The Falcon
from A World Not Our Own
by Ghassan Kanafani
from A World Not Our Own
by Ghassan Kanafani
الصقر، من كتاب عالم ليس لنا
لغسان كنفاني
لغسان كنفاني
Our world was organized with extreme care, everything just as it should be. This is precisely what made our relationship with the guards of the new building, whose construction we were overseeing, a relationship of passing acquaintance. Nothing except, "Good evening, Jadan."
The brief response would come from the wooden platform, "Good evening, Abdullah."
He called all of us 'Abdullah.' Jadan was not interested in memorizing our names. To him, we were simply 'Abdullah.' It was enough trouble remembering the names of the foreigners.
The guard house was located at the end of the hall that led to the new building that was reserved just for us. The building was truly amazing, the opposite of the building we used to live in-- that dump that was crawling with mice and overrun with other tenants.
Here in the new building we were living in complete isolation. As the days passed, we almost felt as if we were isolated not just from the neighborhood, but from the entire city. Without the guards being there to greet us every time we came and went from the building, we would have felt as if we had been placed inside an elaborate prison cell designed just for us.
The two guards were Bedouins who came from the desert. Jadan was the night guard, yet he still spent some daylight hours wandering the premises since there wasn't much else for him to do. The daytime guard was named Mubarak, a huge man in his forties with dark skin. He walked with a hunch as if he had always just stood up from sitting for too long. He wore the official guard uniform which was navy blue with large brass buttons. He slept inside the condo and covered himself with white sheets that were changed once a week.
We sensed-- despite our distance from the lives of Jadan and Mubarak-- that there was a hidden resentment or animosity between the two men. It didn't take us long to notice that Jadan never wore the official guard uniform. Instead, he would always wear a coarse abaya over a long, dirty robe that was once white. We also noticed that Jadan, unlike Mubarak, refused to sleep inside the luxury apartment. Instead, he fashioned an odd bed for himself, made out of three wooden planks that once belonged to a large crate. He placed them on six supports and covered it with a black goat skin. We would watch him late at night folding his coarse abaya to use as a pillow and then dozing off without a blanket. We never saw inside the condo, or inside the navy blue uniform with the large yellow buttons.
We thought that Jadan, for some reason, resented his partner Mubarak. Mubarak, in turn, was wary of Jadan, who would give him a piercing stare, sizing up Mubarak and his strange uniform.
Our thoughts were confirmed one day when Mubarak stopped me and asked that I write a letter of complaint to the president of the company for him.
"A complaint against whom?"
I asked my question in a tone well-suited for an engineer addressing a security guard whose salary was six times less than his own.
"Against Jadan." he answered, "Whenever it's his turn to clean the toilets, he refuses to do it."
"Why?"
"I don't know. He used to give your cleaner three rupees to do the work for him."
"So, why does it matter to you as long as the toilets are cleaned on time?"
We sensed-- despite our distance from the lives of Jadan and Mubarak-- that there was a hidden resentment or animosity between the two men. It didn't take us long to notice that Jadan never wore the official guard uniform. Instead, he would always wear a coarse abaya over a long, dirty robe that was once white. We also noticed that Jadan, unlike Mubarak, refused to sleep inside the luxury apartment. Instead, he fashioned an odd bed for himself, made out of three wooden planks that once belonged to a large crate. He placed them on six supports and covered it with a black goat skin. We would watch him late at night folding his coarse abaya to use as a pillow and then dozing off without a blanket. We never saw inside the condo, or inside the navy blue uniform with the large yellow buttons.
We thought that Jadan, for some reason, resented his partner Mubarak. Mubarak, in turn, was wary of Jadan, who would give him a piercing stare, sizing up Mubarak and his strange uniform.
Our thoughts were confirmed one day when Mubarak stopped me and asked that I write a letter of complaint to the president of the company for him.
"A complaint against whom?"
I asked my question in a tone well-suited for an engineer addressing a security guard whose salary was six times less than his own.
"Against Jadan." he answered, "Whenever it's his turn to clean the toilets, he refuses to do it."
"Why?"
"I don't know. He used to give your cleaner three rupees to do the work for him."
"So, why does it matter to you as long as the toilets are cleaned on time?"
He leaned against the wall. He was clearly angry and he began explaining himself in an annoyed tone, "Listen...a week ago your cleaner refused to do the work. Do you know what Jadan did? I'll tell you. He asked me to clean the toilets for five rupees."
"Why isn't Jadan doing the work himself? Isn't it part of his job?"
He shook his head and spread his hands over his knees, "Yes...yes, it is. But you know why he doesn't do it? I'll tell you. It's because he didn't come here to work."
"Then what did he come here to do?"
He continued to shake his head and said cautiously in a low voice, "I don't know. But I'll tell you, I think he ran away from his family."
"His family? He's an old man. Why would he leave his family?"
Mubarak sat down on Jadan's cot, his eyes filled with contempt, and said, "It happened a long time ago. He wanted to marry a girl with red hair. He first saw her near his family's camp with men who were coming to hunt."
"Jadan? In love?" I said with surprise.
"Yeah. His family had him take the men and the woman out to hunt gazelles. And you know what happened? I'll tell you. He fell in love with her and when she left he practically went insane."
Mubarak was fidgeting with a small twig and began mindlessly digging a hole in the ground with it, then he said:
"You know, there are people saying all kinds of things. They say that she loved him back."
"She loved him? Why didn't they get married?"
"What kind of red-haired woman would agree to marry a bedouin? He was a good guy, but there would be no point...you know what I mean? I'm telling you, he divorced his wife!"
I stood up, but before leaving I asked him, "So, why does he work here?"
"He says he doesn't work here. He just resides here the way a person might reside anywhere in the world. He said that he gets really tired and here a person can get by without much work. He also said that he wants to die here, in peace. He doesn't want to return to his family. He's crazy, you know. Are you going to write the complaint?"
I walked to the door without answering him and climbed the stairs to my apartment.
Sitting down and talking with Jadan was not an easy task, but I kept trying to no avail. Every time I found myself standing helplessly in front of his two sunken, black eyes that sat behind a barrier of complete silence. When I did finally manage to sit down next to him on his cot it was only by accident. I arrived late and had left my keys with a friend, so I sat there and waited.
"I was supposed to go to sleep early tonight. We're going hunting tomorrow."
"Hunting?" Jadan asked coldly, preoccupied with rolling his tobacco in thin paper.
"Yeah. Hunting gazelles."
"And how do you hunt gazelles?"
"The regular way, with our car."
He shook his head and returned to rolling his tobacco, then, as if addressing himself, "You hunt down the poor gazelle with your car, separating it from its flock. You chase it for hours until it tires out and can't run anymore. Then you get out and grab it as easily as a chicken."
He lit his rolled cigarette and inhaled deeply, looking directly into my eyes and said firmly, "You should be ashamed."
I was shocked and felt as if Jadan had deliberately insulted me, so I pushed back, "Ashamed? How are humans supposed to hunt gazelles? With rifles?"
"No, not like that."
"How then?"
He inhaled again, deeply, and his intense gaze washed over me through a heavy cloud of smoke. He said calmly, "You should never hunt gazelles, Abdullah. Not with a car, not with a rifle."
"Why not?"
He looked at me with surprise, as if hurt by my question. He shook his cigarette at me and his eyes lit up. "Have you ever sat in the desert and had a gazelle come up to you on its own, rubbing its head on your arm and reaching its mouth out towards your neck, looking at you with its wide eyes before continuing on its way? Have you ever experienced that?"
"No, never. Have you?"
As if not hearing my question, he mumbled sarcastically, "And yet you talk about hunting..."
I couldn't take his arrogance, so I snapped, "Weren't you a hunter?"
"Yes, a long time ago, Abdullah. A very long time ago."
I waited before asking, "So how did you hunt gazelles?"
He looked at the ground and pressed his bare foot into the dirt. Then he whispered, as if he was embarrassed to raise his voice, "With falcons."
"With falcons?"
"Yes! Everyone does that. Haven't you ever heard of falcons?"
He rose from his seat and began pacing around until everything was unclear except the glow of his cigarette. He finally returned to his seat, putting an end to the silence, "When you spot a gazelle, you lift the leather cap off the falcon's eyes and he'll take off like a bolt of lightning and then strike the gazelle in a flash, spreading his wings over its eyes until the gazelle goes still."
"And then you pick him up like a chicken?" I asked mockingly.
He nodded slowly and repeated, "Yes, you pick him up like a chicken. Listen, Abdullah..."
He turned to face me, sitting cross-legged on his cot, and placed his calloused palm on my knee. In the darkness he sounded far away, "I hunted gazelles twenty years ago. I had a magnificent falcon named Nar. He was the best falcon that our tribe had ever known. When he flew, he would block out the sunlight then tuck his wings in and fall like a stone. The locals would say: Jadan's bird will destroy the herd."
Silence descended on us and I sensed that the conversation was over. Despite the darkness, I was certain that his expression, in that moment, was one of happiness; a happiness that a person exudes when speaking about a long lost love. He continued, but in such a weak voice that I could hardly hear a word:
"Twenty years ago I lifted the leather cap from Nar's eyes and he took off, soaring through the sky. There was only one gazelle around during that time, and I could spot his color from a mile away. It was a reddish color, maybe closer to brown. No, it was the color of a gazelle. A color you've never seen before, a color that could only be that of a gazelle. Nar circled higher and higher and then descended sharply, pulling his wings close to his body until he reached the gazelle. Then he spread his wings back out again, holding himself still in the air for a moment, then listing to one side like a sheet of paper until he almost touched down, only to take off once again. He soared high while the gazelle stood still as if pinned to the ground. I figured that Nar was only showing off in front of the poor animal, as creatures that possess a great deal of strength often do, but he repeated the same display more than six times and with great intensity. He would descend and then rise again, only to return to me. I saw him spread his massive wings and descend proudly onto his wooden perch that was stuck in the ground. Then he closed his eyes. The gazelle walked up to him on his delicate hooves, as if possessed by a strange force."
I grabbed Jadan by the shoulder and shook him, since it seemed like he fell asleep, and I asked him,
"Then what happened?"
"I went home to my family. I thought at the time that Nar just didn't want to hunt that day. You know, falcons have their own set of ethics. But what happened was even worse than that-- Nar never left his perch again. He stayed there, with his proud chest and his hooked bill, under the supervision of the gazelle that wouldn't leave his side. He didn't eat for a week straight even though I took the leather cap off his eyes and placed pieces of meat in front of him. He wouldn't even look at the gazelle that was standing perfectly still next to him and staring at him silently.
"Every time I came to try to feed Nar I was surprised to see the gazelle walking in circles around me like a small child. He would rub his pink nose on the back of my hand, stretching his mouth out towards my neck and using my arm to scratch his head. Then he'd return to stand motionless by the perch."
Jadan stood up and walked around the cot, taking out his rusty tin of tobacco to roll another cigarette. I was not able to read his facial expression in the darkness, but I heard his voice again, this time emanating from a distant cave.
"I woke up that day and found Nar collapsed on the ground next to his perch, his breast naked and gaunt and his eyes closed. I didn't find the gazelle. He probably left during the night after Nar passed away."
I got up from my seat and stood in front of Jadan, who was finishing rolling his tobacco. I lit a match and held it out for him:
"Did you see where the gazelle went?" I asked.
In the light of the small flame I saw his face as it always was: cold, harsh, grim. His lips moved slightly, "He went to go die close to his family. Gazelles like to die surrounded by loved ones, but falcons, they don't care where they die."
Beirut, 1961
Ghassan Kanafani is among the most prominent Palestinian writers. His popular works include 'Men in the Sun' and 'The Land of Sad Oranges.' In addition to his literary career, Kanafani was a leading member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP). In 1972, at the age of 36, he was assassinated by the Israeli Mossad in a car bomb attack in Beirut.
"Why isn't Jadan doing the work himself? Isn't it part of his job?"
He shook his head and spread his hands over his knees, "Yes...yes, it is. But you know why he doesn't do it? I'll tell you. It's because he didn't come here to work."
"Then what did he come here to do?"
He continued to shake his head and said cautiously in a low voice, "I don't know. But I'll tell you, I think he ran away from his family."
"His family? He's an old man. Why would he leave his family?"
Mubarak sat down on Jadan's cot, his eyes filled with contempt, and said, "It happened a long time ago. He wanted to marry a girl with red hair. He first saw her near his family's camp with men who were coming to hunt."
"Jadan? In love?" I said with surprise.
"Yeah. His family had him take the men and the woman out to hunt gazelles. And you know what happened? I'll tell you. He fell in love with her and when she left he practically went insane."
Mubarak was fidgeting with a small twig and began mindlessly digging a hole in the ground with it, then he said:
"You know, there are people saying all kinds of things. They say that she loved him back."
"She loved him? Why didn't they get married?"
"What kind of red-haired woman would agree to marry a bedouin? He was a good guy, but there would be no point...you know what I mean? I'm telling you, he divorced his wife!"
I stood up, but before leaving I asked him, "So, why does he work here?"
"He says he doesn't work here. He just resides here the way a person might reside anywhere in the world. He said that he gets really tired and here a person can get by without much work. He also said that he wants to die here, in peace. He doesn't want to return to his family. He's crazy, you know. Are you going to write the complaint?"
I walked to the door without answering him and climbed the stairs to my apartment.
Sitting down and talking with Jadan was not an easy task, but I kept trying to no avail. Every time I found myself standing helplessly in front of his two sunken, black eyes that sat behind a barrier of complete silence. When I did finally manage to sit down next to him on his cot it was only by accident. I arrived late and had left my keys with a friend, so I sat there and waited.
"I was supposed to go to sleep early tonight. We're going hunting tomorrow."
"Hunting?" Jadan asked coldly, preoccupied with rolling his tobacco in thin paper.
"Yeah. Hunting gazelles."
"And how do you hunt gazelles?"
"The regular way, with our car."
He shook his head and returned to rolling his tobacco, then, as if addressing himself, "You hunt down the poor gazelle with your car, separating it from its flock. You chase it for hours until it tires out and can't run anymore. Then you get out and grab it as easily as a chicken."
He lit his rolled cigarette and inhaled deeply, looking directly into my eyes and said firmly, "You should be ashamed."
I was shocked and felt as if Jadan had deliberately insulted me, so I pushed back, "Ashamed? How are humans supposed to hunt gazelles? With rifles?"
"No, not like that."
"How then?"
He inhaled again, deeply, and his intense gaze washed over me through a heavy cloud of smoke. He said calmly, "You should never hunt gazelles, Abdullah. Not with a car, not with a rifle."
"Why not?"
He looked at me with surprise, as if hurt by my question. He shook his cigarette at me and his eyes lit up. "Have you ever sat in the desert and had a gazelle come up to you on its own, rubbing its head on your arm and reaching its mouth out towards your neck, looking at you with its wide eyes before continuing on its way? Have you ever experienced that?"
"No, never. Have you?"
As if not hearing my question, he mumbled sarcastically, "And yet you talk about hunting..."
I couldn't take his arrogance, so I snapped, "Weren't you a hunter?"
"Yes, a long time ago, Abdullah. A very long time ago."
I waited before asking, "So how did you hunt gazelles?"
He looked at the ground and pressed his bare foot into the dirt. Then he whispered, as if he was embarrassed to raise his voice, "With falcons."
"With falcons?"
"Yes! Everyone does that. Haven't you ever heard of falcons?"
He rose from his seat and began pacing around until everything was unclear except the glow of his cigarette. He finally returned to his seat, putting an end to the silence, "When you spot a gazelle, you lift the leather cap off the falcon's eyes and he'll take off like a bolt of lightning and then strike the gazelle in a flash, spreading his wings over its eyes until the gazelle goes still."
"And then you pick him up like a chicken?" I asked mockingly.
He nodded slowly and repeated, "Yes, you pick him up like a chicken. Listen, Abdullah..."
He turned to face me, sitting cross-legged on his cot, and placed his calloused palm on my knee. In the darkness he sounded far away, "I hunted gazelles twenty years ago. I had a magnificent falcon named Nar. He was the best falcon that our tribe had ever known. When he flew, he would block out the sunlight then tuck his wings in and fall like a stone. The locals would say: Jadan's bird will destroy the herd."
Silence descended on us and I sensed that the conversation was over. Despite the darkness, I was certain that his expression, in that moment, was one of happiness; a happiness that a person exudes when speaking about a long lost love. He continued, but in such a weak voice that I could hardly hear a word:
"Twenty years ago I lifted the leather cap from Nar's eyes and he took off, soaring through the sky. There was only one gazelle around during that time, and I could spot his color from a mile away. It was a reddish color, maybe closer to brown. No, it was the color of a gazelle. A color you've never seen before, a color that could only be that of a gazelle. Nar circled higher and higher and then descended sharply, pulling his wings close to his body until he reached the gazelle. Then he spread his wings back out again, holding himself still in the air for a moment, then listing to one side like a sheet of paper until he almost touched down, only to take off once again. He soared high while the gazelle stood still as if pinned to the ground. I figured that Nar was only showing off in front of the poor animal, as creatures that possess a great deal of strength often do, but he repeated the same display more than six times and with great intensity. He would descend and then rise again, only to return to me. I saw him spread his massive wings and descend proudly onto his wooden perch that was stuck in the ground. Then he closed his eyes. The gazelle walked up to him on his delicate hooves, as if possessed by a strange force."
I grabbed Jadan by the shoulder and shook him, since it seemed like he fell asleep, and I asked him,
"Then what happened?"
"I went home to my family. I thought at the time that Nar just didn't want to hunt that day. You know, falcons have their own set of ethics. But what happened was even worse than that-- Nar never left his perch again. He stayed there, with his proud chest and his hooked bill, under the supervision of the gazelle that wouldn't leave his side. He didn't eat for a week straight even though I took the leather cap off his eyes and placed pieces of meat in front of him. He wouldn't even look at the gazelle that was standing perfectly still next to him and staring at him silently.
"Every time I came to try to feed Nar I was surprised to see the gazelle walking in circles around me like a small child. He would rub his pink nose on the back of my hand, stretching his mouth out towards my neck and using my arm to scratch his head. Then he'd return to stand motionless by the perch."
Jadan stood up and walked around the cot, taking out his rusty tin of tobacco to roll another cigarette. I was not able to read his facial expression in the darkness, but I heard his voice again, this time emanating from a distant cave.
"I woke up that day and found Nar collapsed on the ground next to his perch, his breast naked and gaunt and his eyes closed. I didn't find the gazelle. He probably left during the night after Nar passed away."
I got up from my seat and stood in front of Jadan, who was finishing rolling his tobacco. I lit a match and held it out for him:
"Did you see where the gazelle went?" I asked.
In the light of the small flame I saw his face as it always was: cold, harsh, grim. His lips moved slightly, "He went to go die close to his family. Gazelles like to die surrounded by loved ones, but falcons, they don't care where they die."
Beirut, 1961
Ghassan Kanafani is among the most prominent Palestinian writers. His popular works include 'Men in the Sun' and 'The Land of Sad Oranges.' In addition to his literary career, Kanafani was a leading member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP). In 1972, at the age of 36, he was assassinated by the Israeli Mossad in a car bomb attack in Beirut.
