Chains of Sand

by Jemma Wayne

  I open the second image. Unlike the first it is at once vivid and in full-colour, yet, there is a quality about this one too that is unsettling. From inside the screen the face of a young Arab girl in a hijab gazes out. Her hair is covered, her stance is demure, but her face blazes with defiance and her lips are painted hot pink. There is a peculiarity about it unlike Orli’s usual work, something unfinished perhaps, unknown, uncrafted. Raw. But it is as hypnotising as ever and I can’t stop staring at it. The face captivates me. And unnerves me. I have a nagging feeling of familiarity, déjà vu, I can’t escape it, and suddenly I realise that I’m not crazy, I have seen it before. I click on the earlier painting and there it is, I am right. It is the eyes. The girl in the hijab has the same eyes as Muaz.

  I don’t know why this realisation packs my gut with a sudden dread.

  There has always been a dark space around Muaz, I tell myself. Even around Orli. I have never been privy to the mysterious details that creep from her soul into her art.

  But who is she, I wonder. Who is this girl? A sister? A cousin? An aunt? Does Muaz know there is somebody in East Jerusalem with eyes like his own? There is much, I realise, that I don’t yet know. And Orli hasn’t told me. But the unknown always illicits trepidation. That is all. That is all this is. That is why panic is scrambling silently inside my head.

  ***

  Now

  23

  The Israeli quarter of the hospital moves in convoy to Heathrow. Before he goes, there are last visitors: the Lebanese hummus man, some of the restaurant staff, Taadiki. Taadiki doesn’t mention the war but he brings baklava. It is a fitting gift. The Middle Eastern pastry is a last taste of England, a last mingling before there is a need to separate out, to distinguish, to define. He will take this taste with him, he will remember it, summon it perhaps.

  At the airport, everyone is there to see Udi off, even Chaim who arrived at this same airport the day before and is now staying above the restaurant in Udi’s old flat. Ben and Jonny promise to look out for him, and to make a trip to Israel soon. To see the restaurant Udi is going create, they say, and to steal his ideas for their own. But after the jokes and the jibes and the final affectionate exchanges of obscenities, they hug with heavy arms and a recognition of all that has passed.

  Ella and his parents are travelling with him and stand next to Udi’s wheelchair in the queue for the check-in desk after the others have departed. The camaraderie of this is at once a comfort and a disturbance. Liberty swapped for kinship. But it is not a choice. And it is not a mistake. It is an undeniable imperative.

  It takes a long time to get through security. Udi is allowed to skip the queue with Ella because of his medical situation, but Oz and Batia are forced to remain in the line and so they all wait, on separate sides. Heathrow feels more familiar this time around. Armed police officers are everywhere, queues are moving slowly, more bags are being checked. Still, the place emits a fragile innocence, as if it doesn’t yet know the depth of the danger ahead. The laxity makes Udi feel unsafe, but he both pities and envies this naivety he is leaving behind.

  He is asked to board the plane first, before even the First Class passengers, and despite the circumstances takes a mischievous pleasure in this, as though he is returning home a conqueror. He has only been assigned an economy seat but it is in the front row where there is extra leg space, and his supplementary oxygen is being stored nearby. His lung is mostly recovered now but the hospital has given copious instructions for him to follow. He is good at this still. Ella and his parents sit further back. It is a full flight despite the conflict at their destination. Typically, Ella and his mother make a fuss and try to change the seating arrangement so that they can be close to Udi, but the airline staff insist, and in the end it is neither of them but a young man around Udi’s age who sits in the empty chair next to him.

  “Wow, that looks painful,” the man says, pointing to Udi’s elaborately plastered and strapped leg. “What did you do?”

  “Car crash,” Udi replies. The man nods and Udi picks the in-flight magazine out of the pocket in front of him.

  “You’re Israeli?” the man asks.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re going home?”

  Udi thinks about this. “I guess so. And you? It’s a strange time to take a vacation to Israel.”

  “I’m not taking a vacation,” the man replies. “I’m making aliyah.”

  Udi looks at the man afresh. He raises his eyebrows.

  “Daniel,” the man says, offering his hand and grinning.

  “Udi,” he replies.

  They talk sporadically throughout the flight and at length. At times they are interrupted by films or by visits from Udi’s family, and by the meal for which Udi orders the regular chicken dish and Daniel is given his pre-ordered kosher plate, but conversation returns. For both of them there is something intriguing about the other, something either opposite or parallel, as though the other man holds a part of the truth they have been trying to grasp, or a different truth, or a light to illuminate it.

  Daniel is consumed by the British response to the war; he sees antisemitism everywhere, but even watching the bleakest of bulletins Udi was unsurprised by it. “The Arabs are smart,” he tells Daniel. “Of course they want this opinion in the world, this sympathy. If I were Arab I would want Israel too and if I were English I would feel sorry for them. But nobody knows what’s really happening. And nobody in England really cares. They go out and they shout for a bit and then they go home and go to bed and get up in the morning and go to work. And the Arabs don’t really care what you guys think anyway. It’s us they’re getting at. Israelis. They want to get into our heads, into our mentality. They want people like my sister to make us think we’re doing something bad, that we don’t have a right. They want to make us forget what we’re fighting for and why we need our own land and the reason that Israel was created. But once we do that, Israel is over.”

  “Do people think that?”

  “Some do. Sometimes I do. But you can’t, you know? You can’t look for the nuance. If a soldier thinks that what he is doing is wrong, it’s over. He will sleep when he’s supposed to guard, he’ll sit down when he’s supposed to be training, and when there’s a war and people at home are protesting against it he’ll wonder who he’s protecting. And then there’ll be bombs in our markets again and guns in our faces. Our biggest enemy is ourselves, and the Arabs know this. Hamas know this. They know they can’t beat us unless we don’t want to win.”

  “But we do want to win,” Daniel says uncertainly.

  Udi shrugs. “You say yes and you do.”

  “Huh?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you reach out. Maybe you get four-year-olds together and get them to make peace in the sandbox.”

  “You think there can be peace?”

  Udi shrugs again. Across the aisle he sees a group of Haredis stand from their seats to pray before the plane’s final descent. Daniel’s face has dropped. Udi has unsettled him.

  “You know I’m talking crap, right?” Udi grins, surprised that he has actually been lured into talking politics, and that there is a part of him that wants to. “Israel is all about the nuance,” he says. “Anything is possible there. And that’s the truth.”

  And that is the truth.

  He didn’t push a four-year-old girl, but she was still pushed, they were still pushing. And that’s the truth too.

  And Gaza is a shithole. And that’s the truth.

  And Israel’s had a big hand in it. And that’s the truth.

  And the Palestinians are desperate. And that’s the truth.

  And some of them are murderers.

  And they are all punished.

  And somebody kidnapped three Israeli kids.

  And somebody burned a Palestinian in revenge.

  And rockets were fired.

  And missiles were launched.

  And Israelis ran to shelters.

  And Gazans lay dead.

  An
d it’s all the truth. Black and white. And tit for tat. And no nuance. And nuance in everything. And nobody looking for it. And everybody knowing. And nobody seeing. And still this feeling that he must go home. And do something.

  But Udi cannot understand why anybody on the outside would volunteer for any of it.

  “You know, the only way to make a fortune in Israel is to come to Israel with a bigger fortune,” he says, turning towards Daniel.

  “I have enough money,” Daniel replies.

  “Nobody drives Mercedes convertibles,” Udi warns.

  “So I’ll drive a Subaru.”

  “You may have to fight.”

  “I want to.”

  “You could be killed.”

  “I know.”

  “You are crazy,” says Udi, banging his fist on his good leg.

  “There is also a girl,” grins Daniel.

  The Haredi have returned now to their seats and the hot tarmac below is coming into view. Udi’s chest tightens. He is unsure whether it is the injured lung or something greater. He turns once more to his new acquaintance. Daniel’s face is awash with emotion: elation, excitement, apprehension, naivety, fear, hope? He is not yet hard around the edges. He is like a lamb.

  “Israel is the greatest country in the world,” Udi concedes, and Daniel nods, gratefully, his assured grin returning.

  Before they can say anything more however there is a screeching of brakes and the plane bumps to the ground, both men listing in their seats until at last the great machine comes to a halt. Scattered rounds of clapping break out within the cabin in gratitude for the safe landing. The Haredi are silent in prayer.

  “So,” Udi begins again.

  Daniel looks up.

  “So what is her name?”

  “Orli,” smiles Daniel.

  And Udi laughs. “Orli. This means ‘light’. No wonder. Everybody is blinded by the light.”

  The seatbelt sign is turned off. Daniel stands up and Batia and Ella can be seen pushing up the aisle towards them. The door is opened and a surge of heat thrusts its way into the cabin. Waiting for his wheelchair, Udi remains seated. He can already taste dust in the air. Daniel has his bag. Udi nods, a nod he hopes will convey luck, and Daniel reaches over to shake Udi’s hand, but a man behind Daniel huffs impatiently and before their palms can meet he is carried away in the throng of flip-flopped masses, everybody already shoving and jostling, lurching forwards.

  ***

  During the 2014 Israel-Gaza conflict, more than 2,100 Palestinians and 72 Israelis were killed.

  Acknowledgements

  There are many people I would like to thank for their help in creating Chains of Sand:

  Ofir Nakar and Amazia in particular gifted me with invaluable insights into life in the IDF. I am also indebted to Rube Backal, Ben Mason, Joshua Raif, Gili Rosenheimer, Ora Seidner and Spencer Gelding at Beit Halochem, and Noam Zamohi.

  For reading many different incarnations of this book, I am grateful to: Anna-Marie Collier, Jane Fields, Naomi Gryn, Rachel Rushbrook, Nikki Saunders, Anna Seymour, and Geraldine Wayne.

  My brilliant agent Donald Winchester has provided immeasurable editorial help, and guidance at every step. And I am indebted as always to the Legend Press team, especially my fantastic editor Lauren Parsons who has championed my writing from the start.

  I would also like to thank my family – Jeff, Geraldine, Anna-Marie, Damian, Zeb, Olivia, Joab, and the extended Wayne and Kattan clans who have supported me throughout. In particular, James, my husband and rock. And our daughters, to whom this book is dedicated.

  We hope you enjoyed Chains of Sand, the first fictional address of the current Israeli-Palestinian crisis.

  This novel follows Jemma’s debut, After Before, which was longlisted for the prestigious Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction, longlisted for the Guardian Not the Booker Award and shortlisted for the Waverton Good Read Award.

  ‘Rich, haunted, gripping, painful and beautifully entwined’ Ruth Padel

  ‘A powerful novel. Its characters will haunt you long after their stories have been told.’

  Naomi Gryn

  ‘A fearless and meticulously observed examination of pain transformed by the redeeming power of friendship.’ Vanora Bennett

  Here’s a first chapter sample of After Before:

  Chapter

  One

  She said her name was Emily. It had always seemed easier for English people to pronounce than Emilienne, and she refused to offer this part of herself, also, for sacrifice.

  “Okay, do you have any cleaning experience Emily?” asked the thick-necked, white woman behind the desk. She shuffled the forms in front of her, impatience spilling into Emily’s pause, but it wasn’t a simple question to answer. The woman said it so easily, rolling off her tongue as smooth as the flesh beneath the skin of a sweet potato, the same as most of the words Emily had had thrown at her over the years: stupid, ungrateful, cockroach. Emily’s mind ran over the dirty floors of her flat that she hadn’t so much as threatened with a vacuum; then to the sparkling windows and door knobs in the house she’d cleaned and lived in once, belonging to Auntie; then tentatively to the dark puddles of blood she’d scrubbed from her father’s floor.

  “Yes,” Emily decided upon. “I have experience.”

  Her smile was gummier than she would have liked, and there was a gap between her front teeth, but it was important always to smile. It conveyed honesty, familiarity, trust.

  “Do you have references?”

  “No.”

  The woman sighed. “So you have no experience.” Tutting, she scribbled out the tick in what was now the wrong box on the registration form.

  “You asked about experience, not references,” Emily clarified anxiously.

  But the woman only smiled, as though such ignorance was what she expected. Emily smiled back at her. Ignorance didn’t matter. Auntie had told her once. What mattered in this country was a willingness to work, to get down on one’s knees and scrub stains out of floors too low for English girls. “You’ll be cleaning commercial properties,” the woman continued, lists of products and rules and company policies suddenly undulating out of her like a well-sung nursery rhyme. Obligingly, Emily nodded along to the beat until she noticed that the woman had paused and leaned forward. “Can you remember all that?” the woman was prompting, smiling again, her over-padded wrists escaping the cuffs of her green blazer. The colour made Emily feel sick. The flesh made Emily feel sick. The woman’s gritted grin made her feel sick.

  “Yes,” Emily nodded.

  The darkness of her skin seemed untidy against the neat, white piece of paper the woman pushed across the table for her to sign. Her hand shook as it hovered over the box where she was supposed to form the letters of her signature. It shook, and she shuddered, and her stomach grumbled queasily.

  Outside, Emily wrapped her scarf around her neck. It wound three times and sat like a woollen brace that she rested her chin upon. Already the beginning of September, the first chill of winter was beginning to seep through the air into her bones and she knew she would be cold now until April at the earliest. It was impossible in this country to warm up once the cold was inside you and she would never grow used to it. But the scarf helped, and she liked the barrier it made between her long, skinny neck and the elements. Auntie used to try to get her out of the chunky knits she clung to and into more feminine shapes, but that was before she’d caused Auntie and Uncle so much distress, and they preferred her to disappear not just inside baggy clothes, but altogether.

  A bus roared past Emily’s right shoulder, her bus. She ran to catch it and smiled at the driver who paused long enough for her to clamber on and touch her Oyster card, but then accelerated with a jerk that threw her sideways. Emily was athletic once, strong, but now she was always a little unsteady on her feet and had to clasp the rail in order not to fall flat on her face.

  She swung rail to rail down the length of the bus until she found a spare seat, avoiding eye
contact with the other passengers who were just as furtively avoiding eye contact with her. It had been a shock when she’d first arrived in this country to find that people didn’t greet each other in the street, or on the bus, or talk if they could possibly help it. Sometimes, sun-streaked instinct still got the better of her, but if there was anything she truly loved about England it was exactly this - the anonymity, the ability to live unnoticed, unidentified, undefined. There was a pleasure she found in the vast hoards of people whose names she didn’t know, rushing obliviously past each other. There was comfort in the uniformity of floor upon floor of council housing like that of the building she lived in, her room on the fifth indistinguishable from the rest. There was tranquillity in the busyness of people’s lives, in their individualistic pursuits and their self-obsession. There was isolation. Escape.

  Emily alighted at Golders Green station. Her flat was still a 15 minute walk from there but she needed some groceries and preferred to buy them from the bigger shops with hundreds of customers rather than from the small convenience store on the corner of her road. She’d only been a few times but already the owner knew her face and asked her questions like, ‘No avocados today? How about mangoes? I have perfect mangoes, you don’t like them?’ and, the week before, ‘Where are you from?’

  She picked up a basket outside the front of Tesco and dipped into the shop. She had exactly £4.73 left in her purse so had to make her selection carefully. The money needed to last until the end of the week and it was only Wednesday. Reluctantly she made her way towards the canned goods aisle and selected a tin of economy beans and some corn. Next, she found a loaf of bread that had been reduced in price because it was already at its sell-by date, and tore three bananas from a bigger bunch. Longingly she eyed the avocados but here such fruits were exotic and expensive. Emily picked up a small, hard one and quickly slipped it into her coat pocket. At the counter the cashier greeted her politely but without recognition, and Emily smiled. Rubbing the bunch of carriers between her fingers to separate them, she packed her few items into two bags so that the heavy tins could be divided and she could prevent the plastic handles from carving out valleys in her thin arms on the walk home. She always carried bags over her arms instead of in her hands. When she used to go shopping with Auntie, they would walk home with fifteen bags between them, and Emily would carry ten of them, each one balanced carefully an inch or two away from the next, all the way up her scrawny forearms, the skin pinching together as if she, like the avocados they’d bought, was being tested for ripeness. That was at the very beginning when she was grateful to Auntie for coming to her rescue, and naïve still to the reality that real rescue wasn’t possible simply by escaping a place. Memories weren’t rooted in the soil.