The novel Deserted as a Crowded Room was recently published by Dar al Adab in 2024 and appears here in English translation by the author. It revolves around Majdal, who dislikes mirrors and automatic glass doors, and searches for the meaning of life after her mother’s death in an occupied country. In a series of candid emails, she expresses her attempt to navigate her contradictory world of faith, doubt, revolution, and love.
Badar Salem
—kill the music
Everyone seemed to liken me to Souad, perhaps in an effort to make her feel more like a mother figure rather than just a stepmother. Souad always responded with a smile, seemingly content with the comparison. I never saw the resemblance, nor did I desire it. I did not mirror the features of either my mother or my father; I was something in between. My older sister Tallil was another version of my mum, my father used to joke, then he would look at me and add, “I honestly don’t know who you resemble.” That was the question I pondered as well. All I yearned for was to resemble Mama. I viewed it as a personal failing not to be like her. I attempted to grow my hair long and styled bangs to mimic her image. But one must be sensible before attempting such a drastic move. After a week of living with these bangs, I took the kitchen scissors and sheared it all off myself. When my friend Nour saw me, she exclaimed, “What on earth did you do?” and escorted me to a hairdresser. Naturally, the only short haircut known to all hairdressers in Ramallah resembled Souad’s. How I transitioned from resembling my mother to resembling Souad remains an unfathomable mishap.
I never regarded myself as attractive. Tita (Arabic for grandmother) saw beauty in us, but I knew her use of “helwa” always pointed to Tallil. It was challenging for me to accept her words; she was simply not impartial, entirely biased. She declared that we — Tallil and I — were the two most beautiful girls in all of Ramallah. While Tallil embraced this as truth throughout her life, I greeted the assertion with skepticism from the outset.
I was drifting through life, seeing things not as they were but as I perceived them. Even as my breasts developed, I refused to wear a bra. I disregarded Souad’s request to wear white cotton underwear beneath my clothes, opting instead for a simple, unadorned tee-shirt. At school, girls used to mock me for not wearing a bra. How could I be like that? It’s shameful! But I never grasped the concept of shame. They ridiculed my school uniform, which resembled a bulky laundry basket, while they took liberties with shorter, more fitted uniforms. The primary issue was that I didn’t see myself as a woman; I perceived myself as an object, akin to a piece of furniture, a chair, albeit one with the ability to move independently — although at times, I felt as though I moved only because someone else had set me in motion.
I relished wearing my father’s oversized shirts and Tallil’s worn shoes, two sizes too large for my feet. Wearing a necklace bearing the letter “Z,” for instance, posed no issue for me; after all, it was merely a letter. I paid little heed to the opinions and remarks of others. It was as if I existed beyond the confines of the world around me. As I began to think before acting, anxiety consumed me. Life felt incompatible; I struggled to comprehend it. When I found myself preoccupied with others’ reactions, I transformed from a chair into a cage.
Majdal Al Shams, Hadi took to calling me, appending “Al Shams” (Arabic for sun) to my name. He insisted on the “al” to distinguish it from the town’s name in the Golan Heights. To him, I was the sun — not just any sun. With him, I began to feel like a woman, no longer an inanimate object. My heart would flutter with joy at the sight of him, and I would spend days and nights immersed in love songs, pondering his eyes, his gait, and his lips. It was the first time I felt as though I understood the purpose of life: to fall in love, nothing else mattered. I desired nothing more than to see him smile, that smile which illuminated his serene, monk-like countenance.
I committed all of Riyad Al-Saleh Al-Hussein’s poems to memory for him, “Tomorrow we may commit suicide, now we must love,” even though I never summoned the courage to recite them to him. Since encountering him, everything has taken on a new flavor: the streets, the scent of rain, the contours of clouds, the sounds and melodies. Even Umm Kulthum, whom I used to find tedious, prompted me to swiftly change the radio channel whenever her songs were aired — now I sway to her tunes, singing along in harmony. How does love orchestrate all of this? How does it transform my surroundings into mere backdrop, illuminating them with his presence like glittering orbs?
I no longer dread early mornings because they hold the promise of catching a glimpse of him. Thoughts of death dissipate, for my demise could bring him pain. What manner of chaos does love sow, and how did I allow myself to succumb to it?
When Hadi’s hazelnut eyes met mine in one of our dabke classes, and he said, “You’re beautiful,” I believed him entirely. I accepted his words unquestioningly, embracing them as truth. I even began to regard myself in the mirror through his eyes, finding solace in what I saw. Whenever I caught my reflection in a glass storefront, I no longer harbored contempt for the one staring back at me. Instead, I might even pause, contemplating this reflection, seeking to unravel what he finds appealing about me.
Among the 16 young men and women on the dabke training team, I ranked as the least proficient. Everyone steered clear of partnering with me during training sessions, except for Hadi. The coach’s refrain, “lift your right leg, not the left — your right,” became synonymous with my struggles synchronizing with the team. After my seventh failed attempt, I came to the realization that dabke wasn’t my forte. Despite the instructor’s bleak assessment — “There is no hope” — Hadi remained the lone voice urging me to persist and try again.
One day, I confided in Hadi about my inability to locate my mother’s grave, fearing the anguish it might cause my father if I were to ask him. Without hesitation, Hadi embarked on a search through the Al-Bireh cemetery, meticulously scouring grave after grave until he located her resting place. He provided me with detailed directions, mapping out the route from the cemetery entrance to the site. When I inquired about what I should do upon reaching her grave, he suggested, “Recite al-Fatiha or Surah al-Rahman” and upon sensing my hesitation, he added, “You can also recite poetry.”
Upon arriving, adorned with palm leaves my father had placed during the last Eid, I found the grave pristine. He visited her twice annually: during Eid al-Fitr and Eid al-Adha. I wished Hadi were by my side. I found conversing with a stone marker peculiar. Sitting beside Mama’s grave, I experienced an indescribable serenity — a tranquil emptiness that enveloped me, devoid of any inner turmoil. At that moment, I developed a justifiable affinity for cemeteries.
I adored Hadi from the moment our eyes met, yet when the pivotal moment to confess my love arrived — the moment I had long fantasized about — I faltered. Instead of speaking my truth, I uttered the falsehood that we were merely friends. I blame Majida El Roumi and her song Be My Friend for that deceit. Since that moment, I’ve ceased listening to her songs altogether.
What if I had confessed my love? What if I had the impulse to kiss his eyes during our encounters? I lay blame on Mohammed Abdel Wahab and his song Don’t Kiss Me on the Eye: “the kiss means separation.” Separation was always a looming prospect. Yet, I cannot fault the songs themselves; it wasn’t their fault that I believed their sentiments. The doubt of my own worthiness of love overshadowed everything.
Life’s scales seemed perpetually tipped against me, leaving me no room to retreat and acknowledge the truth — that I loved him. In a matter of days, Hadi would embark on a commando mission, resulting in his imprisonment for eight years in an Israeli prison. During the initial months, communication would be severed as he endured solitary confinement. I teetered on the brink of madness. Sleep eluded me for days as I grappled with self-hate and blame. After months of anguish, a friend of his reached out to me from outside the prison, offering a glimmer of hope. He informed me that I could write a letter to Hadi, promising to facilitate its delivery within the confines of the prison walls.
I assured him that I would, I would write countless letters adorned with pressed flowers from his beloved orange tree. In each missive, I would vow to declare my unwavering love, pledging to wait for him indefinitely. I would resolve to tirelessly pursue visitation requests, claiming the status of his fiancée, determined to be his eyes and heart beyond the prison walls. In my correspondence, I intended to regale him with updates on Ibrahim Nasrallah’s novels, Mahmoud Darwish’s poetry, and Amr Diab’s songs. I would chronicle the alterations in our streets — some expanding, others vanishing — along with the proliferation of towering buildings and the proliferation of lavish yet empty restaurants. I would recount the rise of banks, rivaling mosques in number and influence, and the daily demonstrations held in his honor, advocating for the liberation of prisoners. Most of all, I would envision the kisses awaiting him upon his release, imprinted upon his lips and eyes.
But despite my intentions, I faltered. I stopped answering his friend’s calls and did not send a single letter.
