forward a second time, throwing herself into the blaze of the battle: I never tasted the

apples in the bag! I want an apple!

And as if the boy could find strength only in overriding the little girl's strength, he snapped:

I shall burn her clothes! The clothes of the undutiful runaway!

And my mother's sentence dripped down with her tears:

Would that I had never carried her nine months in my belly! Would that... would that...

And the eldest sister drowned in:

The shame... the...

And the night grew a little calmer,

and the father withdrew to receive men in whose voices there were gloom. And astonishment. And brokenness.

And the boy took part, for the first time, in forming an opinion and carrying out a task, with the men..

And the little girl slept... until the morning broke.

In the morning a grave gloom filled the house, and I grasped — I — that I had fallen into the tragedy, and I began to suffer its whirlpool!

I searched for the heroes who yesterday had staged the sumptu-ous Eastern funeral... and behold, my mother had finished cutting her womb to shreds! And behold, on my father's head, a fistful of white hairs, born of chaos! And behold, in the boy's eyes, sparks of defiance, and phantoms of raw longings that only night can fulfill! And behold, on the eldest sister's cheeks, an envy sheathed in timidity, and reserve, and loathing for men! And behold, the little girl — a criminal thought in every head!

And behold, I...

I gathered up the consciousness which the staggering surprise had roused in me... and behold, over their eyes hung a film in place of the white rags!

What is this film? What are these besieging looks they drive into my body? Do they take me for a folk heroine like her — a cheap one, skilled at acting a farcical part she borrowed from her grandmother... and her grandmother's grandmother...?

And then, what tie binds me to her?

True, she was once, in days gone by, my sister: I slept with her in a single bed, because we were many and the beds were few. And I would take her hand and drag her behind me to school, or on some invented stroll through the winding lanes of the quarter... And while I passed my time with a book, she was absorbed, always, in cutting out a dress for a doll. And carving out a house for it at the end of the room: its walls the cushions. And the chairs. And the sheets..

So the desire to slough us off was rooted in her very clay.. She uttered it in every look. And every motion. And every act.. But those who excel at staging sumptuous funerals try to understand the souls of their children, and to polish them, and to guide them... Why? Because were it not for this morphine — the weeping, and the breast-beating, and the calling for aid, and the screaming of 'The shame!'... — they would beget no children!

I detest her! I detest this silly folk heroine!

Not because she exchanged the cushions for stones. And the imaginary master of the house for a lawful, captivating man. And the doll for a stirring unborn child...

But because she threw me, delib-erately, into a rabble of people

who fasten her epithets upon me. And plant in me the roots of a black revolt!

What tie binds me to them?

These servile eyes demand of me sacred sacrifices: to bring me back, humbled, into their house! To bind me, an obedient slave, into their customs! And to nail me, a dullard, into the floods of their empty words!

They are afraid of me, and I am afraid of them!

I am close to turning coward. When shall I stop: pursing my lips if one of my classmates opens a smile upon them? Squirming in my seat when the professor stretches the history lecture, every Thursday evening, past eight o'clock? The disgraceful embarrassment when my narrow skirt clings to my legs? Embodying the family honor — 'a transparent, sacred film' — in my work, and my sleep, and my dreams...?

When shall I revolt?

I shall revolt! I shall cut the thread that ties me to the runaway, and to the organizers of the Eastern funeral!

I shall revolt! So let whoever loves my revolt bide his time. Let my violent frenzy threaten all who believe in what I have to give!

Victoria

The mark of elegance and taste for all woolen work — ladies', children's, and men's

The workshop — Sursock Street

Shadid and Mounir Jureidini.

The shop — Souk Ayyas

Camille Jureidini.

In Bhamdoun in summer — Camille Jureidini