The Return: Fathers, Sons and the Land in Between

by Hisham Matar

Amongst the photographs Amal has been posting were those taken moments after Izzo died. The blood had been washed off his face, and the place where the bullet entered his skull was bandaged as if there were still hope he might recover. The emergency doctors must have used some disinfectant, or perhaps this is the color blood stains the skin, because around his right temple and cheekbone Izzo’s face is a shade of yellow. It brings to mind the color of the hot, waxy syrup my aunts cooked up—the smell of burning sugar and orange blossom pulling us children indoors to stick our fingers into the syrup. As soon as it cooled and hardened, the women would spoil it, spreading it in sheets over their arms and legs, snatching quickly and sucking in air from the pain; the sound like fabric tearing. On one occasion cousin Ibtesam—in those days she and I were inseparable—cried, not only upset at their ruining the syrup but also in anticipation of the torture womanhood promised. “There must be an easier way,” she screamed. I seconded her opinion. But we were told categorically that this was the best way, because it plucked the little black hairs right out at the roots. They asked Ibtesam and me to run our fingers on the skin, “smooth as marble,” but inflamed and lacquered a weak shade of yellow.