The body of evidence, the body politic

At that time there was no king in Israel. I had run away from home, leaving my husband on the mountain of Ephraim, where he lived as a foreigner. I returned to Bethlehem of Judah, to my father. What if she had stayed at home, people ask.

My husband was a Levite, I a concubine: he had taken me as a wife without paying a fee.

Had I stayed at home with him, had I been in my place.

My place as a wife, albeit secondary.

 If I had been in my place it would not have happened.

I was a looker – we all are.

Why did I leave?

Adultery, people say. An infidel, a slut. People always have an answer, regardless of the truth.

In those days there was no king in Israel and I deserved death, according to God’s law. Four months passed, and my husband the Levite left with two donkeys and a servant to come after me. It was not to kill me; instead he begged me to return with him. I belonged to him, after all.

My father welcomed him with joy, invited him to his table and offered him food and drink. For three nights my husband the Levite slept in Bethlehem of Judah, in my childhood home. No one asked me if I wanted to stay, I did not even partake of the banquet: women do not eat with men, they allow themselves to be devoured, women are a mouth-watering morsel.

On the fourth day, the Levite prepared to leave, and my father dissuaded him. Refresh yourself with a piece of bread, and leave later. And they ate and drank together, and soon it would be dark, so my father said: Sleep here also tonight and may your heart rejoice.

Perhaps the Levite’s heart rejoiced, at least his own.

On the fifth day, the man who was my husband got up early to leave, but again my father stopped him. I deluded myself that he did it for me. I deluded myself that he wanted to keep me with him, to defend me from what I did not want, as if my desires counted. That it was a forgiveness, I deluded myself. But it was an omen.

If I had been at home, in my place, if I had not run away, nothing, nothing would have happened. Whose fault is it then?

At that time there was no king in Israel and on the afternoon of the fifth day, after eating and drinking, the Levite decided to leave. His father-in-law objected: the light is now fading, but this time his son-in-law did not listen to him. Perhaps he too thought my father wanted to hold me back forever.

The sunset exploded in our faces as we arrived in Gabaa, the city of the Benianimites. We sat in the square and waited for someone to offer us hospitality for the night, but no one approached. Until an old man returning from the fields asked the Levite where he was going and where he was from. They discovered that they were fellow countrymen: the old man had also been born on the mountain of Ephraim and lived in Gabaa as a foreigner. Be welcome, he said, and opened the door. There was food and drink, then someone knocked violently.

Hand over the man who is in your house, said the herd of Benianimites, we want to abuse him.

Brothers, the old man implored them, do not commit such nefariousness, this man is my guest.

If I hadn’t run away. Why did you do that? people ask.

Rather, said the old man, here is my daughter, who is still a virgin, and this man’s concubine. Use them and do what you like with them.

I was there too, and the old man could feed me, though I was not his. I was a looker - we all are. His daughter, even. In order to honour the laws of hospitality, the old man would have surrendered what was most dear to him. And me.

The herd of Benianimites was not convinced

To outrage a man, what infamy. What a transgression of hospitality. An abominable crime.

My husband the Levite prevented it.

He pushed me out, abandoned me in their hands. And those men used me and did as they pleased.

If I had stayed in my place.

All night long, they did it.

Whose fault is that?

They used me until dawn.

People do not want the truth, so how could I tell it? No words, about that night, it is my mute body the gash, the crash, the thunder, the roar of the storm. It is my mute body the cry you do not hear. The deluge.

There were many and I was alone. The sacrifice is mine. A man’s honour must be protected. My father who knows if he sleeps. I wonder if that omen woke him suddenly, a pang in his chest. Let your heart rejoice, father, it is now morning. Cheer up, mine will be no more. It beats not.

They unloaded me onto the threshold. The Levite got up from his bed, prepared to set out, and upon opening it, he saw me. He ordered me, arise, for we depart. But my body and my heart were mute.

At that time there was no king in Israel. The Levite loaded me onto his donkey and led me to Ephraim. At last at home, he took a knife and cut me to pieces, a slaughtered ox.

Why did you do it? people ask. Why did you leave your husband?

Twelve pieces, one for each tribe. I was sent around as a warning, the testimony of an abomination. I was the body of the crime, the symbol of the disintegration of Israel, the beginning of a civil war. I was a political body, I had always been one.

We all are.

by Rosella Postorino