sister was right.  She wasn’t listening.&nbs