Before Sabra and Chatila The yellow stables were low and long and sat on a hill above

the Palestinian camp. Each morning, the grooms gathered and drank glasses full of hot sweet tea. They sat on low and rickety four-legged wooden stools, with knees sticking up and wide apart. The men clustered around a small primus with its blue flame and one man gentlly held the small battered pot over the flame. The mornings horse riders drifted in and drank the offered glasses of sweet strong tea, while waiting for their horses to be saddled. They rode out into the early sunshine; the horses trotting on soft dark brown earth. In the afternoons, the men gathered over Arabian backgammon, bending forward between their knees to roll the dice; leaning back to tease each other and make loud disclaimers; sometimes the declamations were in verse. The girl carried a tin can of water upon her head and went down the gravelly and sandy embankment lying below the stables where she fetched water. She was barefoot and placed her feet carefully between the loose stones, and she wriggled her toes in the sand, a small earthly pleasure, while walking slowly down toward her home in the crowded camp. Children played on the half-finished road that lay at the bottom the embankment. Little clouds of dust rose around them. She got closer and stood on the roadside watching her brother and his friends kicking an old blue ball. The girl called a greeting, but the boys just glanced at her and played on. Only her brother shyly waved his hand at her. His hand waved acknowledgement from an arm hanging low, so his fellow soccer players would not notice his greeting his sister. I was a teenager, many years ago, and gave the girl a coin, 25 centimes, each day. I wonder whether she survived the massacre.

In the mountains Huge millstones rolled and cracked the olive stones and squeezed every bit of oil out of the olives. The dried leftovers made excellent fuel. An old whitehaired woman draped in black sat across from the blond teenage girl. Between them sat an open brazier, flat and low. Within, smoldering ashes sent heat across the room. It was a quiet intense heat, and the old woman sat nodding in harmony with it. She had a soft content smile. Her grandchildren played outside,

among the stones in the yard. At night, the dogs barked. The olive groves reverbated with howls followed by sudden moments of silence. Dark village houses cast deeper shadows on the moonlit limestone.

Susanne Dyby