Perhaps this new acquaintance could help her shed some light on Talya’s relationship. There was no one else in her life she could talk to about this news. “Well, my daughter just informed me now, on the phone, that she is seeing an Arab man, from a Muslim family. In Jaffa. Apparently it is quite serious already. What do you think of that?”
Ruby looked stunned. “From Yaffa? Interesting. But I told you Arabs don’t date. Especially not Muslims. They respect Arab women too much.”
“Like your husband respected you?”
“I see your point. But they respect non-Arab women even less. Or they respect them even more, but too much to marry them. Trust me on this one. I know of what I speak. They see them as practice. Sexually, I mean. Or too much as equals to marry them. When it comes to marriage, they want their own. They want someone who accepts their cultural norms. I think I was too much of an equal for Mustafa. That threatened him.”
Tikvah shuddered. “Well, I have to say, hearing your story makes me even more nervous than I was already. And now this is making it worse. Talya, my daughter, she says her boyfriend isn’t religious. His family is. He left religion. Besides, I’m sure there are exceptions. You’re generalizing.”
“Sure, there can be exceptions. I assumed my ex was one, too. But often the best swimmer is the one who stays on the shore, as my mother likes to say. And there’s his family too. I told you what happened with my was-band”—Ruby made quotation marks with her fingers—“and his family.”
This was not what Tikvah wanted to hear. “I’m also afraid of how my husband might react if he finds out.”
“Is he violent?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Tikvah said, shaking her head. “He’s just . . . protective.”
“A hothead, then.” Ruby had her hands on her hips again, her fists clenched, as if ready to return a punch if it came.
“No.” Alon was one of the most principled and disciplined men Tikvah knew. Gentle, even. He had never come close to abusing her. Alon was like a big mother grizzly bear; he’d protect his own with his life. She was sure of it.
“I said he isn’t like that. But I don’t think he could be rational about it. He fought in Lebanon . . .”
“A soldier, eh?”
“He was an officer. He worked with dogs, training them for military use. He’s retired now. He left the army after Lebanon. That war changed him.” Alon had come home from Lebanon without Roi, but in the dog’s place in Alon’s heart, there was a terrified creature who prevented him from letting anyone else in.
“There’s no excuse for domestic violence. Not in the home and not in the homeland.”
“Ah, ummm . . . Of course not,” Tikvah stammered. She had not been expecting Ruby to react this way. “You know, I think you’d like Alon if you got to know him. What you told me about your father reminds me of him, actually. He too camped near the ruins of his childhood home. It was destroyed by the Israeli government about two decades after you said your father’s village was, although for different reasons. His mother, a dog trainer and breeder, had been squatting. For twenty years.”
Tikvah thought she saw a glint of empathy in Ruby’s eyes, and for a moment she believed that she and Ruby could become friends, that maybe she could even bring Ruby home to meet Alon, and that had Ruby’s father still been alive, he and Alon would have had a lot in common. If only history had not intervened. Perhaps she and Ruby could make up for that.
“And his father? Where was he in 1948?”
“He too was a dog trainer. But Alon doesn’t remember him.” Tikvah lowered her voice. “He worked with military dogs in 1948. In the Haganah. He died in the war, apparently.”
The empathy Tikvah thought she had detected in Ruby’s eyes disappeared as they clouded over with a look of resentment. “How can you compare kicking out a squatter to razing an entire village? Don’t fool yourself. The only way your husband and my father could have become friends would have been if he had come to him years ago to apologize for what his father, for what the Haganah, did. You know, that’s what my father said hurt him most—that no one from the government, after the war was won and the State was firmly established, came to say they were sorry.”
Tikvah felt personally attacked by Ruby, like she had before by Talya. What were either of them expecting her to do now? Ruby refused to acknowledge even one drop of pain her parents, Alon’s parents, or even she and Alon may have suffered. Ruby may have been an artist, and she may have been sick, but she did not understand Tikvah at all. She did not understand Alon at all. And she did not understand their life at all. She wasn’t even making her feel any better about Talya’s new romance.
“Alon would never hit me. Never. That’s your story, not mine,” Tikvah said. “And now, I think I better go.”
Tikvah called Cane and walked off towards her side of the valley. She was sorry she had confided in this woman. She should have trusted her original instincts. Perhaps she would even sign that petition on her way home. But then she remembered Talya and thought better of it.
RUBY
RUBY WAS PACKING her backpack to set out for Hope Valley, hoping Tikvah would show. The last time she had seen her was over a week ago and Ruby had let her temper and resentments get the better of her then, so she doubted that moshavnik woman would come. Well, if she didn’t, at least Ruby could get some herbs and greens and spend time outside and away from the village. Most of the time, she was able to be there without letting her memories haunt her. But other times, when she least expected it, she would see someone or something that reminded her of Mustafa and how he had turned on her.
Her parents had pressured her to marry when the offer came along. “Not many men will want to marry a woman with an education,” her mother had said, in her usual practical no-nonsense manner. She was washing lentils and rice to make a pot of mjadara, looking up from her skillful work just long enough to speak her mind but not too long so as to be distracted from the task at hand. Ruby’s mother was graceful in her daily tasks, making an art out of what Ruby considered monotonous chores.
“And an attitude.” Her father had winked and smiled at her, accentuating the dimple in his chin, the wrinkles around his eyes. And so, she had consented.
At first the marriage was sweet. And fun. He was handsome, and a rebel himself. Like Ruby. They were like two teenagers discovering their libidos—only she was just shy of twenty and he even a few years older, and they needed to marry to be allowed alone in a room together. Sometimes Mustafa would come home with arak or alcoholic malt beer that he bought after work as a mechanic at a car garage in an-Nasira—making sure to keep it hidden in a brown paper bag—and they would sneak out to the forest to drink, smoke hasheesh, listen to music, dance, read poetry, and explore each other’s bodies in the cover of darkness. She was studying art and English—which was unusual, although not unheard of, for a young woman in the village, but she had insisted on studying as part of her agreement to marry him—and she got home hours before Mustafa did from work. She cooked and cleaned, and still had time to tutor English and paint before he came back.
Ruby snickered at herself now about those evenings in the forest, as she closed the door to her childhood home behind her while calling out a goodbye to her mother—who was already in the kitchen preparing the day’s pita bread. It seemed silly now that they, a married couple, should have needed to plan such clandestine outings; but if they had been caught drinking alcohol in the strictly Muslim village, it would have been a scandal for both of their families. And they lived in Mustafa’s family compound, which did not leave room for privacy or sexual experimentation. Ruby knew she should not have been surprised when the same volatile spirit that made life with Mustafa an adventure made it a torture chamber when she became pregnant.
As she passed the outside entrance to the diwan on her way out of the family compound, she heard loud voices coming from inside. She peeked her head through the doorway. Almost all of her brothers had gathered this morning for the
day’s news. They were sitting on low-lying couches, smoking nargileh, drinking sadah, and pontificating about the plight of the Palestinian people—both inside Israel and in the Palestinian territories occupied by Israel since they were captured in 1967—as well as those who were refugees in surrounding Arab countries. Their morning ritual.
“Sabah el kher,” she said.
At the sound of her voice, her brothers went silent and looked her way. That was how it had been since she came home. Their concern about her health was touching, but it also made her feel even lonelier at times. She knew they wanted to help, but what would have helped more than anything was some straight talk. She had not come home after twenty-five years because of a stomach virus or the flu.
“I guess you haven’t listened to the news yet.” The second oldest of her brothers, Ayman, sighed, as he blew out a mouthful of smoke from the hookah water pipe resting in front of him. He threw a look at the radio, which was sitting in the middle of the room. It was not on now, as it was already past the hour. Now was the time her brothers offered their own commentary on what they had heard.
“No, I haven’t. What’s the latest from Camp David?” she asked.
“Arafat did what any respectable Palestinian leader had to do,” one of her middle brothers, Rakad, said, spitting his words out like a bad taste in his mouth. “He rejected Barak’s unacceptable offer. With no right of return for Palestinian refugees and no East Jerusalem, who did he think he was fooling? We won’t settle for a state without Al-Quds. These Peace Accords are just more of the same. A stalling tactic to keep the status quo of Israeli occupation and Jewish sovereignty.”
“The only solution now is to make their lives miserable until they realize we mean business,” the third oldest of her brothers, Suliman, said. “Our brothers in the territories are already planning an uprising. This was Israel’s final chance, and the government blew it. Palestinians under occupation have nothing to lose.”
Ruby knew her brother did not mean a peaceful uprising. Oslo was a big disappointment, but there had to be another way. Her father had raised her to believe that the only real lasting solutions had to go to the root of the disagreement. Even political negotiations were not enough, as this latest development proved. Yet she could not blame her brothers for their despair. She too resented the Jews and their disingenuous talk of withdrawals and peace. She had already given up hope of seeing a real Palestinian state in her lifetime. But her brothers’ tactics would only lead to more of the same: tit-for-tat never-ending fighting, like two kids arguing over a toy. She wished her father were here to talk some sense into them. He had always said that there were no winners in war.
“You know our father would not like to hear you speaking like that,” she said. “Despite all he went through, he never supported Arafat’s terrorist ways.”
“Khalas! The Palestinian People have taken enough abuse. It’s time we show some self-respect.” Her second-to-youngest brother, Saleem, banged his fist on his knee. “Look what good Abu Hassan’s repressed anger did him. In the grave from a weak heart before he even reached the age of seventy. He was as broken as the rest of us. He just kept all of his resentment inside until it killed him.” A remorseful look spread across his face. “I’m sorry, Rabia. I didn’t mean—”
“Where are you headed this morning?” Hassan cut in, obviously trying to steer the topic of conversation away from death and graves. As the oldest of the brothers, he felt somewhat of a need to protect his only sister.
“To the valley. To forage.”
“Does the doctor approve of you going out alone like that?” he asked.
“I didn’t ask for his approval.”
“Does Umm Hassan know?” Hussein, her third-to-youngest brother, asked.
“Yes. I bring her back herbs so she can make her tea treatments for me. It helps her feel like she’s doing something. And now I better get going before it gets too hot out there,” she added, moving her head back outside and closing the door of the diwan behind her.
She did not mention that she was also hoping to catch Tikvah. If her brothers knew she was going to meet a Jewish woman from Moshav Sapir, they would not let her go. She could tell them about her motive of trying to befriend the woman in order to get to their father’s diary, but she did not want to share that secret with them.
Ruby headed down the steep hill that led into Hope Valley. Once in the valley, she started foraging. When an hour had passed, and she had all she needed, she knew she should head back home. It was getting later and hotter. But she did not want to give up hope entirely. She would give Tikvah ten more minutes, and then she would turn back. She sat down on the flat rock beneath the Tree of Hope, took out her tobacco and rolling paper, rolled a cigarette, and lit up. At least by now she had cut her habit down to only a few smokes per day, and this would only be her first for this morning. It was the best way for her to pass the time; and besides, she had made the mistake of stopping to say goodbye to her brothers and hear the morning news. That was never a good way to start the day. It was enough to drive anyone to smoke.
Ruby was about to give up when Tikvah arrived, looking flustered and sounding out of breath, in her usual pajama-like attire. Cane came up to greet Ruby, who blew out a ring of smoke while petting the dog’s smooth gray coat. She had missed her new canine friend. Spending time with her was a benefit of trying to befriend Tikvah.
“You look out of sorts. Has the news got you down, too?” she asked.
“You mean Arafat’s ridiculous refusal of Barak’s generous offer?” Tikvah said. “I know. I couldn’t believe it, either. What more could he expect? It’s so depressing. There will never be peace if one side is not willing to make any compromises.”
Ruby threw down her cigarette and stamped it out. “Unbelievable! You people have no understanding of the Palestinian mentality. As far as we’re concerned, anything short of the over ninety percent of this land we once controlled is a huge compromise. So is that why you’re late?”
“Late?” Tikvah asked, seemingly confused.
Ruby looked at her watch. “It’s already past nine. Soon it’ll be too hot to forage. And I’m done for today, anyway.”
“Well, first of all, I didn’t realize you were waiting for me. I never said I’d meet you again. And quite honestly, I am not sure why I’m here after what you accused my husband of last week.” Tikvah took a thermos out of her backpack and took a sip. “I didn’t come to forage today, anyway. I came to ask you something.”
Ruby was curious. “Shoot.”
“My daughter told me she’s moving in with her boyfriend. She wants me to meet him, in Jaffa. You’re the only one I told about him. And I don’t want to go alone. Would you consider going with me?”
Ruby held up a hand, palm forward, like a traffic controller. “Shwai, shwai!” She shook her head. Where did that come from?
“Excuse me?” Tikvah had now removed a small bowl from her backpack and was filling it with water for the dog.
“It means, easy does it. Why would I want to meet your daughter’s boyfriend? You thought—well he’s an Arab, she’s an Arab . . . ?”
Tikvah looked at a loss, as if that was exactly what she had been thinking and was now trying to think of some other excuse for her offensive request. “Well, maybe I did, but to be quite honest, it seems to me your bark is worse than your bite.”
She looked down at Cane and back up at Ruby. Both she and Ruby smiled.
“Listen, I’d like the company, and my daughter says there’s a great new art exhibit on the port. We could drive down together tomorrow. I’ll tell Alon I’ll be gone all day, visiting Talya and the exhibit with a friend. He’ll feel better knowing I’m not going alone. You seem like you can use the company, too.”
Ruby smiled to herself. Tikvah was right. Despite the fact that the woman was living in her father’s house, she did have some attributes. For one, she was a pretty good judge of character. Ruby was lonely and bored sticking around the village; a
nd she had been meaning to go to that exhibit, but she had no one to drive her. Her doctor had told her not to drive long distances, and it was a big trip to do alone by public transportation in her condition. Of her brothers, only Raja appreciated her art, and he lived in Hayfa and was so busy, with three young kids and his thriving Arabic book-publishing business. Besides, she was willing to do anything to get closer to that diary.
“And your daughter won’t mind?”
“No. I’ll let her know I’m bringing a friend. Quite honestly, she’ll be surprised when I show up with a friend from Bir al-Demue, but pleasantly surprised, I’m sure. I think she’d love to meet you.”
“Then sure. Why not? Beats sitting around here day after day. And I don’t have another round of chemo for another couple of weeks. Sounds like a plan.”
THEY SET OFF the next morning. Ruby had told Tikvah to pick her up at the gas station in front of Bir al-Demue. It was too complicated to explain how to get anywhere in the village. There were no street signs, and so many winding, narrow roads and steep hills. Meeting at the gas station was the simplest option, even if it meant that Ruby had to walk the twenty minutes to get there.
Tikvah arrived just when she said she would. Nine-thirty, sharp.
“Sabah el kher,” Ruby said, as she opened the car door.
“Sabah el nur,” Tikvah answered.
Ruby grinned. “Very good. You remembered.” She got into the car next to Cane and put her arm around the dog, who barked for a while and then fell asleep, with her head in Ruby’s lap. Ruby sang along with the radio, although she had to stop when her cough made it too difficult to continue.
At ten, the news came on, as it did every hour on the hour.
Israeli security forces rounded up three Palestinian terrorists in Jericho early this morning, suspected of involvement in the attacks on Israeli civilians in May and of working with a terrorist cell inside Israel. Officials warn against getting into cars with strangers. Listeners are urged to stay alert and report all suspicious looking objects and people to the police.
Hope Valley Page 9
