Now it is the man’s turn. He goes up to the window and says a couple things to the security officer and points at the woman. The officer calls out the woman’s name, ‘Miriam Amar’, and she pushes the stroller forward and walks up to the window. As she passes the other man, I notice he looks beaten and tired.
Now it is my turn, the moment I give myself up to an officer who, at some level, works for Israel’s Internal Security Agency. Ever more nervous, I drag my feet toward the window not more than two metres in front of me. I put on a brave face and try to hide the noise of my thumping heart. I can barely stop it from flying out of my body and running down the corridor. My chest trembles with each slow step I take. The prospect of being refused entry terrifies me, as does the possibility of being shunted into a side room for interrogation. I picture the officer peeling away my life history layer by layer, wanting to know all there is to know about me.
What if this officer—and she is the real piece of the picture to focus on here—sends me back to London? What then? Everything falls apart. My mother, who dreams of my arrival and who is waiting for me to get there, in an hour or so. Waiting for the joy of her life, this child now fifty-seven years old who is going to walk up to her and hold her in his arms, where she would nurse him on stories she had kept hidden for decades. And my dreams—they too will fall apart. My dreams of retrieving a homeland, which has spread out through the hallways of my life and fed me the bitter taste of separation time and time again.
‘Good morning!’ I say in an official-sounding voice to the thirty-something woman sitting behind the glass at the booth. She looks at me through prescription glasses as I slip my passport into the slot beneath the glass.
She takes it and replies with the same formal politeness, ‘Good morning. How are you today, sir?’
‘Fine, just fine.’
She flips through my passport without saying a word. Some time goes by before she gives me a look, then studies my passport again with a puzzled expression. She types a bunch of words into the keyboard while the computer screen turns its back on me. I say nothing as I listen to the clacking of the keys recording my life. Tiktik. Taka-taka-tak. Tik-tak-tika-tika-tik. Tak.
The woman bites her lower lip and murmurs, ‘Hmm.’ A moment later she lets out a long ‘Ummm.’ Her eyebrows slide upwards across her forehead, forming high arcs over big eyes staring at something in disbelief. All of this makes me very nervous. ‘I notice that there’s a lot in your file.’
Maybe she only says it to explain all her hemming and hawing and the shock on her face. Maybe she is still forming her decision, a decision that might make my life much more difficult. She’s probably got no choice in the matter: either she’ll ask me politely to enter the interrogation room, or, with equal politeness, she’ll trick me into going there. Once they’re finished, I’ll walk out of the room and leave the airport, the same way Adel El-Bashity did. That is, only after her colleagues in Shin Bet pound into me the fact they wanted Adel to understand: You are not in Palestine—you are in Israel. Never forget it. I will not forget it—not even if I had been born on the very land where this airport now sits, not even if they discovered my forefathers’ bones buried under this terminal. They will wink and nod at my being British. They’ll even tell me how smart it is to be British. They did the same thing to Adel, telling him, ‘You should thank the Lord you’re German!’ And without thinking he replied, ‘Even if I held the citizenship of every country in the world, I will never stop being Palestinian.’ Even if my memory is made of a past that has no counterpart in the present, this past of mine has the taste of Truth. My country is a fact that has refused to die, even when it was assaulted by history itself. My country isn’t a shadow. My country is a split image—part of which can be found here, part of which is over there, with my mother.
I watch the woman holding my passport, all the while conscious of the fact that she is watching me through the file on her computer screen. Tik-tik. Taka-taka-tak. Tak-tika-tik.
The minutes pass slowly. Cold. Heavy. Excruciating. I find myself hoping that she will ask me a question. Just one question. Or that she might say something. Not just these ums and hmms, but an actual, audible word. But she does not—and her silence is torture. She bites on the knuckle of her index finger, then slides it across her teeth. She sighs out loud, and shakes her head in evident confusion. What shall I do with you? No doubt that’s what she’s saying to herself right now, as if she wants me to be even more bitter than I am. She goes back to the keyboard, bites her lips again and lets out another long ‘Hmmm’, followed by an ‘Ummm’ that never seems to end.
Now I am still more anxious. When the woman turns to the left and picks up a black telephone, I nearly explode. She dials a number, ‘Tik-tik-tak-tak’ and puts the receiver to her ear. This woman is calling the person who drags people into the interrogation room. She lets it ring for a few seconds, then puts the receiver down, and sits back in her chair.
What’s going on in this woman’s mind? Did she have second thoughts about calling the higher-ups in security, or is she playing with me, enjoying the experience of watching me squirm?
‘Is this your first visit to Israel?’ The question catches me off-guard.
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your address in Israel?’
‘I’m going to Gaza.’
‘What?’
Her fingers start to type again. She must be recording everything I am saying. So I add, ‘I haven’t seen my mother in nearly forty years. After that, I might go around and see some old friends.’
‘How long have you lived in Britain?’
‘About eleven years.’
‘You mean one-one?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘I’m a journalist.’
‘Do you have any documents that prove this?’
I reach into my pocket and take out my National Union of Journalists card. She glances at it and hands it back to me. ‘What newspaper do you work for?’
‘Akhbar al-Arab.’
She smiles, and I start to explain, ‘It’s an—’
‘International paper,’ she interrupts.
‘You know it?’
‘Ha! I’m from the Middle East. I know a lot about the Arab press. Is the name in the passport your actual name?’
‘Since I was born in Asdud in 1948, I’ve only had one name. And my name has had only one owner—me. Walid Ahmad Dahman.’
Then there is the sound of my passport being stamped, and the clicking of my entry card being printed up. Tiktik-tak-tik. My fear dissolves almost completely.
‘Here you go, Mr. Dahman. Have a nice trip.’ She hands me the passport through the little slot, along with my entry card. I thank her and go off to look for my baggage.
5
As I emerge from Exit Two, a cool breeze wafts over me. My eyes take in a picture-perfect scene of palm trees scattered about the airport entrance. One of the squat palms is so perfect that I have to stop and stare as the air plays with its tresses. The sunlight glimmers through the fronds like a string of pearls across the forehead of a beautiful girl.
I chastise the sun for hiding so shyly behind the palm—did my return surprise her that much? For thirty-eight years I’ve longed to see the sun with its wheat-coloured complexion again. Only in Palestine does the sun take on this hue. To me, only you are the sun.
The sun kisses me and begins to apologize. The warmth of her rays washes off the weariness of travel. The sound of my name comes to me in a whisper, Walid. I turn around to look and see only my shadow reaching through the glass door, stretching out through the long arcades inside the airport. The sight of my shadow is stunning. It is the first time I’ve ever seen my shadow on this particular piece of soil. It almost looks as if I am wearing a kuffiyya on my head. As if I am wearing an old galabiyya whose collar flaps in the breeze. My shadow clings to me, watching, like me, for the man who will take the both of us to the Beit Hanoun crossing. I am hap
py to know that for the rest of my trip, I will be accompanied by a shadow I have not seen for a long time.
I look all over, hoping to find the Palestinian-Israeli driver with whom I made arrangements to be picked up at 7 am. I look around, trying to find his car. ‘It’s a white VW van with green curtains,’ he told me over the phone. I do not see the van, nor any man who is ‘swarthy, medium build, wearing prescription eyeglasses’, as he described himself to me two days ago. I imagined him as a doctor.
It is almost 8 am, which means that I am about an hour late for my pickup time. That is because the plane was delayed taking off, and then all that waiting in line at passport control. The man must have given up and gone home. I would not blame him if he did. I think about it for a while, then put it aside—this driver would come and he would wait and wait and wait as if he had nothing else to live for. If this was simply about helping a fellow countryman returning home for the first time in decades, he might not try so hard. But he would not give up on the hefty fare he was about to earn.
Shouts begin to rain down on me. Drivers hurl out the names of cities and towns—some of which stand on the carcasses of older cities and towns, others merely Hebraized. Yerushalim. Tel Aviv. Natanya. Nitsrit. Akko. Haifa. Herzliya.
Suddenly, I spot Dana walking toward a car parked close by. I watch her with mixed feelings. The woman who sat next to me on my journey will, in a matter of moments, disappear from my life for ever. A driver approaches her, dragging behind him the large suitcase that was beside her. He puts it into the trunk. She throws her handbag into the rear seat and then slides her body in as well. After that, she swings her legs in and closes the door. The car speeds off.
The drivers continue to sing out the names of cities to me. I reject them all, saying, ‘Todah, todah!’ I am looking everywhere for Abu Fares.
I turn and spot a white van trying to park at the curb only a few cars away from me. I hurry toward it, pulling my bag behind me, and am happy to see the green curtains draped along the side windows. I pull out the paper on which I had written the licence plate number of Abu Fares’ van. I guessed right—this is my car.
A man suddenly appears from behind it and strides toward me with confidence. He opens his arms wide to greet a long-exiled compatriot, ‘Welcome, welcome home! So glad you made it safe and sound! I am so sorry—I’ve been driving around and around looking for a parking space. Welcome, fellow countryman! So glad to see you!’ His two hands grasp my hand and shake it with genuine affection. I congratulate myself for my patriotic decision to choose a real local boy. A Palestinian through and through.
My lungs expand and drink in the scent of the place. Palestine. My eyes are filled with the visage of this man, the first man I meet who, unlike most of us Palestinians, did not leave in 1948.
‘Thank you for such a warm welcome.’
‘Give me your bags, you must be exhausted from your flight.’
Abu Fares takes my big suitcase and together we put it in the trunk. And then the car begins to move. This is my first journey inside the country I left as an infant.
Samir Ayash, one of the Palestinians I work with, told me: ‘You’re trip is going to be … very exciting.’ He said the last bit in English so I wouldn’t miss it. ‘You’re going to drive past road signs that point back at all those old wounds, Ramleh, Jerusalem Road, Asqalan. You’re going to see Asdud, aren’t you?’
I take out my mobile phone to call my mother and let her know I’ve arrived safely. I cannot wait to get there, and I cannot believe I am actually here, in Palestine. Abu Fares suddenly explodes: ‘No, no, no, man! What do you think you’re doing?’ He yells so loudly that I am left wondering what I had done that was so wrong. Maybe mobile use is prohibited here for security purposes? With his left hand still on the steering wheel, Abu Fares’ right hand shoots out and grabs the phone from my hand. ‘Like hell you’re going to use your phone here!’
Without taking his hand away from mine, he goes on. ‘It’s going to cost you a fortune to use your phone here. No, no, man! Give me the number and I’ll dial it for you with mine. It’s local. You’re our guest, man! Understood?’
Abu Fares dials my mother’s number on his phone, then hands it to me.
‘Hi, Mama! I’m here. I’m home, Mama. I’m in Palestine!’
Uncontrollably, I begin to repeat these words into the phone. ‘I’m here, Mama! I’m back home! I’m in Palestine!’ Real tears stream down my cheeks. I listen to my mother’s voice—only now does she begin to believe me. ‘Yes, my son. You are home. Welcome, welcome! I can’t wait to see you. Your cousins are going down to Beit Hanoun to wait for you.’
‘No, no, Mama! Tell them not to go there until 9. I won’t get to the crossing until after 9, maybe even a little later.’
I give the phone back to Abu Fares, who immediately asks, ‘How long has it been, Abu … Abu …?’
‘Abu Fadi. Almost forty years.’
‘My God,’ Abu Fares snorts. ‘That’s an entire lifetime. God help your mother—she’s jumping for joy right about now, huh?’
Abu Fares’ phone rings and he gives it to me. ‘It’s for you.’
‘Hello? Welcome, cousin! Did you make it safely? Where are you?’
This must be Abdelfettah, my cousin on my mother’s side. He must have got the number from my mother’s phone.
‘Hi, cousin! I’m on my way. We’re driving right now.’
‘We’ll be at the crossing at the time we agreed. Where are you now?’
Abu Fares points toward the distance. ‘That’s Ramleh up ahead.’
Ramleh edges toward us, a white line drawn across a green billboard.
‘We’re at Ramleh, cousin. Don’t go to Erez before 9.’
The car slows down, then stops at a traffic light.
I begin to look at the traffic sign, and study the name like someone who is spelling out the letters for the first time, R-a-m-l-eh. The arrow beneath points to the right. Underneath that, I read out ‘Hayim Nahman Bialek Street.’
I laugh bitterly to myself—I am neither cool nor calm. So Bialek gets to have a street named after him in Ramleh, but George Habash doesn’t? Habash doesn’t get a street named after him here, nor next door in Lod, where he was born, nor in Wahdat Camp in Amman, nor in the Republic of Fakahani in Beirut. Bialek who came from overseas gets to be a native of Ramleh, while Habash, native son of Lod, has to be a refugee far, far away.
The light changes and Abu Fares speeds off again. All my senses are on alert, picking up every possibility. Every little thing that might prevent my memory from reaching into its past. But there is Abu Fares working to keep the door to the past wide open, and in doing so, he keeps my eyes wide open too. Their desire to see all this dispels their drowsiness.
‘Over there is Ramleh’s mosque. Do you see it, Abu Fadi? Over there, on the right.’
I turn to look where he points, even as the car speeds on. Behind a distant rise of cypress trees, a minaret flashes by, fleeing from my eyes. The image goes by so quickly that my eyes cannot really make it out.
‘Do you know when we lost Lod and Ramleh, Abu Fadi?’
‘Are you asking me, Abu Fares?’ I am surprised that someone would even ask. I begin to recount the facts for him—how they were attacked by the Haganah in 1948, how they fell. He sits there listening to me as if it was the first time he had ever heard the story. When I finish, he comments, as if to soften the blow of all these memories: ‘Lod was lost, and Ramleh was lost and so was the mosque. Some died and some were killed. Some went somewhere else and others emigrated and never came back. Some weren’t able to take anything with them at all when they went. But you know, some Palestinians managed to stay put in Ramleh. They held on to what they had, then Palestinian refugees from elsewhere moved there too.’
‘I’ve got a cousin from Ramleh,’ I comment. ‘Ismael Dahman is his name. He’s got a daughter named Aisha in London and she goes home to visit once a year. She told me that Ramleh is not what it used to be. Sh
e says now it’s mainly Ethiopians there. And collaborators. She says that since Oslo, Israel has used the city to resettle collaborators from Gaza.’
The car approaches another traffic signal where there is another green billboard. The olive-green colour of these signs is deceptive—it makes them seem like advertisements of peace. I begin to read the Hebrew while translating. Rishon LeZion. The First of Zion. Then Rehovot and Kfar Bilu.
The car stops at a third traffic light. While we wait, a young woman crosses the road. She is wearing a small black-and-red striped backpack. This is the first female Israeli soldier my eyes have seen since the 1956 occupation of Gaza. Suddenly I remember what my aunts said when they first laid eyes on female Israeli soldiers. These women wore trousers and took part in the foot patrols around the camps. ‘Israeli women are like men,’ they whispered to me. ‘They even pee standing up.’
The car goes on its way and the names of cities begin to race after each other on the green traffic signs. Gan Shlomo-Kvutzat Schiller. Givat Brinner. Each one erases a signpost in my mind, and presents new facts for me to see.
Ashkelon 25 km. Was there really a place where it all began? Was there a beginning? For fifty-seven years, we have been counting our losses, sinking further and further into the distance. 1956: the War of Tripartite Aggression, the massacre of Khan Yunis. 1967: the Setback, and the loss of the remaining sliver of Palestine. 1973: the 6 of October War, in which Sadat triumphed over himself. 1982: the invasion of Lebanon and the expulsion of the PLO. Losses and endings giving birth to even more losses and endings. Then the Oslo Accords. The beginning of another string of losses and endings—and not one of them the beginning of the real path back to Asqalan. Asqalan is right here now—only twenty-five kilometres away.
‘You’re thinking about something, aren’t you! Should I take you back to Asdud? What do you say, Abu Fadi? We take a quick tour of Majdal, then head up to Asdud? The weather’s gorgeous this morning—it makes you want to take a little detour, doesn’t it?’
The Lady from Tel Aviv Page 8
